A/N: Just a warning, this chapter contains a variety of horror imagery.
PART FOUR: WEAKNESS
Oliver's morning was filled with its usual occurrences, despite the night being so incredibly unusual. He sat at his desk after a fair amount of bickering with Billie and an entire bowl of porridge, plus some fruit and a few nuts. She had confronted him head on, but she typically did, barking at him about how he hadn't shown up, how the guards had gone searching for him, dragging her around the halls sniffing around for him like bloodhounds.
She stopped though, when she realized that something was off about him. Even after he'd eaten he wore an expression that she'd never seen on him before, eyes averted, lips dropped, not in a frown but in defeat. So she stopped prying and prodding because Billie Lurk knew far too well how annoying it could be to have someone shoving their nose where they didn't belong. That didn't mean she wasn't concerned, though — or that she wouldn't be asking about it more later.
He appreciated her ability to read the mood; he appreciated her in every aspect. She was a wonder of a woman.
By the time he'd finished writing his letters there was an entire stack beside him. He'd received news back from the man in Karnaca, thanking him for his help, assuring him that the money would only be used for the good of the people, the rest would be donated to the Addermire Institute, where natural philosophers were now flocking after the incident with the Crown Killer had cleared up. He knew that things would get better there. It would take time, as all things did, but it brightened his mood a bit to know that his efforts weren't in vain.
He began sealing envelopes off with hot wax, using his own cufflink symbol. It was a diamond with small divots and a rather intricate inner design. He liked it, even if he never really understood why they were a part of the ensemble the Void had left him with.
It hadn't been the simplest of negotiations, but it had be thorough. Emily had assured her father that nothing untoward had happened between herself and who Corvo was now calling Oliver (so she would as well, if she could remember it). It didn't quite feel right on him, but she would learn to compromise. She explained that she'd made a conscious choice of her own free will, that he'd offered her plenty of chances to say no. He hadn't coerced her, hadn't tricked her; it had been a small consensual kiss. The aftermath was unexpected. She doubted the Outsider had had any clue what he'd been doing as it happened.
Corvo was calmed by her patient straightforward explanation. He shook his head with an exasperated sigh, dryly mentioning the unnecessary details the man had shared. Emily had winced. His words, she explained… He liked words. He may not be the best at using them plainly. She herself was still getting used to interpreting his prose.
She shamed her father for keeping the Outsider a secret from her. He explained his wariness over the risks the man may have posed, and sheepishly admitted to the recently received negative results from Dr. Hypatia, who seemed to think he was perfectly fine.
Emily noticed the way her father would refer to the Outsider as 'the kid,' and she found it disproportionately amusing.
He explained how Oliver (and Billie Lurk) had arrived at Dunwall Tower, and the work he intended to bring Oliver in on — investigating the recent unexplained deaths around the Academy of Natural Philosophy.
She, in turn, explained the unsettling pull of the Void. Carefully. She had to remind him multiple times that it wasn't the Outsider's fault — or, at least, not intentionally. She was only just starting to forgive him herself, now that she'd finally managed some rest and a brief respite from its endless hunger. Even as she explained she felt it on the edge of her mind. It was coming for her. She didn't know how long it would take to return, but she knew it was coming. A thin ringing in her ears had begun about half an hour after the Outsider had left her side, and it remained a constant noise in her head, steadily growing louder throughout the day. His presence fended it off, but didn't destroy it. She wondered if she ever could. Killing the Outsider was one thing. Killing the Void was laughable. They wouldn't destroy it - they didn't need to, didn't want to - but there must be a way to sever her ties.
Finally, after long hours of discussing, explaining, and occasionally arguing, a resolution was reached. They would have tower staff help rearrange things in her bedroom, as inconvenient as it might be. Corvo himself set to arranging sleeping quarters closer to the door inside the safe room, placing a temporary cot in place of the current sofa. They would be close, but not quite rooming together. He wouldn't interfere, wouldn't sleep in the room with them - it was her choice to interact with the man, and he grudgingly trusted her judgment, knowing she knew how important the man was as an ally - but he expected them to each have their own privacy. If Oliver ever got out of line, Emily knew what to do. She, meanwhile, was fairly sure it wouldn't be an issue. His words could lash at her all he wanted, but he'd never strike her, never try to physically force her into anything she didn't want. And if she fell to temptation it was her own damn fault. She didn't say that to her father, however; he trusted her, but he didn't need to know details.
The move had been rather simple; though he still didn't particularly feel "accepted" he at least felt just the slightest bit better than he had earlier. He tried to keep his mouth shut as he followed the guards, as he followed Corvo, but like a child his eyes wandered, taking everything in, counting all of the sensations he felt, analyzing every painting, every fiber of the carpet. It was jarring really, to be so educated on the history of most things but so very inexperienced simultaneously. He knew grass, he knew it was green, he knew it was cold on spring mornings and dried to a crisp on summer nights, but it'd been from the memories of others that he knew these things. Dim sensations as he remembered them when he was human.
His senses were buzzing now, which made him fidget, overwhelmed still. He wasn't sure he'd ever get use to being able to understand things so deeply. He was human but he still felt different, isolated.
An Outsider.
No one would truly understand him.
He glanced up at Corvo, the wisps of salt and pepper hair, hardened Serkonan features, piercing dark eyes. He promised himself he would draw the man later, not as he remembered seeing him in the Void, but as he saw him now. He found he enjoyed poring himself over quill and parchment, sketching the things he could see now, with his own eyes, his own perception. Him.
He avoided speaking much to Emily, found himself averting his gaze, tufts of wavy obsidian falling against his forehead each time he bowed his head. He listened, nodding along to instructions barked out by Corvo — not that Corvo was yelling but mostly because his gravelly Protector tones were very demanding. But he understood, and he took note of the tone he used, the way he moved. He didn't seem angry anymore, only slightly irritated, inconvenienced and riddled with fatherly concern. Which seemed like progress. He couldn't help but wonder how their conversation went, now that he couldn't look back at the things he wasn't present for.
By the end of the night he was settled, equipped with several jars of ink (he very much enjoyed writing by quill rather than typewriter), many stacks of papers, envelopes, and a few other luxuries. He'd have a ring made for him later, which he wasn't very pleased with but he wasn't one to complain.
He was so very tired of wearing rings, especially those of silver.
There were a few candles lit in the royal safe room, flickers of light casting dancing shadows against the walls as they moved. He sat against the back of the chair, a glass cup at his side that was only half filled with dark, honey colored liquor. He liked the burn at the back of his throat and the sweet, spicy aftertaste. It helped him loosen up, which was something he direly needed after the day's events.
It was a new and heartening experience to actually look forward to sleeping. After a day of steadily growing Void noise, Emily found it a relief when she felt that the Outsider - Oliver - was near. The fading noise settled to a beautiful silence. She could even hear the sea outside. She actually got into bed with a smile on her face. She hadn't gone to sleep this early in - well, ever. No, probably since she was a child. But even her ten hours last night hadn't made up for a week's worth of missed sleep, and every moment spent with the Void's maddening hum drilling into her ears was exhausting. It hadn't been too bad early in the day, but around dinner time it had come back with a vengeance. But then - now - here she was, and she could hear the world around her once more. Her heart was free of ice, her mind free of clinging sludge.
She burrowed into the soft sheets, sighing, nightgown tangling around her thighs as she pulled the blankets from their neatly-tucked corners. Rolling onto her back, she let out another long sigh, letting the day hit her like a train all at once. Her carefully built structures, always holding her up, keeping her energy going, crumbled to dust and she let the exhaustion roll over her, sinking into slumber.
He spent the first hour or so with ink on paper, sketching out little things: the cats in Karnaca's damp, dingy alleyways; hounds in the pub; the beaks of bloodflies. But then he turned the page and he began to start on Emily's structure; the line of her jaw, the bow to her lips — his attention to every intimate detail was unparalleled. He wished he had paints, a soft frown washing over him as he imagined the flecks of gold in her irises, the hues of pink playing across her tanned cheeks, the furrow of her bold, sharp brows.
He set it to the side when his head began to buzz. He needed to lay back on the brandy but the taste brought a certain bittersweet nostalgia that he inexplicably clung to. He needed air. He stood, perhaps a bit wobbly as he made his way out of the safe room back door, into the cluttered hallway, and finally onto one of the two symmetrical balconies overlooking the main street. The stars above blinked in and out like dots on a black canvas, clouds lingering a little ways off, signaling a coming storm.
He took a deep breath and leaned against the edge, hands gripping the stone loosely as he mumbled the words of a whaler's song under his raspy breath, letting his thoughts drift off, not realizing that he was most definitely just a tad bit out of radius.
Emily's dreams had taken a turn. Or rather, she'd begun to dream.
It started in her throat, it always did: black claws crawling into her mouth, forcing their way down her throat, pumping her lungs full of smoke until she felt they might burst, ribs aching and cracking. From there it spread like disease, poisoning her blood. She felt the stab in her sternum as Daud's blade pierced her as it had her mother — a throwback from her old nightmares, made fresh by the way the blade curved out of her on the other side, wrapping around her, wrenching her open inch by excruciating inch, pulling skin tighter and tighter until it burned and split.
The Void seeped into her dreams with abandon - not just her dreams, but her whole body - reveling in its invasion.
If she'd been awake she would've grit her teeth and borne the pain. In her sleep, she whimpered.
Screams, echoes, shrieks, the screech of metal on metal as it grated on itself — she felt her ears bleed black tar. And she sank, limbs weighed down like lead. She tried to free them, but her wrists stretched like dough, longer and longer, without her hands moving at all — useless, just tangling around her, a sea of useless excess flesh that piled up around her, burying her, suffocating her. Her hips and legs became stone, trapping her inside, immobile, before chipping and flaking like shale, falling away like brittle bones as she withered and wasted away, each chip a chunk of flesh. Eyes bled black, trailing down her face, eating away at her skin, slicing fine stinging cuts into her neck, then her shoulders, her chest, until all of her burned and stung and itched like mad, invisible lacerations flaying her skin.
And her throat. Always her throat. She couldn't breathe, she could never breathe — now the tears of bile that filled her mouth hardened into small marbles, jarring her teeth, choking her as they slipped down her throat to sit like stones in her belly. No, not stones, eggs. Bloodfly larvae, making a home in her gut, their wings beating at her insides, burrowing out through her skin, making a hive of her body, or tunneling back up her throat again, papery wings tangible in her mouth, her teeth chattering in fear crunching on the exoskeletons and molted shells that seemed to endlessly pour from her lips. She would scream if she could, but she had no breath, and her mouth was full, overflowing with one horror or another, until choking on her own blood was the best possible option.
She woke with a start, hands flying to her arms, her chest, feeling holes where there were none, fingers briefly touching gore, stabbing her own viscera, before she realized it wasn't real.
It felt so real.
She'd been so sure it was real.
Liquid slid down her cheeks and she wiped it away angrily, before looking back at her hand with shock. But no, it wasn't black, she must have just imagined it, just clear — just tears. She preferred tears.
Her vision swam with black fog, and she sat up, backing herself against the headboard until her head rested on the wall itself. She wrapped her shaking arms around legs that tremored violently. More tears.
She'd thought it was over.
She'd been so hopeful, so happy, so sure it had been over. She'd found the solution, she knew-
Emily slammed her head back against the wall behind her, the sharp pain in the real world cutting through the phantom sensations of the Void's dreams. It made her dizzy, but at least it made her present.
The images from her dreams flashed before her eyes, back to just images, the sensations and then the details already slipping away. That was how it worked, the Void. Removing the memories so she could start it all over again another night. Why come up with new terrors when it could just stab her time and time again with-
No, it was gone. Just a lingering throb in her chest, a phantom pain.
He hadn't noticed it at first, senses dulled with faint intoxication, but his words fell short and his gaze wandered behind him as something stirred at his core. He felt it, a distraught something, his stomach churning faintly. He stepped back through the hall, returning to the safe room, feeling heavier than usual, a dull ache ringing in his temples. Maybe he would lay off of alcohol completely for a long while.
Dunwall was quiet at night, especially when you were rooming in the tower safe room, where noise didn't get in, or escape. But he heard it, the thud, a soft rustling from the room above - breathing? He couldn't tell. But he felt wrong. He felt something weighing on his shoulders and the more he stood there wondering what the hells was wrong the heavier it got.
So he figured it was worth it to at least check. He clung to the rail, pushing himself up and even setting his hand on the wall as he felt himself get drowsier. Stairs never felt so difficult until now.
Once he'd finally reached the door, cracked open with a slight breeze brushing through, he peeked into the room. "... Emily?" he called out, not loudly, but within hearing range he hoped. He couldn't see her very well, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of the room.
She felt his approach like a warm blanket for the frostbite left in the wake of the Void: kind enough, but a bit too little too late. She held her breath as he spoke her name, pushing down the angry sobs that burned in her. Her shoulders spasmed violently, unable to stop, but she stayed quiet. Her fingernails - still gloved, always gloved - dug into opposite wrists, holding herself together. She was trembling, and she hated it. She hated all of it. All the turmoil inside her, the fear, the anger, the complete and utter hopeless emptiness that echoed endlessly in every crevice of her being.
The Void was ravenous, and it had devoured her. Again.
And if she fell asleep again? What nameless torture would she be subjected to then?
She ducked her head, tucking her face into the cradle of her arms, teeth clamping down on trembling lips until blood filled her mouth. The sting was good. The pain was good. It gave her something to focus on.
Oliver stared for several moments, trying to gather what exactly had happened, but he was piecing the puzzle together rather quickly, especially considering he'd had about roughly four thousand years to work on his deductive skills. He stepped in and settled on the side of her bed. "... I am at fault," he spoke suddenly, his voice quieter than usual, mostly in his attempt to keep anyone from overhearing... Particularly a certain royal protector.
"I knew not the extent to which the kiss might harm you. Over and over I may say that. Though words are meaningless now, even as I string together a tapestry of apologies, even as I sit here and ponder all of the ways I could have not given in to temptation, how much happier you'd be now, without such a burden on your shoulders. I consider the way the Void felt as it stirred within me, torturing me, every moment was a blur, living in a perpetual state of drowning. Existing, but outside of time, seeing what was and what was not. I can offer you my tapestry, Emily, regardless of whether or not you take it. It would change nothing, it would not reverse what I have done. But instead of an apology I can, in place, make a promise. I will make it better." He nodded and glanced at her. "This won't happen again, I'll be careful. I'll be considerate, I'll be patient. I promise you that," he said firmly, setting a hand over hers carefully.
She tried to keep her breathing even. Her inhales shook madly and she held them, as long as she could, before letting out trembling breaths. His words did comfort her. They hurt her, in a way, too; blaming herself just as much, and feeling sorry for him as well, only looking for a respite from the very pain she'd just been experiencing.
Emily had needed his promise, though she hadn't realized it until it was given. She'd still been scared, part of her, that he would run. They didn't know how to communicate with him. It wouldn't be out of the question for him to just leave. Not particularly wise, but possible.
His hand on hers made her heart stop for the briefest moment. It was like dipping her hand in fresh sun-warmed water. So much more than his mere presence. It burned a tiny hole through the darkness surrounding her. She needed to keep that light. It was magic. It was ethereal and beautiful, and the relief of it caused a new rush of tears. But she needed more.
With a hard, sharp swallow, Emily cursed propriety, cursed her nerves, and lunged for him. She wrapped her arms around him, dragging herself into his lap, ducking her chin and resting her forehead against his chest, breathing deep, still shaking. Her fingers clenched fists in his clothes, desperately hanging onto him.
It was the best decision she'd ever made. It was as though she'd wrapped herself around a floodlight. Remnants of the Void bubbled off of her and disappeared into the night. She tried to hold it in, but she felt the cry of relief escape even as she fought to choke it back. The most noise she'd ever made during these nights, and it was almost silent. More blood in her mouth as she bit her lip again, holding back sobs. She hated being weak like this. Hated it. But she needed him. She needed him for these moments, when she was broken, to help hold her together. She was splinters and he was glue and if she held them together long enough, tight enough, she'd be whole again.
In that moment he thought of all of the times he could have looked away. All of the times he could have let her suffer. But he didn't. He had always wondered what it was back then, that drew him towards her. It had never been romantic, nor sexual, mostly because those were two complicated things he could never think to understand in his dulled, torturous existence. Perhaps it was familiarity; he understood her situation far too well and that human bit of him that he struggled to maintain reached out desperately to guide her, to lead her away from the exploitation. To preserve her childish innocence. That purity was begrudgingly taken away the moment she watched her mother die, so it couldn't have been that. He closed his eyes and focused on her warmth, trying not to think too much about it.
Thinking about things, what a dangerous pastime.
What he felt in the moment was not the tension from before, it was not primal lust, nor any perverse minded inclination. It was acceptance, it was contentment, satisfaction, among several other things. It was really something, to be needed — he just hoped he was wanted.
His fingers stroked down the line of her back and rested there. He dragged them up and down in some attempt to soothe her, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down and kissed the top of her head, speaking no words for once, because he had none, he only had himself, hoping that would be good enough.
The scent of spices lingered on him mixed with the odd wildflowers that intermingled with his natural scent. He'd been drinking, and that was obvious by his breath. After several moments a noise rumbled from his chest, a hum, tunes of baritone escaping his slightly parted lips. The song he couldn't get out of his head. It was slowly paced, bittersweet. It was the only thing he could think to do in the moment. Void, he could hardly think at all.
It felt like hours she spent swallowing cries, even as a near constant stream of tears fell from her eyes. She hated tears. She hated crying. She cried in complete silence, every breath held til her throat burned and her chest might burst, hiding her shame, her weakness. She still shook.
Hands that had been wrapped around his back pulled inward as her whole body curled up, becoming small. She grabbed at the front of his shirt instead, nuzzling into him again, until his scent filled her lungs. He smelled beautiful. Not just pleasant, actually beautiful — she could see the colors of every note of his scent.
Silent hiccups wracked her body. His hands on her back soothed her, melting away the tremors of horror that had shaken her so thoroughly as to give her a headache.
His silence was perfect. If he had spoken she would have needed to acknowledge her cries, her fears, would've needed to define what exactly was happening between them. His silence, like hers, let her pretend it wasn't happening.
As his lips pressed gently against the crown of her head, she shifted again, pressing her body into him, bare skin against the fabric of his clothes. Her movements were lessening, silent sobs reduced to the occasional shiver. Her ear pressed to his chest as he hummed, sucking her wounded lip nervously, the last flow of the blood already stemmed, though it still remained swollen.
Another moment. And another.
The tension in her body gradually eased, leaving her exhausted again, eyes heavy and limbs loose and leaden. She found it hard to open her eyes, and not just from their puffy bloodshot state. She was so tired. So very tired.
For once he didn't care that his shirt would be wrinkled, that his hair might be disheveled. He rocked her back and forth at a slow pace, going quiet as he suddenly pulled her back, movements careful but swift. He laid her down and found that she wasn't very heavy at all, her lithe figure curled against his as he held her still, now laid beside her sprawled along the length of the bed. She needed to sleep. He also perhaps needed to sleep. It had been a few days.
His head was aching still.
He kept his eyes closed, reaching up to run a hand through her hair as he'd been dreaming to do in these past few months. It was as soft as he remembered, softer even, now that his senses were mostly back in order. But his hands moved at a rhythm, some kind of beat that only he knew privately, that replayed in his head over and over, never leaving him in his day to day life. He liked to think it was the music of his existence.
Even though he would have gladly remained here with her for the rest of his life, bodies intertwined, breaths quiet and faint, hearts synced together, his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Before he could do much besides heft a blanket partway up their bodies, he'd drifted off into unconsciousness.
A/N: As always, reviews are appreciated. And credit to my co-author, Lavender_Whalebones (AO3)/kaldwinqueen (tumblr).