A/N: Lots of feelings in this story. A wide variety of them. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. As always, I wrote for Emily and Corvo, my co-author wrote for the Outsider and Billie.
PART FIVE: INTENT
Emily was dimly aware that she was resting on something warm. She nuzzled in further, pulling the blanket over her again — no, not a blanket. An arm. She shifted her hips and found one of her legs hooked over someone else's. Her eyes blinked a few times, dimly, squinting in the light from the windows. She was vaguely confused before her mind sluggishly pieced together the night before. How he'd been too far off for whatever magic he had, how she'd been so ruthlessly taken by the Void — her tears, his soft humming melody. They must've fallen asleep like that.
She hesitated, finding herself tucked under his arm. Surely the Right Thing to do in this moment would be to extricate herself. To go clean off the memories of the night before — not that she remembered much in specifics. Just an overwhelming wave of terror and helplessness. And then, somehow, relief. And now here she was.
She should get up.
But he was comfortable. And she trusted him.
Her hand on his chest traced the line of buttons down his shirt, barely touching, just giving her hands something to do. She stilled her movement. She had a sudden urge to kiss him. Not romantically, not really, just in thanks. A small affection. The way he'd kissed her on the head last night.
She looked to his hand slung around her shoulder, being treated as a blanket. She didn't hesitate. Her fingers wove through with his, and she found herself bringing his hand to her lips. What would've been his Marked hand, now graced by the soft brush of a kiss. Her thanks.
Emily liked him like this — soft, warm, vulnerable. No fighting. No sharp shield of barbed words to stab at her in defense. Just his very warm - very human - body and hers, resting peacefully.
She let out a soft sigh, changing position once more, shifting onto her side. Her body rolled slightly against his hip as she hooked her leg higher. She stretched briefly, lean muscles flexing, bare knee rubbing against his clothed thigh, back arching, pressing the rest of her body into his for a fleeting moment. Their still-interwoven fingers brushed the silk that bunched most of her nightgown at her waist. She tucked her elbow where she nestled into him, letting all the tension of her stretch go as she relaxed against him once more, face pressed into his chest as she breathed him in, sighing contentedly. She burrowed her nose under him, hiding her face from the sun, eager to grasp just a few more moments of sleep.
He'd woken when he felt her move, shifting and turning, taking his hand in hers. But he decided not to open his eyes, even when she buried herself against him, blanket tucked around their resting bodies. He was sure that soon they'd have to get up, Emily usually had breakfast with her father and he was assuming he would also have to follow that tradition now, or at least until the tether with the Void was broken. Whenever it decided to let her go, that was.
He also wanted to avoid anyone walking in on them. Servants, maids, public officials, Corvo Attano. Especially the latter. He cared not for rumors, whispers gone from ear to ear, half heard and half memorized. But he knew Emily had a reputation, and though her rule had been very unusual as it stood thus far, he knew that the Empire respected her despite it all, but he knew respect was hard earned, and easily lost.
When he felt her nuzzle against him a chuckle escaped him, genuine and emerging from his chest. It was breathy, only the softest sound escaping his lips. He was amused, though the way she tangled around him did stir something within him that went against propriety…
Then again, when had they ever properly gone about this? Their situation was complicated at best.
"Your father must be waiting for you... Emily..." He spoke quietly, reaching up to run the back of his hand against her cheek. He should have moved then. Should have untangled himself, gone back to the safe room to clean up and make himself look presentable. But she was so perfectly imperfect in the morning light. he couldn't look away, entranced by the silken gown, the sheets against them, the shadows that played on her figure. He would draw this later. This exact moment. He never wanted to let it go.
Feeling the rumble of his chest as he chuckled, Emily felt a warm tingle go through her, heating her cheeks as well, not entirely devoid of embarrassment. But his words were like water seeping up beneath her, gradually making her less and less comfortable, and she squeezed her eyes shut at his hand brushing her face.
It had been easy with him silent. To forget who they were — how they were. That thought sent a twinge of pain like a wire pierced through her chest. Her fingers, still wrapped with his, tightened at the feeling, wanting to hold this moment as it was. No chance to interpret, to theorize over what it meant, no way for either of them to imagine it to be something it wasn't. To just accept it. No expectations. No regrets.
This wasn't a romance, and she needed to remember that. She couldn't give him false hope. She had to consider his feelings.
He cared too much. She could never compare. He'd spent years saving her life, and next to that she'd spent mere days in his company. She was still a young woman. She'd felt her fickle heart in the past; she couldn't subject him to the same capricious nature that had taken soldiers and poets alike into her bed, only to leave when the winds shifted. She may have changed from the coup, but had she changed enough?
Gradually her heart distanced itself, closing up. She let out one final sigh as she rolled off of him, pulling her nightgown back over her knees and running a hand through her hair, looking around the room. "Right. He probably is." She avoided Oliver's gaze, unsure how best to respond, how to spare his feelings. Finally, after a moment of thought she gave up. Her expression was probably a bit more pathetic than she wanted, her defenses still building themselves for the day. "Thank you for staying." Her words were sincere. "I'm sorry if I-" she stumbled over her words for a moment, eyes glancing away as she paused. "...I crossed a boundary last night. I'm sorry."
Her walls were coming up, but not quite in time to hide the glimpse of a haunted look in her eyes. Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she wondered on the Void. It's fluctuations were growing more extreme. It was gone entirely for hours at a time, but seemed to creep back vengefully only to strike even harder once the opportunity was available. If this was the expectation, would his... aura hold? Would the Void grow stronger still, forcing her into his arms? She didn't want that. If she sought solace in his embrace it should be with his same intentions, not a selfish plea for relief in a moment of distress.
She couldn't look at him. Her face was steadily growing warmer as she shamed herself. Instead, she walked to her wardrobe, turning her head to address him as she went. "You're welcome to come to breakfast if you'd like. But don't feel obliged." Her speech lacked her usual pristine diction, words coming out just slightly clearer than mumbling. "If you have things you need to do, please do them." She traced fingers over garments absently, her mind anxiously wandering. "I'll be fine until the evening."
He could read her like a book now. His eyes scanning her features for indicative signatures. He stood as well, a little bit wobbly, his head aching just slightly. His back was turned to her and for the shortest moment it seemed as though he were there again, on the obsidian platforms that crumbled where they were suspended in a vast nothing. He could even feel the weightlessness of eternity, the way a breeze brushed past his cheeks, the wailing staccato from up above, a chorus of miserable leviathans with glossy white eyes and flesh ripped, torn, and marked with numbers and shipping codes.
He could feel them suffering.
Then it came back, dust particles swimming through the air where the light beamed through the curtains and warmed the hardwood floor, newly polished, with little scuffs from his own shoes when he'd entered the night before. He did not entertain her this time. He could hear her words replaying in his mind and he felt almost as if he should thank her for letting him down easy, not stringing him along her power hungry line, hooking him, just to throw him back and bait him again.
The Void worked in mysterious ways, he understood that much. It perpetuated towards some kind of endgame, but each endgame was always also interconnected with yet another divine product of fate. What he'd learned, over all of the useless factoids, all of secrets buried away within the minds of generations, was that the Void never did things out of pure coincidence. It had compelled him towards something, but now he was beginning to question that. Perhaps it was malevolent and he had just been too drained of every feasible emotion to notice. Suffering was just another synonym for existing.
"I see." His voice was all too knowing, and not smug, nor sarcastic. He understood. Which only hurt more. He didn't say anything else, walking into the safe room and shutting the door behind him, very tempted to slam it — not in anger, but in frustration. His feelings had gotten the better of him again. His chest was aching harder than the blaring pain in his temples.
Emily stilled as she listened to him go. She hated herself, hated what she was doing to him. It wasn't right. But her selfishness - and that's what it was, keeping him so close, selfishness - wasn't just for her own comfort; she had an empire to rule. She couldn't do that if she went mad. So she caged him, for the sake of her people. Millions of people. Surely the trade was worth it.
She was still uneasy as she changed for the day, absentmindedly pulling on trousers and blouse, picking an appropriate jacket. Looking herself over in the mirror, she tilted her head to the side, watching her hair waterfall over her shoulder, reminded of rhythmic strokes that lulled her to sleep. She decided to pull it back.
With careful hands she braided her hair the way Alexi used to — the way she'd shown Emily that day they'd spent in bed. The Fugue Feast that year had been record-setting for Emily. Even thinking of it brought heat to her cheeks and a sadness to her heart. Another price of the coup.
Once her hair was secured, safe from any combing or stroking or anything that might soften her resolve, Emily straightened, raising her chin. Empress face. The day was beginning, and she needed her walls around her again. Blinking all memories from her eyes, she turned on a polished boot heel and headed to breakfast.
His routine was anything but simple; Oliver was an incredibly meticulous person when it came to his looks. It was something of a comfort, knowing he had full control of his body now, not only being separated from the void but also Delilah, who had invaded his mind, taken his island in the Void and used it to her disposal, essentially invading him as a person.
But now he had the freedom to choose what he wore, what his scents were, the way his hair moved and the way he presented himself, which was, frankly, darn dapper and not followed by the inky tendrils of oblivion. He was quick about it though, cleansing himself and pulling his clothing on. He stepped out into the hall before she did, unbeknownst to him. So when he made an appearance in the dining hall, he felt a little awkward, seating himself a good two seats away from Corvo, eying the food spread along the table.
He did not touch it though. He would wait for her, hands in his lap, eyes averted. "...Lord Protector," he greeted stiffly, unsure of how exactly to approach him now that he had the power to punch him in the neck.
Corvo, already chowing down on eggs and ham and toast, reviewing the daily newspapers, glanced up at the new arrival. "Morning," he nodded, gruffly, returning to his meal. When Oliver made no move to eat, Corvo set down his reading material. "Eat," he ordered, nudging a plate of sausages toward the kid. "Then I've got some work for you." As always, the younger man looked sullen. He seemed to only have two moods: sullen and smug. And the Royal Protector hadn't seen the latter in fifteen years. "...Shoulda called you the poutsider," he muttered, returning to his reading.
Oliver felt the corners of his lips perk up faintly at that and his eyes averted. He still made no move to eat though. "... Clever. A tad bit unoriginal, but acceptable in any case." He glanced over and that signature smugness of his flashed over his features for just a moment. "However, I prefer to wait for Emily, out of courtesy. I am only a guest, after all," he explained. A likely unwanted one at this point, he thought to himself before turning his gaze towards the window.
Emily faltered as she entered the dining hall. How was he already there? She raised her chin, continuing her walk forward, and took a seat directly across from her father, popping a loose grape in her mouth as she loaded her plate. "Morning, Father."
Without looking up from his paper, he nodded. "Your Imperial Majesty."
He was being unusually formal with his words, if not his body language, and Emily narrowed her eyes at him, spotting the slightest trace of a Corvo smile at the corners of his mouth. Almost imperceptible. Of course: it was a show for the Outsider — Oliver. She rolled her eyes. He was incorrigible.
As to her own attitudes toward the former god, she was avoiding looking at him at all, focusing on her breakfast. Her mind was suggesting ways she might attempt casual conversation, but she couldn't seem to get her mouth to work right, so instead she occupied it with food.
Oliver immediately felt himself tense once she'd entered and couldn't help himself from briefly eying her up and down, admiring her outfit and the way it fit her. But he found himself in a state of confusion at Corvo's words, seeing as he had watched them have breakfast every day for the past fifteen years up until only a few months ago, it felt off. Was he... Was he poking fun at Oliver?
"What an odd display of formality, Lord Protector and Royal Spymaster Corvo Attano," he commented, holding back his own smile despite the tension in the air. The two of them together, Oliver and Emily, were like charged coils that only buzzed brighter and louder when put into such awful silence like this.
He began eating, poking at an egg with his fork. He was a slow eater naturally, so his movements now were almost excruciating.
Corvo smirked at the response. He was in unusually good spirits, having found his jibes at the kid particularly amusing, but as they ate in silence - one minute… three minutes… five minutes - he looked up. He frowned. Emily was unusually quiet. Generally she'd be asking what he was reading, getting a summary of the daily news, requesting information on whatever her current project was — even with her sleep problems lately, she'd still come to breakfast with strong intent. Her silence was troubling.
Watching his daughter, he studied her. And, of course, she was avoiding any sort of interaction with the kid. He narrowed his eyes, turning an accusatory gaze on Oliver, but saying nothing. Just watching. He'd promised to give the kid a chance. But Emily didn't look happy. And she was pointedly not-looking-happy at Oliver. His lips formed a grim line as he glanced between the two of them.
Well, he'd been so unwisely forthcoming the last time…
Corvo sat up straight and turned to the kid. "Spill," he ordered. "Why the hostility?" He jerked his head in Emily's direction, obviously meaning her hostility towards him and not the other way around.
Emily's eyes shot up as well, glaring at her father.
Oliver nearly jumped at his voice, eyes widening just slightly. He took a deep breath to calm himself and this time he actually considered his words before they came toppling from his lips and all over the table. What a mess he'd make, if he weren't careful. His words, he'd learned, could be like daggers, or like a feather against the cheek. He did not fight, but his words were his weapons. And sometimes he unsheathed them at rather inconvenient times.
"I crossed the line." He stopped himself there. Wow. What a way with words you have, darling Outsider, his consciousness chided him disapprovingly. "Rather, there was a line crossed and we've decided not to speak of said line for the sake of the arrangement," he explained carefully. 'And also our sanity,' he would have liked to add, but did not.
The words came out all wrong though. He wanted them one way but they approached in another. It felt odd, obtuse, perhaps lacking the natural free flow that they typically carried with them. He was obviously holding something back. Dancing around a specific piece of information, but he couldn't fade off into the Void, couldn't dodge the topic — he was a human in their presence. Just a boy, madly in love with the Empress.
He was glad at least, that Corvo didn't realize everything else. The way he'd gone several extra miles to save Emily. He was unsure of how the man would react to hearing that. He was one of the few people Oliver had trouble predicting.
Corvo's eyes flashed at his initial statement, and sent a sharp glance to his daughter, who seemed more shocked than angry. He'd promised to trust Emily, that she could handle the kid on her own. The mere thought of Emily handling Oliver made him wince and immediately scrub the thought from his mind. He had to trust her. He did trust her.
….He just wanted to make sure she was making the right decisions.
It was hard for Corvo to hold his tongue, but he managed. If only for a moment. The kid was hiding something. "Go on."
"Seven bloody strictures, Father-" Emily's face had gone red.
That wasn't a good sign. "Would you rather explain, Emily?" He asked her, pointedly.
She scowled, her protests quelled even as she rested her head in her hands, shaking it exasperatedly. Well, at least that meant it wasn't anything serious. If she'd really needed him to shut up, she would've told him. Would've made him, either by word or by deed. Already, the fact that she let the kid continue was helping calm Corvo's concerns.
Corvo looked back to the black-haired boy. "Well?"
Oliver took note of his gaze and the way his nose scrunched up in suspicion and he cringed, realizing that all of this sounded really, very very bad on his part. He gazed at Emily, eyes widening faintly, "No that-" He caught himself, maintaining his composure.
"I have not had those sort of relations with Emily, which is what I realize that you likely assumed. Not that she isn't... stunning. But that isn't what my intent has ever been, I have not sought to defile your daughter, I am not the perverse tempter of the night that the Abbey-..." His words trailed off and he stared down at his breakfast. His expression flattened suddenly.
"...I must learn to keep my affections to myself from now on. I am in no right to court an empress, especially given the professionalism of our arrangement... and who I am. Again, I was out of line. It was my mistake. Sincerest apologies." He stood and set his fork on his plate neatly. "I've... letters to send. If you'll excuse me," he bowed his head reverently, turning towards the door.
He wondered if Corvo ever intercepted his letters. If either of them even knew what he got up to over the days. He never told them. Then again... they never asked.
Emily caught his first glance, then had to look away. She felt sure he was going to put his foot in his mouth, and when he didn't - well, at least, not too much - she was surprised. Still, her ears glowed pink as he praised her, claimed his good intentions. As he went on, she found herself chewing on the still-raw patch on her lower lip, eyes slightly widened down to the table when he dropped such words as affections and court. He'd put serious thought into this, she realized. Not just some dalliance, his words implied an actual public relationship. She had the surreal image of the Outsider requesting a dance at a noble function, and wondered briefly if he would be a good dancer before pushing the thought from her mind, feeling guilty that it had even occurred to her. So frivolous.
If anything, this was proof the she was doing the right thing to step away. He was right: they had to keep things professional. It was bad enough, their misunderstandings, without the added complications of a romantic relationship. She just wished there was some way to calm his... his feelings for her. She wished he could be just another bodyguard. That they could have a cordial relationship without her heart breaking. No, without his heart breaking — what was she thinking? Selfish, to want anything from him. Impulsive. Reckless. She needed to think of the future.
Billie had snooped again, casing his safe room suite as he sat at the workbench, quill moving hastily along paper. She asked him questions, prodded around his personal life, looked through the sketches on the end table next to the little armchair at the foot of the stairs. He didn't mind it. She wasn't intentionally trying to offend him; she was concerned. And, in all honesty, it was nice to have someone to care about him, especially in times like these.
He sent his letters off to be mailed around noon, had lunch with Billie, and conversed about the latest happenings with her. She'd been making her way around the city, skulking through the dark alleys of Dunwall and getting back in touch with a few previous connections she'd had. She'd even met an old whaler, Thomas, and had a drink with him the night before. He was glad that someone's night had been productive and not vaguely confusing. They laughed, bickered, bantered. But Billie knew something was off - the glimmer in his eyes was dimmer now, and his eyes were his biggest enemies.
They were intense - held a sense of purpose - but when he was hopeless they darkened to a deep seafoam. When he was exhilarated they near glowed. At his resting state they were a pale emerald. She kept her mouth shut. If he wanted to open up about it, he would. And he usually did, eventually.
Midday, he returned to his quarters, sighing wistfully to himself as he collapsed onto the bed — which had been switched out for something more suited for a possibly permanent guest. The sheets were a deep purple, pillows filled with feathers, blankets thick for the colder Dunwall nights. He sat propped up against the wall in the corner and his eyes flickered up at the little drawings Emily had made when she was just a child.
He'd visited her, once or twice. Back then he tried not to make much contact with her. He knew the effect the Void had on childish minds, and he didn't want to corrupt. Of course, many people visited the Void in their dreams — idly traversing platforms, half asleep even in unconsciousness. Emily was no exception. Only she was very discomfited by the nature of the vast plain, so much so that she stirred herself awake whenever she'd visited.
He turned to his drawing pad, sketching out the morning scene as he so vividly remembered it: bodies tangled together, her form in the blankets, her hair falling in waves. Her.
Corvo had recognized that look on Emily's face at breakfast: it reminded him of Jessamine. She'd had that same worried expression when he'd asked to court her when they were younger.
And that concerned him.
He was left conflicted; Oliver reminded him so strongly of himself as a young man — pining after a soon-to-be empress he was tasked with protecting. Years of looking after her, responsibility turning to respect, affection, eventually seeing her at eighteen and realizing with a pang that he was helplessly in love. If that was how Oliver felt… Corvo had to sympathize, to some extent. Jessamine had been hesitant, worried what her father would think, what society would think of her involvement with a Serkonan orphan with hands a hundred times more calloused than most nobles. He'd respected her concerns, serving day after day with his heart slowly breaking, with her the only light in a world of adolescent lovesick gloom.
So, with the boy's feelings painfully clear, he felt for the kid. He'd earned Corvo's respect.
But at the same time, this was his daughter. This was Emily, and as much as she reminded him of her mother she wasn't Jessamine. Truth be told, she was a better empress than Jessamine. She put her people first, and that seemed to be what she was doing now. She cared about making things right, and Dunwall was still recovering from Delilah's brief but devastating rule, not to mention the whale oil crisis, and the sickness that seemed to burn through and strike down people every other week. If he could lift even a fraction of her burden, he would. And he did all he could. As Spymaster he controlled a web of informants and knowledge that spread throughout the Empire — he had some of the greatest minds available to him, and he tasked them with problems no ordinary citizen could even attempt. But Emily still dealt with the pressure, the backlash her action or lack of action caused among whichever class happened to be suffering. She took the public's criticism to heart, particularly wary after the coup, feeling as though she'd been blindsided.
Looking over the intercepted letters, Corvo ran a tired hand down his haggard face with a heavy sigh. It was hard not to appreciate the kid. 'Kid' — the man was thousands of years old, knew so much — as evidence by these letters. He was using his knowledge to help the Empire, and for that Corvo knew Emily would be grateful. He was grateful. He needed to talk to the former god of the Void. Needed to question him about the crisis, the deaths.
...This would have been so much easier two days ago.
Lips twisted into a grim line as Corvo stood from his desk. He was torn between advising the man to be patient, let her come around in time, and telling him to cut his feelings away at the root - kill them off - to keep Emily's heart safe. So instead he wouldn't talk about it at all. Focus on business. A servant of the Empire. He gathered up the files he needed, slipping the intercepted letters away to be resealed and sent, and made his way to the safe room.
The pencil moved over the paper smoothly, effortlessly. He had spent a lot of time in the Void perfecting a lot of different skills, mostly out of sheer boredom. The first centuries were pure terror, but numbed to the endless abyss, he found himself wandering with nothing to do, no one to speak to regularly. There was a hollow part of him that conflicted with the humanity still inside. Regardless of how hopeless the situation was, he would still seek out a passion, a purpose for living.
He outlined her lips, hidden mostly by the shadow of his chest and her untamed hair, but he stopped and set the drawing to the side on the bed when he heard the knocking on the door. Surely it wasn't Emily. She typically just walked in.
He made his way up the steps quickly, and with notable silence, pressing into the button with his own ring and twisting, eyes widening faintly at Corvo. "... Am I being tested, or reprimanded?" he questioned.
Corvo grimaced. "This isn't about the Empress." He pressed into the room, pausing at the banister. "I've actually come looking for counsel." Jogging down the stairs, he dropped the stack of files on the workbench, drawing a page out. "Twelve dead in the last few months, all sudden, six of them members of the Academy of Natural Philosophy." Three of those had been in contact with Empire intelligence, working on the whale oil issue. Another two of the sudden deaths had also been useful contacts in the Spymaster's web — inventors. "No signs of foul play, unless it was magic."
Oliver stepped back a bit and nodded, turning and making his way down the stairs. He hoped it wasn't too much of a mess; he wasn't exactly expecting company. He'd clearly been working on things, from the sketch on his bed to the mechanical gizmos along the workbench.
He eyed the stack of files and, without asking, flipped through their pages, making thoughtful "hms" and such here and there as he surveyed, skimming through sections that intrigued him. He figured Corvo would be patient with him. He was a patient man, after all.
"...The whale oil problem should be the least of your worries." He glanced back at Corvo, suddenly displaying that expression, the one encased in stone deep within the vestiges of the inner Void. The ancient bits where no living thing dare to dwell, where water met shadow and melted together into eternity.
"There are simple solutions to those petty issues. It's not difficult to power an empire, its only setback is the reliance on whale oil — but as we can see from Karnaca, it isn't difficult to break the pattern. ...I have... these exact plans being set into motion..." He stopped, slowly tilting his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "It's only expected, the Royal Spymaster would intercept letters from every guest... Regardless; the Void lives. It breathes, and seeks, and now it hungers for representation. There is no one within the Void to mediate the power, to control it just as much as it controls said individual. There were many people with the potential the Void sought after, none of whom I actively visited. Some called for an audience. Others were interested in... different devotions." He was as vague and cryptic as always, running his fingers along a small device.
He'd been working on non-lethal weapons for the guards in his spare time. One of them was a small gun looking mechanism, with a trigger but no clip. It released metal prongs that were attached via wire to the mechanism itself, pressing several hundred volts of electricity through the person it clung to, rather than several brass and lead bullets. He still needed to work on the range though. It wasn't a finished project. He had access to so very many memories, blueprints stretching through his mind. He could hardly keep his hands at rest, in fact.
"Noblemen held gatherings underground where they would undress and bathe themselves in ritual oils, committing cruel acts of indecency in a vain and shallow attempt to get into contact with a being they'd only heard of in vague, unrealistic myths that romanticized a prisoner to a malevolence that threatened to swallow up every light in the sky, one by one, until each and every one of the world's citizens were bathed in eternal darkness." He took a deep breath, his voice becoming bitter at the thought.
"But natural philosophers, while still acting upon ill intent and perversions, understood a fundamental truth of existence — natural philosophy. They tried to evoke me by more educated means. They studied my runes, fingers etching over the curvatures, starving for knowledge of otherworldly origin. Many were being driven mad by it, consumed to the point of insanity. The truth hung on the tip of their tongues, so they salivated at the thought of learning, but they stared through the Void into the abyss, and didn't realize that the abyss would stare right back at them. Those that died had dug themselves their own graves, too deep into the Void, some of them even had my mark engraved into their skin, desperate for my audience." He finally turned to Corvo, leaning against the bench, going quiet once he'd realized he'd gone on a bit of a tangent.
Corvo watched Oliver silently, then glanced over the rest of the workbench while the younger man skimmed the files. The Royal Spymaster was intrigued. The mechanisms displayed in various states of construction reminded him of that artifact that had once been Jessamine's heart. He wondered if it would be safe to pick up any of these particular instruments, if they might speak to him as well. He stiffened at that thought, and immediately reprimanded himself. Superstitious nonsense is what that was.
His eyes were drawn to Oliver as he spoke, analyzing and memorizing each word as it was spoken. He hadn't given the kid enough credit. How had he misjudged so badly? This man was (though Corvo wasn't exactly happy to admit it) a gift. He'd expected the god to have lost something in transition, but that didn't seem to be the case. An intelligent, critical, mechanical mind…
He didn't look away at the suspicious look he got for knowing the content of the letters. He could deny or argue that he'd only read the two most recent, but why bother? It was his job to know the information passing into and out of the tower. He'd been lax in regard to some of those duties until today.
As Oliver moved on to talk about the Void, Corvo felt a nervous hum on his skin. The Void hungered… For Emily? But he couldn't ask. He'd found an invaluable ally, and he wouldn't start burning bridges before he'd even reached them — let alone crossed them. So instead he listened, mildly disturbed, watching the man's hands while simultaneously cross-referencing this new information with what he knew of the various victims.
Had any been found with the Outsider's symbol? Most bodies had been irreparably damaged. Burnt up or wasted away — one charred so badly they'd just assumed the identity given its location. There had been other destroyed evidence, though. Disfigured or destroyed items near the bodies. Once, a whole chalkboard that had cracked into useless rubble. Ambitious men and women. ...All quite passionate about their fields of study…
"So, what?" he mused, practically to himself. "They're managing to… channel the Void somehow? Or is it just seeking out those who might make contact with it?" Should I be worried for other agents? He stopped himself from focusing his questions on that topic. Oliver had given him a lot to think about in a very short amount of time. He turned his eyes back to the younger man. "I'm going to need as much information about this as you can manage, written. Or typed. However you need to do it, but it needs to be thorough. We'll make resources available to the engineers in Karnaca, try to help move the alternative energy projects forward, get working prototypes in place, maybe organize a team to adapt the concepts in a way that works better for Dunwall's topography — and the rest of Gristol, of course."
Looking back to the items on the table, his hand hovered over one of them, not quite touching it. "These… are these functional? What do they do?"
Oliver didn't turn to look at him, gazing down at the object. "... A measure to decrease brutality against citizens. Or at least, the intensity of the brutality. Strangely enough, it seems that there is a way to enforce the law without losing every semblance of your humanity." His voice was smug again as he took it in his hand and fingered the trigger, holding it up and shooting into the mannequin near the barred off section of the safe room, where the bars of silver and gold lined the walls. Two pronged wires escaped the device, jumping at a considerable speed and latching onto the pliable fabric. The two pieces of metal buzzed and popped against the material.
"-Until better education can be established for the guardsmen, they won't ever treat anyone with civil respect, as they aren't aware of what exactly that is. Consider an education reform for the City Watch." He finally turned his gaze up to Corvo, letting go of the trigger and pressing the red button on the side. The two wires tugged free of the mannequin and sloppily retreated into the holds and he set it back down. He looked a little awkward, holding a weapon like that. That was only one of the machinations spread along the workbench though. He'd been busy.
"... Expect the reports by noon tomorrow." He approached the corner bed and pushed the drawing pad to the side, shifting around in search of his notes. He enjoyed this brief professionalism. He wasn't worried about Corvo clocking him over the head with the back of his crossbow, or punching him in the neck for some silly misunderstanding.
He liked to think he was getting a better grasp of how he used his words, without the Void's help. It was difficult though; sometimes he'd freeze in the middle of a letter, a word swimming in his mind that wasn't quite complete, a sentence fragmented. Things did not come as naturally as they had before.
Other times he'd be doing something as mundane as drawing, or washing his hands, and suddenly he'd find that his whole body was under direct siege by memories too far gone to approach him vividly. Usually they were in kaleidoscope slivers, dotting back and forth, as though teasing him with just how unintelligible they could be: colors and sounds, scents, tastes. Sometimes they'd be pleasant, other times they'd leave him standing there with wide eyes, mouth agape, hands trembling as though he were there again, witnessing the horrors of mankind in his little corner of the Void.
He found that most of his memories - the ones he could puzzle together - were not pleasant. They'd been tumbling back towards him rapidly ever since his arrival. Some threatened to crush him completely, others leisurely passed him by as if taking an afternoon stroll.
Corvo watched the demonstration, biting his tongue about the brutality comments. Truthfully, he'd thought similar things in the past, but other things always seemed to take precedence over something as regimented as city-wide training seminars for guards. It wasn't as though they could just dismiss every guard with violent tendencies - they'd be left with barely any men at all - but a more focused training effort would take time and money they didn't necessarily have on hand. But in the meantime he admired the device, certainly — a more ammunition-efficient version of the Karnacan voltaic gun.
He nodded in satisfaction with the promise of reports soon to follow, already making mental notes of who would need to be given which pieces of information, which generals to trust with which topics, who to assign for certain specific challenges. His eyes lingered on the other objects, wondering how well the former god might work with a partner, if he'd even be willing to go see Vexton to work on replicating or fine-tuning some of these designs. Glancing up again, he turned to follow Oliver, a few steps behind.
Corvo didn't quite stumble upon seeing the drawing, but he certainly halted. He looked away, as if to maintain some modesty (whose, he wasn't sure), a small part of him annoyed. Here they'd been doing so well avoiding mentioning Emily and then there he was drawing her, pining after her — but it was none of his business. In theory he felt for the kid, but as soon as he contextualized that this was his daughter he couldn't help that protective urge to test and pass judgment on everyone who made a play for her heart; no one could ever love her as much as she deserved to be loved, no one would ever be worthy of her love in return. The brief glimpse of the image was already burned into his mind, and he took small comfort in the clothed state of both drawn bodies.
He squeezed his temples quick with one hand, dragging it down his tired face. "Right, well…" He felt unbearably stilted, his voice a gruff mumble. "...You're… comfortable?" he asked, awkwardly, pointedly looking anywhere besides the picture.
Oliver hadn't noticed at first, his head racing, mind whirling with new thoughts, how he might structure what he knew of the Void, how he might reduce it down to something a bit more comprehensible, seeing as the Void was many things at once while being practically nothing at all. He didn't quite process Corvo's words, eyes distantly playing on the candle flickering on the nightstand as he thought. Something boiled within him, simmering there — uncomfortable, waiting.
He glanced at the drawing and immediately snatched it up, flipping through pages and clearing his throat. He wasn't great at being subtle and he was even worse when it came to compensating. "...As comfortable as I can be, locked in the royal safe room under near constant surveillance. I suppose it's only slightly better than drifting through a vast nothing with all of my senses dulled completely." He yawned, though suddenly stopped himself, not turning to Corvo.
"...The nameless ship that ported on the day of the coup... It was called The Dreadful Wale. ...It was captained by a Meagan Foster, and it caught fire once it had served its purpose, and now lays waste on the Serkonan sea floor..." He let the information sit, eyes slowly closing. Corvo was the spymaster, but before he was the spymaster, before he was father to Emily Kaldwin, he was lover to Jessamine. Oliver knew it was a sore spot. He knew it still lingered on the bad nights when an entire bottle of scotch would go missing from the tower kitchens and the figure of a man could be made out along the rooftops of the shipping yard, curled in on himself in the few spare moments of time he had to waste.
He could see it in the way that Corvo walked, tense with the weight of the memories - the what-ifs and could-have-beens settled on them - and he had to balance them there. Those were the broad shoulders of a man who was riddled with regret and sorrow, hardened with experience. Corvo Attano was one of the few people Oliver genuinely respected. He knew he wouldn't have to spell it out for him. Daud was dead. He thought Corvo should know that much, at least.
Corvo wasn't exactly sure how to respond to Oliver's sudden - and off-puttingly casual - admission of his experience in the Void. So he didn't. Instead he ran a restless thumb over the hilt of the folding blade at his waist. The younger man's next words took him by surprise.
He'd wondered, after sparing Daud's life, if the man had ever redeemed himself. At his darkest moments he still cursed the assassin's name, with a mix of anger and guilt. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth in the time between his fight with Corvo and when Corvo took up the position of Royal Spymaster. To realize he was gone now… It was odd. He'd expected to feel relief. But instead there was just a profound pity for the man. He wondered if he should bring it up with Billie, ask what happened, but she wasn't exactly one to get into personal business. Maybe it was best to leave the man at peace.
"I-" His voice was hoarse, and he shut his mouth quickly. He cleared his throat. No words came. Instead, he nodded.
Oliver closed the drawing pad, lowering his hands to his side. He knew how complicated relationships could get, and he knew Corvo and Daud had a relationship that was built on soured grounds. Composed of reverence and respect.
"Corvo... The Dreadful Wale served its purpose," he repeated once more, firmly this time, hoping that he would understand. He turned but did not look to him, walking back to his workbench to search for the proper writing utensils. If he didn't begin now he knew he probably wouldn't finish by the time he got to bed. And he didn't intend on staying up for too long, if he could help it.
A/N: As always: reviews are lovely. Credit to Lavender_Whalebones(AO3)/kaldwinqueen(tumblr) for the Outsider.
Next chapter is... well. Rated M.