Closure

by CaliforniaStop

Category: Dishonored
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2013-09-29 14:55:13
Rating: T
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,905
Publisher: .net
Story URL: s/9275699/1/
Author URL: u/950709/CaliforniaStop
Summary: In which Treavor Pendleton learns the fate of his brothers.

1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **_So many Pendleton feels. I just HAD to do this. I never really liked the idea of Treavor never getting closure with his brothers and, even though this probably doesn't work canon-wise in terms of the timeline, etc, I don't really care. _

_I also wrote this because in my other _Dishonored_ fic I'm not sure what fate I wanted to give the Pendleton twins - death or enslavement - so wrote this just to get it out of my system._

_Also published on my Tumblr account._

"Please accept my sincerest condolences, Lord Pendleton," the Lord Regent said with a sympathetic smile.

Treavor inclined his head. "Thank you," he replied softly. He lowered his eyes for a moment and caught the glitter of the gold signet ring on his finger – identical to the ring that Morgan and Custis used to wear, proudly bearing the Pendleton seal. Now, it was Treavor's job to display the family crest with as much pride as he could muster.

Hiram Burrows delicately cleared his throat, drawing Treavor from his brief reverie. "I am most grateful that we could meet today, Lord Pendleton. I know that circumstances are difficult for you at the moment but I appreciate that you realize just how important your family's mines and factories are to the city."

Treavor bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smirking. Burrows had wanted to sweep the Pendleton businesses under his arm, nationalizing them under some new emergency statute, but Treavor had the good sense to have the necessary papers drawn up, granting him full control of the shipping lanes, the factories, and the mines. Now, Burrows was the one simpering and smiling politely. He _needed _the family businesses; he _needed_ Treavor's favour.

"Has there been any word on your brothers?" Burrows asked, his eyebrows rising on his long, shiny forehead.

"No." Treavor dropped his gaze again. His hand was so very pale against the black of his trousers. He had been in mourning now for three days, ever since the City Watch had first knocked on his door on the Pendleton estate to tell him that his brothers were missing. Of course their visit was not unexpected; nevertheless, Treavor played the role of horrified younger brother well and, after providing an alibi (which Lord Brisby was more than happy to support), he set to work preparing himself and the Pendleton estate for mourning.

He hated wearing black; it did absolutely nothing for his complexion. And he hated how everyone _knew_. The mourning garments that Wallace so carefully and neatly prepared at the start of every day – black hose, black knee-breeches, a black waistcoat, a black frockcoat, a black cravat or necktie (depending), and a cream-colored shirt (like a dash of milk in his black coffee at breakfast) – were a red flag, a beacon, to everyone that Treavor encountered. They _knew_ about his brothers. Their voices were soft, their eyes full of concern; even that poisonous wench, Waverly Boyle, had invited him over for tea so that she could offer him her deepest condolences and (she had reached across the table for his hand) anything else that he needed. Once – before his brothers went missing – Treavor had dreamed of being treated so delicately, of being on the receiving end of such warmth and kindness; now, all the sympathy and compassion felt like a burden.

"I can't imagine what this is like for you, my Lord," Burrows said with a thoughtful frown. "The uncertainty must be unbearable."

"It is." Treavor offered Burrows a limp smile. "But life goes on, no?"

The Lord Regent's face was ashen, sickly; he sweated excessively. The corners of his eyes and his cheeks were creased with deep lines of worry. Treavor didn't bother suppressing the smirk that curved his lips. First the corrupt High Overseer was branded a heretic and expelled from the Abbey and then Morgan and Custis Pendleton disappeared without a trace. Burrows' allies were falling and, with them, the support for his reign was fading. He _should_ be worried.

Panic flashed briefly in Burrows' eyes and Treavor knew exactly what awful thought had just struck him: Morgan and Custis had controlled the entirety of the Pendleton voting block. They supported every political move made by Burrows without question. Treavor, however, was not so easily manipulated. Now, _he_ controlled the seats necessary for Burrows to remain absolutely bound to the throne and, after years spent with _no_ power whatsoever, Treavor planned to make the Lord Regent – and his brothers – pay. Burrows knew this; but he didn't know how to buy Treavor Pendleton.

Burrows forced a tight smile; his teeth flashed in a disgusting way. "Let me just say again, Lord Pendleton, that your support is invaluable. To put aside your own grief and pick up where your brothers left off is commendable. Dunwall was built on two things, you know: whale oil and Pendleton silver."

Treavor sighed and inspected his fingernails, affecting a bored air. "Yes, well, my brothers did grow rather slack towards the end. Mismanaged funds, factories being run into the ground, slipping production at the mines…" Then, he tipped his chin proudly. "I plan to rectify these problems. The Pendleton name will engender awe and respect once more."

"My Lord, it _never_ lost the city's awe or respect."

Treavor sniffed sharply. Burrows really was grasping at straws. The youngest Lord Pendleton felt his chest puff out and his shoulders square as the gravity of the whole situation hit him: he was now _in charge_. Everything was _his_. He had the Lord bloody Regent practically grovelling like a servant desperate for a raise! Treavor swept away an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "I'll be inspecting the mines today, actually. If I am to start anywhere in turning things around for the family name, it's there."

"Very good idea, Lord Pendleton. I'll send a squad of guards to escort you. I don't wish to alarm you but there is a very dangerous individual running around the city, intent on causing as much panic as possible. Your brothers were his most recent targets but perhaps you could be next?"

_If only you knew_, Treavor thought, swallowing down a chuckle. He politely inclined his head. "I'm most grateful for your concern, Lord Regent."

The ride to the mines was a journey that Treavor had never taken, because his elder brothers had insisted on freezing him out of the family business. He was in the car for at least an hour and then, when he and Burrows' escort were beyond the city limits, they all transferred to carriages. There were no paved streets and no rails for the cars. Everything was fresh and _green_; the air was clean and cool, with no traces of decay or rot drifting into the carriage through the open window. The countryside was a welcome change from the grungy bleakness of Dunwall. Idly, Treavor wondered why he had never before taken more holidays outside the city.

Suddenly, the landscape changed and Treavor felt his heartbeat quicken. Instead of trees and greenery, there were low, dark mountains that rolled on in a seemingly endless chain towards the horizon. The lush grass gradually faded and was replaced by coarse dirt and gravel. There were new scents in the air – sour sweat and bitter metal – and new sounds too – shouting in a language Treavor has never heard before and the regular crunch of rocks.

His hands began shaking. He had never before been to the silver mines but as the head of the Pendleton family, it was now his duty to oversee them. And he also had an ulterior motive, one which he has not divulged to anybody. Not even Wallace. With trembling fingers, he fumbled in his pocket for a note (tattered from the hours he had spent reading and re-reading it) and he unfolded it to stare at the unfamiliar hand:_Your brothers are alive. Two new acquisitions at the mines. Twins, shaved heads, tongues cut out._

Treavor wasn't sure who had delivered him the anonymous note. It had come to him one morning during his most recent stay at Pendleton Manor. The first time he had read the ominous words, he felt a stab of strange hope. Corvo had not told him anything of his brothers' fate, and Treavor didn't dare ask. The only thing he knew was that they were missing. He had waited for a ransom note to be delivered to him but when nothing came, he had assumed the worst. There had been the memorial service at Pendleton Manor, with grieving friends and acquaintances dropping into the family home to pay their respects, and a large plaque mounted at Parliament House in memory of the Pendleton twins. And yet, no bodies. No closure.

Treavor wasn't stupid. The anonymous note could be a trick. A lie. He didn't dare get his hopes up and regularly quashed them with thoughts of, _They're dead. Why would Corvo have left them alive? After what they did to Lady Emily? _but a small flame still burned in his heart.

Truth be told, he couldn't understand _why_ the note engendered such hope in him. His brothers were alive; so what? They were bastards and, if Treavor cast his mind back to his childhood, he could easily find a _hundred_ reasons why he should wish they were dead: the vipers in his crib, the beatings, the cruel pranks, the mockery, that hunting trip when he had almost _died_…

Still, Treavor couldn't help but wonder. And his wonder drove him to action. He had made a plan to visit the mines, to try and find the twins. And _if_ he found them – shaved and abused, but _alive_ – then what?

The carriage ground to a halt and Treavor stepped out. The sun was high in the sky and beat down on the youngest Lord Pendleton as strongly as Morgan's fists. He raised a hand to weakly shield his face and then cursed himself for leaving Wallace at home. But he couldn't have taken the manservant along; he wouldn't have understood. And Wallace had spent decades denying the very existence of the Pendleton mines, as though to protect Treavor from judgment from the other aristocrats. No, the first visit to the mines was a personal matter that Treavor had to do _alone_.

He and his entourage were met by a gruff man who introduced himself as the foreman of the mines. "I didn't know that the late Lords Pendleton _had_ a younger brother," he said slowly, almost apologetically.

Treavor narrowed his eyes. He could feel his skin burning in the midday sun. "Yes, well, I was never in charge of such things," he muttered in reply.

They walked through the dusty haze that hung in the air and stood looking down into what appeared to be a large crater peppered with dark tunnels and shafts. There was a network of rails snaking from the dark holes that had been carved out of the earth, upon which dozens and dozens of carts trundled, full of mineral ore.

The glitter of silver caught Treavor's eye and he felt his heart swell with pride. And hunger. After years of being on the bottom rung of the Pendleton name, he was now in charge. The silver that he saw being carted from the mines was _his_ and with it, he would hold great sway over the city. Perhaps the first time Morgan and Custis had come to the mines, they had felt the exact same stab of superiority, the exact same thrill of unbridled power. Perhaps Treavor was not as different from his brothers as he liked to think.

The foreman stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. A military stance. He was _proud_ of the mines, proud of the efficient little clockwork world he ran.

Treavor couldn't quite grasp the sheer number of slaves that worked at the mines. There were at least several hundred working outside – pushing carts along the rails or working to break down larger chunks of metal ore – but there was no telling how many slaves labored underground, out of sight. Thousands. Perhaps more. He felt mildly ill just thinking about it.

He watched them, passing between the mine shafts and the carts with the speed and efficiency of ants in their anthill. He had never before seen a Pandyssian. They were dark-skinned, lithe, with long limbs. With their heads shaved and their pathetic scraps of fabric that passed for clothing, it was hard to tell who was female and who was male. Treavor made a mental note to ask the foreman how the genders were separated, if at all.

"They work well, it seems," the youngest Lord Pendleton remarked.

"Very well," the foreman grunted in reply.

"How often are they rested?"

"Between sundown and sunrise."

Treavor considered this. "With the blockade preventing me from acquiring new – ah – laborers, perhaps we may have to think about resting them more often. Periodically throughout the day. They're no use to me, or the Lord Regent, if they die on their feet."

The foreman rubbed his chin and shrugged.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded down in the crater. There were shouts, screams, hounds barking. Treavor watched as a figure – white, not as malnourished as the others – dashed from one of the mine shafts. There were half a dozen slave-masters chasing it, and two hounds snarling at its heels.

One of the hounds lunged, latched onto the figure's leg, and didn't let go. The slave and hound twisted on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust; even from his position high above the crater, Treavor could easily make out the dark stain of blood mixing with the dirt.

The foreman cursed and spat on the ground.

The screams of the slave carried all the way from the crater up to Treavor: hollow, hoarse, angry. The slave-masters descended on the escapee with their whips and bludgeons. They dragged the hound away, with its dripping jowls and low snarls.

"This is the fifth time he's tried that," the foreman muttered.

Treavor tried to keep his voice level. "Who is he?"

"A new one. Came to us only a few days ago."

Treavor swallowed; he could feel his heartbeat thumping in his throat. "He seems rather defiant," he said with a severe arch of his eyebrow.

"He hasn't been broken yet. Give it time. They _all_ need to be broken. After that, they don't stand up to _anyone_." The foreman reached for his belt and handed Treavor a pair of brass binoculars. "You wanna take a look?"

With trembling fingers, Treavor took the binoculars and focused them on the pale-skinned slave. He was writhing on the ground, twisting, hunching against the slave-masters' onslaught. The hound had shredded his calf, leaving folds of ragged flesh hanging and dripping. A disabling wound, not a killing wound. The hounds had obviously been trained to keep the slaves in check. The slave-masters looked rough; they were tall and strong, maybe ex-City Watch guards who had become too cruel for the streets but just cruel enough for the silver mines.

Then, another figure entered Treavor's line of vision: another slave, pale, slightly smaller than the one on the ground. He appeared to be pleading with the slave-masters, all placating gestures and submissive body language, trying to put himself between the whips and his fellow slave. He was roughly knocked to the ground and then proceeded to receive the same treatment as his companion.

The foreman chuckled darkly. "Ain't no use tryna talk to us. The bastards had their tongues cut out."

The whipping continued. There was so much blood; the slaves' exposed flesh was a mess of red, weeping welts. Treavor's stomach twitched. "Did you do that?" he asked, his jaw suddenly very tight.

"Nah. They came to us that way."

"Where did they come from?"

The foreman shrugged. "Dunno. Someone dropped them off one morning. Said they were useless in their old roles and they needed to be put to work and taught a lesson." He grinned, showing off a mouthful of blackened teeth. "I wasn't complainin'."

It all made sense then. Morgan, the larger of the twins, strong and violent, would not take too kindly to being enslaved in his own silver mines. Of _course_ he was the would-be escapee. And Custis, not prone to physical violence, was intelligent and sharp and the more business-minded of the two. Of _course_ he would try and make a deal with the slave-masters – or, as best he could without a tongue.

There were two very strong emotions roiling inside Treavor as he watched his brothers being beaten. On the one hand, seeing Morgan and Custis get their just desserts was strangely satisfying. To see them so fearful, so abused, was the most delicious kind of justice. After years and years and _years_ of making Treavor suffer they were _finally _being punished. _Finally_, they knew what it was like. _Finally_.

On the other hand, though, Treavor hated seeing his brothers being treated so cruelly. He felt something resembling pity for them. They were the lords of Pendleton Manor, the heirs to an ancient and powerful title; they used to dine in the finest noble homes, wear silk shirts that cost more than their slave-masters made in a year, and debate the fate of the Empire inside the hallowed halls of Parliament House. Now, they wore collars like common dogs and had to endure being whipped like disobedient servants. It was unthinkable, and disgusting to watch, and Treavor hated himself for taking such pleasure in their pain.

"I'd like to go down and see them," he said with a sharp sniff.

"Lord Pendleton, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I have been given an escort from the Lord Regent," Treavor snapped. "Nothing is going to happen to me. These are _my_ slaves now and I would like to _see _them."

"As you wish," the foreman sighed.

The group wandered down into the crater. Treavor plucked a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed gently at his face.

The twins were still being beaten as Treavor and his entourage approached. The smack of leather on wet, bloody flesh made him flinch. The hounds continued to bark and snarl from the sidelines. "What did I just say to you?" Treavor growled, rounding on the foreman. "I can't get any _more_ workers. They are no use to me if they die. So _why_ do you insist on beating these two to _death_?"

The foreman smirked. "Lord Pendleton, I've already explained it to you: they are yet to be broken. We aren't going to beat them to death, I assure you. But they do need to learn that trying to escape comes with great punishment."

The twins were screaming, begging in their own disfigured way, for the slave-masters to stop. Their arms flailed, their legs kicked out, their faces were contorted into the most horrific masks of pain and fear and hatred…

"What will happen to them after this?"

The foreman jerked his chin across the crater, where half a dozen metal sheds were lined up, directly beneath the sun. "The hot box. We'll put 'em in there for a few hours. They sweat out any disobedience. It settles them right down."

Treavor felt faint just thinking about it. He knew all too well the pain of being locked inside cramped, dark spaces for hours on end; it was one of Morgan's favourite pranks. The youngest Lord Pendleton simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The twins continued to scream. Treavor caught a glimpse inside the black holes of their mouths and felt his stomach heave at the sight of the raw, pink stumps where their tongues used to be. Matching stumps, just like everything else the twins shared.

"Stop," Treavor rasped, his hands trembling.

"My Lord?" the foreman questioned.

"I said _stop_, damn you!" Treavor snarled in reply as his body was wracked by a tremor.

The foreman whistled through his teeth, catching the attention of the slave-masters, and he waved them away with a lazy hand.

Morgan and Custis remained curled up in the dirt, shaking, bracing for more. When they realized that the slave-masters had been called off, they tentatively glanced about; the shackles on their wrists and ankles clinked and rattled. There was a slash on Morgan's forehead, dripping blood into his eyes; Custis' lip was split and there was a swollen lump on his shaved scalp.

Treavor drew several shaky breaths as Custis' eyes – dark, matching Morgan's – met his. There was utter disbelief in Custis' eyes and he groped blindly for his twin's shoulder. Morgan, panting like an animal, shrugged Custis' hand away. He, too, looked up at Treavor and instead of disbelief shining in his eyes, there was only hatred. He bared his teeth in a snarl.

The foreman gave Morgan a sharp kick in the side. "I wouldn't behave like that if I was you," he grunted, "or you'll get another round with the dog." He chuckled. "He's got a taste for you, too."

Morgan, undeterred by the threat, lunged at Treavor and just managed to grab at the hem of his frockcoat before one of the slave-masters dragged him back by the collar and delivered three sharp blows with the whip.

Treavor couldn't help but scream; he stumbled backwards, threatening to land on his ass in the dirt, and Burrows' guards crowded around him in a protective huddle.

"Don't worry, Lord Pendleton. We'll break this one soon enough." The foreman grinned ferally. "I look forward to it."

"N-no," Treavor mumbled. He clenched his fists; his entire body was trembling. There was a familiar pressure at the back of his eyes but he was damned if he was going to _cry_. Still, he had been trained from an early age to fear Morgan and, even though the twin was hardly threatening anymore, Treavor couldn't help the way he reacted to those dark eyes glittering with violence and a hunger for his pain.

Custis' eyes never left Treavor's face. They were wide, shocked. His mouth hung open uselessly; the stub of tongue wriggled back and forth as though he was trying to form words, to speak, to _plead_ with Treavor for help.

"He needs to see a doctor about his leg. I _won't_ have him crippled. Or else I'll take what he would have earned me out of your pay, do you understand?" Treavor snapped, jabbing a finger in the foreman's direction. "These slaves are _mine_ now and you will treat them as a _finite resource_. Until the blockade is lifted, there are _no more_."

"Yes, Lord Pendleton."

Treavor looked at the twins, both on all-fours in the dirt, bloody, trembling, wide-eyed. They had run the Pendleton name into the ground and dragged it through the mud with their appalling antics at court. There was virtually no money left from the family fortune. Father would have been disgusted with them. "After he has seen a doctor, put them both in the hot box for two hours. And halve their rations for a week," Treavor added in a low, cold voice.

A small noise escaped Custis, not quite a whimper. The muscles of Morgan's shoulders tensed.

"I… I should be back next week to see how things are doing," Treavor said. "I expect these two to be broken by then."

"Very good, Lord Pendleton."

Treavor cried quietly to himself on the ride back to Dunwall. In his fist, he had crumpled up the anonymous note. The twins were alive and some part of Treavor thanked the heavens for that. Hell, he was so grateful that he even considered making a monetary offering to the Abbey. He would also have to thank Corvo for sparing Morgan and Custis, but he would think about _that_ when he returned to the Hound Pits Pub.

There was little doubt that the elder Pendleton brothers did not deserve their fate. Treavor decided that he would give it one more week – until the corrupt Lord Regent was gone and Lady Emily was crowned and the city was back on its feet – and then he would return to the silver mines and retrieve his brothers. Yes, they would be broken and yes, they would be weak, but he couldn't let them languish in the silver mines until they dropped dead. Or were caught in a tunnel collapse.

They were _Pendletons_ dammit, and they would not end their lives in such horrible conditions. No, Treavor would bring them back to Pendleton Manor. He would find them the best doctors. He would give them time to heal and he would show them just how much he cared and he would run the businesses in their stead and then… then everything would be _different_. A fresh start for the Pendletons. And then, Treavor would have the family that he had always longed for.