2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **The fate of the Pendleton twins from their perspective. I also brought Treavor into it because I wanted to show just how drunk with power he had become (which I think is one of the reasons the Loyalist Conspiracy ultimately failed in the end)._

By the time they dragged the twins out of the metal sheds, the sun had slipped low in the sky, casting molten rays and long shadows across the crater. Custis was released from the hot box first. He couldn't stand, he was almost blind with exhaustion and thirst, but somehow – _somehow_ – he found the strength to stumble along as the slave-masters pushed him. The alternative, he figured, was far worse; he could endure a few unbearable moments of pain if it meant he wasn't beaten senseless.

When they pulled Morgan out of the metal shed, he was limp, body convulsing. Only the whites of his eyes were visible and there was foam at the corner of his mouth. His leg was a mess of congealed blood and a half-assed attempt at bandaging the savage dog bite. The slave-masters dragged him through the dirt by the collar and began to beat him, as though to rouse him from the heat-induced seizure.

Custis moaned, his legs already carrying him to his brother, his mirror image, his other half. Morgan's pain was his pain; his strength was Morgan's strength. A jumble of vowels and half-formed words came from his raw lips, nothing that anybody would be able to understand.

_No! Stop hurting him! Enough! ENOUGH!_

A rough hand yanked on Custis' collar and he hit the dirt. Gravel stung in his wounds, making him wince and dry-sob. His skin was soft from years of touching only the most expensive silks and luxurious bath oils. Soon, though, he would build up a rough coat of scabs and scars, just as the other slaves had.

Morgan was still unconscious. The slave-masters had taken to kicking him, their boots leaving blossoms of bruises on his flesh (like Custis', also soft).

Custis screamed, helplessly, and tried to drag himself towards his brother. If he could just communicate _something_ to the brutes with the whips and bludgeons, he might be able to protect him. Hoarse sounds rose in his throat, snatches of begging and pleading that he tried to make intelligible. But the slave-masters just laughed and continued beating Morgan.

The clever, sharp-tongued Custis Pendleton whose words could enthral the entirety of Parliament House was no more; now, he was just a pathetic mute.

_Stop! He'll die if you keep this up! STOP! You promised Treavor – you promised that snivelling sack of shit, that sorry excuse for a Pendleton – that you weren't going to kill us!_

Something thick and hard – a bludgeon, or someone's fist – came down across his face and he saw nothing but white, heard nothing but his own ragged breathing. When his vision returned, he couldn't feel his head. He could only feel the hand on his collar, hauling him through the dirt. He watched as the other slave-masters grabbed Morgan by the wrists and pulled him along.

Some of the other slaves, the ones pushing carts or carting tools, halted momentarily to watch the two white twins be dragged through the dirt, like animals being dragged along the slaughterhouse floor. Custis wanted to scream at them, to tell them that _he_ owned them all, and that _Morgan_ had signed the papers for each and every one of them, committing their lives to the Pendleton mines, and the lives of their family, and the lives of their children to come.

But, without his tongue, he could do nothing but wail.

In the darkness of the tunnel, Custis cradled Morgan's head in his lap. The larger twin had stopped spasming but remained limp and ill. There was a dish of food – if it was possible to call the stale crust of bread and the gluggy handful of paste _food_ – at Custis' side. Not nearly enough for the both of them. Treavor had made sure of that, asking the slave-masters to cut their rations in half.

A stab of cold fury twisted his intestines.

_Treavor. _Stupid, screaming, weak, pathetic, baby Treavor. The blot – the _cancer_ – on the Pendleton name. He wasn't supposed to live for more than a few days after birth, but he had clung to life like a parasite clinging to a host. He had lived and he had thrived, despite the twins' best efforts to quash him. He was in charge now. He…

Custis' shoulders slumped.

_He owns us now_.

There was a single canteen of water to be shared in the tunnel amongst the other slaves but it did not make its way to the twins. Morgan usually frightened the others into handing it over but he was unconscious, and Custis was alone. The thought made him tremble. Dark eyes, illuminated by the dim lanterns strung along the length of the tunnel, watched him. Custis shifted and felt his bare foot touch the hard, reassuring form of his axe.

When Morgan came to, he was blind with rage. He screamed and roared and beat his fists upon the jagged rock-face. Custis knew why; he could recognize very nuance in his brother's face, from the glaring hatred in his eyes to the tight panic of his nostrils. He was overcome with utter disbelief at seeing Treavor, at seeing him look down upon them like they were _nothing_, at hearing him give the order to have them punished.

Morgan refused to mine. He would _not_ help to put money in Treavor's pocket – money for his favourite wines and his favourite whores. Money that rightfully belonged to the twins, to the _true_ heads of the Pendleton family. He only picked up his axe once, to put it through the skull of a slave who got in his way during yet another escape attempt. Custis, howling helplessly for his brother to _stop_ and to stay with him in the tunnel and to _not_ leave him _alone_, could recall with startling clarity how Morgan had effectively collapsed the front of the slave's face, how quickly dark blood and grey brain matter had pooled beneath the thin body…

The larger twin's disobedience earned him another few hours in the hot box and a severe beating that left him unable to walk. He had to be dragged back to the tunnel and Custis could do nothing but hold him and make soothing noises and press his bare hands over the weeping wounds as Morgan whimpered and his face contorted in pain and terror.

Custis bowed his head. They were trying to break Morgan, his twin, his other half, his mirror image, the man who had shared his very first breath and who (Custis had always hoped) would be there at the very end. They were trying to break him, and they were succeeding.

It was astonishing how much things could change in such a small amount of time. Treavor made a second visit to the mines, not two days after his first, and he asked to see Custis. Nobody made any objections or asked any questions; they simply did as they were ordered and dragged him from the tunnel to where Treavor was waiting.

The elder Pendleton stood in a workshop, where slave collars and mining tools were crudely crafted, and watched his younger brother pace around, examining this or that. He was almost unrecognizable: his shoulders were square and strong, his chin tipped imperiously, his strides long and purposeful. He had abandoned his mourning garments and instead wore light blue, a color that brought out the paleness of his eyes and that neither Morgan nor Custis would have _ever_ considered wearing. Gold glittered at his waist, his necktie, his index finger. His boots were freshly polished. His hair was neat, his fingernails manicured. He looked every part the nobleman – and that hurt Custis in a way that he hadn't thought possible.

The scrawny little lord rested his hip against a workbench, folding his arms across his chest, and he openly regarded the twin who stood before him. Custis felt a flush of shame and anger rise in his cheeks. Next to Treavor's finery, he was positively _disgusting_ to behold: his hair was beginning to grow back, patchy and ragged around the lumps and scrapes on his scalp and a scratchy bear had started to pepper his jaw and chin. Soon, the hair would be roughly shaved away by the slave-masters, lest there be an infestation of lice amongst the workers. He could feel how his skin was crusted with dirt and dried blood and sweat and other unmentionable things. He had grown thin, his once-lean muscles wasting away from starvation and excessive physical exertion. He was barefoot, and shackles hung heavily on his ankles and wrists; the collar weighed on his neck, digging into his throat.

He only knew what he looked like, how far he had fallen, because of Morgan. When Custis looked at that matching face and regarded that identical body, he could see how _horrible_ everything had become and how _pitiful_ they were. It was unbearable to behold but he could not _not_ look at Morgan. His twin was reassuring, comforting. He reminded Custis that he still existed, even if his existence was lowly and degrading. In the darkness of the tunnel, they only had each other. He had always wanted it like that – just he and Morgan and fuck the rest of them – but not under such appalling circumstances. He hadn't wanted it to just be him and Morgan out of _necessity_, but rather because Morgan desired it too.

As if he could read Custis' thoughts, Treavor said, conversationally, "I hear Morgan has been less than cooperative with the slave-masters." He inspected his fingernails, brushed away an imaginary speck of dirt with the tip of his thumb. "They expect he'll be broken soon."

Custis swallowed, hard. The growing hollowness in Morgan's eyes, and the way his shoulders sagged as though beneath a great weight, flashed in his mind's eye. He made no move to acknowledge Treavor's remark, but he didn't need to: his reaction was written all over his face, from the trembling of his bottom lip to the unwanted tears pricking at his eyes.

Treavor smirked, coldly. "Corvo was going to kill you, you know," he said. "But he found an alternative, one that he thought I might find more palatable."

_What_, Custis thought, fists clenching, _do you want me to be grateful, you weedy little prick?_

"I get the best of both worlds: nobody knows where you are, they all suspect the worst, and when I'm blue, I just take a carriage down here and watch you and Morgan work in the hot sun."

Custis looked away. He looked at his bare feet, at the rough stone floor of the workshop. He had to look anywhere but at the triumphant glitter shining in Treavor's eyes. It was too much. For a moment, he considered whether or not death would have been better. At least he and Morgan wouldn't have been reduced to such an embarrassing existence. At least they would have died as noblemen. At least they wouldn't have been forced to watch Treavor swan around, positively _drunk_ with power.

He was prattling on about Hiram Burrows' latest attempts to bribe him for support for the upcoming parliamentary vote. His voice was conspicuously loud, nasally and smug and sharp, next to Custis' enforced silence. With a theatrical sigh, he said, "That bald fool has offered me the deeds to several exquisite properties – acquired, _ahem_, through quite questionable means. But the way I see it, those people were kicked out of their homes and, chances are, they're either dead or dying of the plague now, so what does it matter?"

Anger flared, weakly, in Custis' limbs. Even if he'd had the strength to attack Treavor – to knock out his teeth and pulverize the smirk from his thin lips and break every bone in his body – he wouldn't have dared; a City Watch escort lingered just outside of the workshop, ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble. All Custis could do was listen and stare and fight to keep his breathing level.

For the first time in a long time, he really felt the emptiness in his mouth where his tongue used to be. It was a vacuum, a hole, threatening to turn him inside-out; idly, he wondered if Morgan felt the same.

Treavor finished his hypocritical spiel – after all, he had always denounced the twins for the way they sold their parliamentary votes in exchange for favors and money from Dunwall's elite and, in particular, the Lord Regent. But baby Treavor seemed to qualify it all with "I'm not simply _giving away_ my votes to aid Burrows without _some_ kind of consideration. I don't support certain of his motions but if he needs, say, backing for extra security checkpoints or extending the powers of the City Watch, who am I to stand in his way if he pays me accordingly?"

Custis was beginning to feel weak from standing. Sweat pricked at his scalp, stinging fresh wounds. His knees began to tremble.

"Do you need to sit down?" Treavor asked, arching an eyebrow. His tone was indecipherable. Perhaps it was concerned but there was a thick streak of mockery and delight there, too. He was thoroughly enjoying seeing his elder brother so uncomfortable, so powerless.

Slowly, reluctantly, Custis nodded.

"That's a shame. Because you will stand in my presence until I say otherwise."

Custis swallowed, and he almost shuddered as he felt the gruesome stump of his tongue brush against the back of his throat.

Then Treavor started on the Boyle ladies. Apparently Waverly had been fucking the Lord Regent – which didn't quite come as a surprise to Custis when he thought back to all those splendid parties where he had seen Burrows and Waverly deep in conversation with one another; she was drawn to power, and he was drawn to her cold beauty – and her substantial funds, if Treavor's story was anything to go by. Since she had been Burrows' strongest financial backer, she had to be dealt with.

That was Treavor's phrasing. _Dealt with. _

Custis was momentarily horrified by how detached his younger brother was about the whole thing. _You loved her once. You walked around Pendleton Hall gloating about how you and Waverly were going to be married. When Morgan and I got close to her and she betrayed you, you were heartbroken – you were _hysterical_. And now you're speaking about her as though she meant nothing to you! _

"So," Treavor said, lips curling with cold venom, "Waverly has been taken in by Brisby – which, I hear, he is _thrilled_ about. And I plan to make arrangements to propose to one of the other sisters. Esma's too old, but that never stopped Morgan from having his fill of her, hmm? She's only good for one thing, so perhaps I will take her on the side. That only leaves Lydia…"

He scoffed. "Well, she's nothing special but I think she would make a rather nice wife. I doubt anybody else will be lining up to ask for her hand, so she'll probably _leap_ at my proposal. Especially since I've recently acquired a new title and new allies in Parliament, and the financial projections for the rest of the month show that the fortune should be built up again in no time, if all continues smoothly. When the blockade is lifted, I'm thinking we might travel down to Serkonos for our honeymoon."

Treavor cocked his head at Custis, who simply stared back, as impassively as he could muster.

"And do you know what that will mean, my marrying one of the Boyles? I'll get _all_ that land you so desperately wanted, Custis. Do you remember? You went to Boyle Manor with _three crates_ of imported wine _and_ a new harpsichord for Lydia – and Waverly wouldn't even come to the door to see you! She left you standing on the doorstep like a _snubbed date_ and told you that she would be _dust_ before she gave you an _inch_ of her land. Do you remember that, _hmm_?"

A washed-out flush rose in Custis' cheeks. He couldn't answer – and Treavor knew this! It was a rhetorical question, obviously, one designed to cut Custis right to the bone. And it did. He recalled with frightening clarity calling – _screaming_ – for Waverly Boyle to sit down with him and have the papers drawn up. He had already made plans for the land, and for its rare, exquisite crystals, but that cold little viper was having none of it whatsoever, and had turned him out on his ass like he was _nothing_. Less than nothing.

He moaned, a weak broken sound that was his only substitute for words.

Treavor visibly flinched at the noise; perhaps he hadn't expected Custis to make an attempt at a reply. "What," he sneered, "did I _upset_ you?"

_Why are you telling me all these things?! What could you possibly hope to gain!? What do you want me to do, fall down on my knees and sob at your feet!?_

"You brought the family name to the brink of destruction, Custis. You and Morgan both," Treavor spat, a facial tic contorting his features. "You… you helped in the kidnapping of an _Empress_! You kept her in that bath house for _six months_! You spent _everything_. You were the Regent's _scapegoats_ and you allowed yourselves to be _used_ and for _what_? Was it worth it, _hmm_?" His hackles rose. "Father would have been absolutely _ashamed_ of you."

_You don't understand_, Custis wanted to say, _and you never will. Father never taught you about business, he taught ME. You didn't read the ledgers, Treavor, I DID! You couldn't see the family coffers being cleaned out – by you too, you damn hypocrite! You and your whores and your wine! Don't put yourself up on a pedestal and lay all the blame on us. I HAD NO CHOICE!_

He trembled, violently. The cuffs on his ankles and wrists rattled.

Treavor made a noise of disgust, deep in his throat, and turned away from the twin as though he couldn't bear to look at him. "I'm setting things straight," he said, voice low and level. "A new era for the Pendleton name. By the time all of this is over, I'll be a _hero_. One of the men who helped to restore the rightful heir to the throne and who helped to bring down a corrupt dictator." He rounded on Custis, nose wrinkling. "And they'll all see how I managed well enough without you and Morgan. They'll see how they _all_ underestimated me. And when the time comes, I'll be able to pick and choose from the lot of them."

Custis held his younger brother's gaze and then, slowly, he shuffled to one of the work desks and fumbled for some paper and a pen. He hadn't held a pen in a long time; his palms were rough with calluses and blisters (some half-healed, others raw and weeping). The closest thing he had ever had to a callus was a hardened lump on the middle finger of his right hand that had built up over several years spent with a pen in his hand, poring over books and writing letters. He had always been so careful to keep his hands soft and unmarked – he and Morgan had always worn gloves when they went riding or shooting – and, sometimes, he had even paid one of the whores at the Cat to massage fragrant oils and lotions into his skin.

Now, he couldn't recognize his hands, with their bitten-down nails and ragged cuticles; dirt was encrusted in every crease and fold of his skin. The cuffs on his wrists were tight, rubbing him raw.

As though falling into an old, familiar rhythm, he began to write out a note to Treavor. The pen initially felt odd in his hand – his fingers were so used to gripping mining tools – but, within the first few words, he was _himself_ again. He angled his wrist so as not to smudge ink on the side of his hand and he finished writing with a small flourish. He blew on the paper – not caring how absolutely _ridiculous_ he looked – and then passed it to Treavor.

"'Stop being so cruel, Treavor. This is not who you are. You are not a cruel person'," he read, blithely. He regarded Custis over the note, eyebrows rising on his long forehead. Then, he crumpled the note in his fist. "I'm not being _cruel_, Custis. Far from it. Well, Waverly's situation might be a _little_ different – and yes, I do take great delight in her circumstances so if that's cruel of me, then I'm _cruel_. But with you and Morgan, this isn't cruelty. This is _justice_. Revenge. This is me being _fair_."

He tossed the note into the forge fires of a large stone hearth and, back to Custis, continued talking: "I don't know what the _hell_ I did to you – both of you – to make you hate me so. We were supposed to be _brothers_. I-I looked up to you two, you know. For a little while at least. It took me a very long time to realize that you didn't want me."

_That's right_, Custis thought, lips curling with a snarl, _you _were_ unwanted. It was supposed to just be me and Morgan. Just he and I. Just the two of us and nobody else. _

"I wasn't _clever_ like you or _strong_ like Morgan. I was just this _nobody _in the background. You two were Father's golden children. You were _everybody's_ favorites. I taught myself to expect _nothing_ while you two were around – and that was fine except that you didn't _deserve _it all. You defiled our legacy and you blackened the family name and now–" Treavor's breath caught in his throat and he stiffened. Slowly, he pivoted on his heel and looked at Custis. "And now look at you. Look where you both ended up. Look where you _allowed_ yourself to end up. I tried to help you – I really did – but you wanted none of it. You didn't _want_ my help and now… this." He shook his head, disgusted, and then turned back to the flames.

Custis was sure he could see the shine of tears in Treavor's eyes, though it was hard to tell.

"I'm not _cruel_. I'm not like the two of you. You were _masters_ of cruelty." Treavor sniffed tartly. "I'm teaching you both a lesson, the harshest kind I know. When I first saw you both the other day, I… I _cried_ because I couldn't believe that you were alive and that you were _here_ of all places. And then I thought on it and I decided that I wanted you to know how it felt, to be nothing and to have nothing. I want you _both_ to know one _fraction_ of what you put me through!"

Custis growled, weakly. This life of slavery was _nothing_ like what the twins had done to Treavor over the years. To hear Treavor compare the two made him furious, but he checked himself and simply looked away.

"When things are better," Treavor continued, voice decidedly soft, "and Burrows is gone from the throne, I'll take you out of here. We'll go back home and everything will be better."

Custis' raw lips parted and he made a small whimpering noise of…

Relief? Hope? Was what Treavor was saying _true_?

"I've been speaking with Anton Sokolov. He says that he _might_ be able to transplant new tongues into you – but first he needs to conduct a few – ah – _experiments_ with live tissues." Treavor's jaw clenched, as though fighting down a wave of nausea. "It's not a sure thing yet, fixing… _that_. But I thought you should know."

Treavor moved to the door but Custis intercepted him and seized his wrist.

_When? When will you take us out of here? WHEN!?_

"Don't touch me," Treavor hissed, wrenching his arm away. He inspected his wrist, wiping away grime and dirt and blood from his skin with a small snarl on his lips. "Don't _appeal_ to me now, Custis. I'm doing this because I know it's what Father would have wanted. I'm doing this because there's no need for you to _die_ here. You and Morgan both deserve it – more than anybody else, I think – but you're _Pendletons_ and that means more to me than any sadistic delight I might get out of hearing you both died in a mining accident. Perhaps, when the city is back on its feet and all that, we might be…" Treavor's voice cracked. "… what I always imagined we _should_ be."

He waved his hand impatiently, urging Custis to stand aside, and then smirked. "Burrows should be gone within forty-eight hours. Once certain things are in order then I'll come back. I'll have doctors lined up for you, and long-term care at the manor."

Custis shook his head. _We won't last that long, Treavor. Morgan won't last that long. They're breaking him. Do you understand? They're BREAKING HIM. _

"I said, _don't touch me!"_ Treavor cried as Custis once again grabbed his wrist in a gesture of imploring. The younger Pendleton took several steps backwards, eyes wide, hands raised defensively. "Don't. Touch. Me. You don't have the _right_. I may not be cruel, Custis, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of cruelty. After all, I learned from the best."

Custis blanched. What did that mean? Was he going to leave them both in the mine? Was he going to walk away and leave them to die in the tunnel? He blinked, rapidly, and mirrored Treavor, taking several steps back. Slowly, he nodded.

Satisfied, Treavor tossed his head. "Do look after Morgan. He depends on you," he drawled, and then he snapped his fingers at the City Watch escort and was whisked away to a waiting carriage.

Custis, standing there, watched him go – and he felt something twist in his heart. And then he felt a rough hand yank hard on his collar and he was dragged back to the mine shaft to complete his shift. Morgan was there, curled up in the damp dirt, body trembling. Custis grabbed one of the lanterns from the rock-face and held it over his twin; he could see puncture wounds and angry red arches peppering Morgan's flesh where the slave-masters had left him alone in the dog pen to be chewed on like dinner scraps. Punishment for yet another escape attempt.

With a cry of despair, Custis knelt by his brother and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Morgan stiffened, head snapping up. In the semi-darkness of the tunnel, his eyes were glittering like those of an animal. When he saw it was only Custis, face contorted with pain, he slumped to the dirt, whimpering, and extended a hand.

Custis laced his fingers with Morgan's and held his brother's hand against his chest, wanting – _needing_ – him to feel his heartbeat.

End file.