It took an instant to reach the party, and then another to forget how he had arrived and why he had come.
Under endless swathes of violet drapery, masked aristocrats laughed and mingled with one another, their wine glasses full and flowing to the ceiling in streams of Gristol white, Tyvian red and Morley pink. The rat lights cast everyone in shades of mauve and orchid, and deepened the shadows that prowled the edge of the ballroom.
All masks were extravagant in detail and construction. A peacock with a grand display of iridescent feathers fanning behind her head, sampled an apple tart from the line of buffet tables piled high with delicacies from all corners of The Isles. A squid, tentacles wrapped around its owner's head, gossiped with the grotesque visage of a spider. A bloodox and a manic grinning moon drank from the wine fountain, its uphill waterfall forming a sparking lake above their heads.
On his own face, a welcome and familiar weight, and the scent of worn leather, oiled metal. His long coat flapped against his thighs, the gold trim dimming to a muddled brown in the rat light. The crowd parted for him, stopping their conversations, stopping in the middle of tasting or sipping to acknowledge his presence. Guest of honor...yes. This party was for him. They were celebrating...something. Something important.
But is it a victory or a defeat? The choice is yours, Corvo.
The Outsider's voice wove through the music like a discordant melody. Opposite the buffet tables and the ballroom, a mirror ran the length of the room from floor to ceiling, and reflected a darker version of the merriment around him.
Instead of shimmering decorations and velvet brocades, torn remnants of streamers and ragged cloth littered the dusty floor. Instead of savory appetizers, the worn tables teemed with rotting food. Flies buzzed and maggots crawled. Broken windows glinted the absinthe green of the Earth Moon. Bodies wrapped in the tattered remains of plague shrouds were scattered over the ballroom floor, bones protruding under layers of cobwebs and grime.
On his side of the mirror, the party guests waltzed around the reflected corpses, somehow knowing when and where to slide and step. But on the mirror side, those same guests wore bloodstained rags instead of their opulent attire. Instead of colorful masquerade masks, they donned the plain ceremonial white masks of the Overseers, the usual gaping mouth laced shut by thick, black thread, and weeper tears of the same color leaked from the empty eye holes.
Ghouls. Demons. But riveting in their own grotesque, beautiful way, like spectral creatures from another plane of existence, a more savage world. One where the pretense and airs were stripped away. One where you couldn't hide your true face. And what of himself? How did he appear in the light of this brutal place? No different, unfortunately. Not one detail even slightly askew. Mask and coat were the same. No weeper tears. Why did that disappoint him? Seeing a man where a monster should be? For that's what he was in the end, a monster...no better than the ones who had betrayed him. He'd left death and destruction in his wake, and that alone should damn him. Why did he appear the same?
His reflection shrugged in confusion. It had no answer.
The mirror demons never ceased bowing, dipping and turning with the exaggerated movements of theater performers in the throes of some macabre dance. No music played, but beyond the crumbling walls of the mirror side, whales dragged the decaying ballroom by chains through a lavender gray sea, their song of doom vibrating the soles of his boots. This hypnotic humming pulled him closer to the mirror demons and their dark world, his hand now on the cold surface of the mirror itself, the barrier between here and there trembling like his heart. Not trembling out of fear, but from yearning.
That ballroom was Dunwall, the real Dunwall. Every corroded, bloodied corner and shrouded corpse. The rats and plague festering in the shadows. Weepers spreading their poison. This was the Dunwall he knew, the Dunwall that awaited his return like a restless, hungry spider. In their brief, chaotic affair, he had bathed her in blood, gave her more than enough souls to devour. She remembered his service and she beckoned him now. What times they would have again. The violence and terror they would spread like the plague itself. All he had to do was step into her web...
And he was home.
But a rumbling noise broke the spell, prevented him from crossing over. Something in the place of his reflection, and while not the horror he had wanted, it was a monster of a different sort. The hulking animal sat on its haunches and groomed its large paw with the languid half-lidded contentment of a housecat. Sleek claws flashed and its tongue lapped between them. Tapered ears flicked at the music from the light side of the mirror, yellow eyes staring with luminous curiosity, and its coat shining with—
All the colors of autumn.
"It's called a Tyger, dearie," said a woman, her reflection hidden behind the bulk of the great cat. He turned to the elegant noble dressed in a suit of navy and gold that clung to the equal swell of her bust and hips, her abundant dark hair swept on the top of her head in an ornate braided coiffure that glittered under a golden net of sapphires. Her face was somehow both familiar and new: slanted cheekbones just a shade too sharp. Khol-lined eyes that held secrets and a glimmer of madness. He had seen that gaze before...somewhere. Had Sokolov painted her? Before he could muse on it further, she spoke again with a little chortle that crept the edge between insanity and charm. "And it suits you, dear one. Yes it does. Such a feral thing, a powerful thing. A man after my own heart. Come with me by the fire, I want to tell you a tale about a screaming witch."
He intended to protest, but some strange haze descended upon him when her arm linked with his, and she lead him through the throng of the waltzing partygoers as if leading a sleepwalking child back to bed. The Tyger in the mirror rumbled warily, but followed, snapping at the swarm of rats that suddenly appeared around its legs. The rats evaded the sharp teeth and the irritated swipes, seeking the safety of the noblewoman's shadow—which on the mirror side, seemed to spread across the floor like a yawning black maw. Doors with teeth, whispered a shade of a girl standing still and pale in the midst of the dancers. Her red hair flowed to the ceiling as if underwater, swathes of white cloth billowing around her naked form. She held her saintly pose long enough for him to see her, then faded. The gentle tug on his arm turned insistent, and the rats around the noblewoman's boots nipped at the Tyger's paws.
"Hurry now, dearie. It may be the Void, but time here isn't endless. No, no. It shifts and bends and scatters like sand. Magic in the waking world has its limits and my circle burns."
They passed the party guests and their mirror demons, but they paid no attention. Maybe they couldn't see the woman or him at all. The woman's face in the mirror blurred. Glimpses of age then youth. The dark swarm at her feet grew in number. So many hungry red eyes staring at him.
"Ah, my little birdies are excited. Today is a most special day, the day I show my black-eyed groom the depth of my love. Such a fickle creature he can be sometimes! Always choosing new pretties to play with. Always showing favor to the wrong sort— the worst of us. Sometimes he needs a little reminder of who he left behind...the most devoted of his chosen. No one has been more loyal, more selfless than I…and this sacrifice will be my last, the one that will earn my place at his side."
"What about the screaming witch?" he asked, sounding as baffled as he felt. Nothing this woman said made any sense, but there was the slithering spread of alarm—and though he couldn't voice it, the Tyger seemed to sense the same thing, and it purred a growl from the mirror, flattening its ears and twitching its tail. Yes, he agreed. Something wasn't right. His arm burned where her fingers clenched, but something kept him from freeing himself. His thoughts clumped like jellied eels. The noblewoman chuckled and patted his arm as if to say "there, there," then half steered/half yanked him toward the massive ivory fireplace that jutted out of a slab of rock the same color. Didn't that used to be a wall? In the mirror, the fireplace appeared black, violet flames roaring instead of the smoldering embers on the light side.
"Yes, yes, the screaming witch. That fool woman who spurned his love and tried to take what didn't belong to her. So many grand ideas. So many selfish desires. As if no one would notice the darkness in the that young girl's eyes. The ice in her voice! There are rules for a reason, dearie. Prod and push them yes, but never tear them down. Never, never." Her hand (or was it a claw?) firmly clasped around his wrist, the noblewoman stopped in front of the fireplace and gestured to a painting in the midst of materializing above the mantle. "Look close, dearie, look deep. This is what becomes of those who lose his favor."
At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing, but then a tree formed at the center of the painting, born out of a stormy and sketchy version of the Void, with virulent and twisting branches contrasting the pewter clouds, roots clinging to a dagger slice of rock. Small islands topped with the same green floated around it, and a crumbling ruin of a bridge arched from the center rock toward them, but diminished into sparse linework before it could connect. The style of the art seemed fitful, arbitrary, the frenetic brush strokes— as if the painter had been prone to bouts of manic frenzy. Looking at it created a queasy knot in his stomach, his eyes unable to focus on it for very long, lest his vision cross or blur. The main bridge lengthened and warped, then smaller versions of it started crisscrossing the Void, building themselves out of clouds and leaves only to collapse and dissolve and rebuild again.
And at the center tree, a figure, sexless, spindly and black, mouth agape—a mouth so large it seemed to consume half of the angular white face, the rest of its features like the masks the mirror demons wore.
"This is her fate. Shrieking her failure for all eternity. Remember it, dearie, remember it well. Never disappoint my black-eyed groom." The noblewoman clucked her tongue, and in the mirror her reflection sharpened a moment, lines and sagging skin. An old woman. A name in his head, but said backwards. Rags, something. Moray? Rags Moray. No, that wasn't right. Why couldn't he focus?
"The Knife put an end to her," she said with sudden gravitas, giving this statement weight and consideration. "Guilt drove him to the deed, just as vengeance drove you to destroy him—but then you let him go, didn't you? One of your many, many regrets." Her sly smile turned his stomach more than the painting—or the howling thing at its core. "Why don't you come closer? Yes, yes, closer...right there. Do you hear it? It's just a whisper, of course. Those who hear her scream go mad, their minds shattering like hers with the agony of realization, when all her dreams had slipped away in one instant." Her voice dropped to a raspy snarl and her hands jerked the lapels of his coat. Her breath rolled over him, sour and ancient, yellow teeth and cracked lips smiling wide. "Doomed and damned. She relives her moment of defeat over…and over. Forever, dearie. And what will your punishment be? What do you deserve? Serkonon filth, thinking you were one of us. Flirting with your betters. Rutting with an Empress! And that child…that sweet little girl. You let her FALL."
She shoved him with inhuman strength and he hit the fireplace, taking a chunk of it with him on the way down. In the mirror, the rats attacked the Tyger, swarming it, dots of red blossoming all over its coat. The battle waged in silence, the Tyger baring its teeth in a roar that shook the glass, but never reached beyond it. Neither did the squeaks and yips of its attackers. The Tyger spun and bit and devoured them as quick as they leaped, but it was becoming overwhelmed. Every injury the Tyger suffered, reflected on him. He stumbled to his knees, gasping, bite marks on his hands, burning on his neck and body. The haze that had muddled his thoughts lifted with the flare of white from his hand. The noblewoman laughed, a sneering cackle that didn't match her young face— but that was because she wasn't young. And she wasn't a noble. Not anymore.
"Granny Rags," he said and spat blood. "Well played, you old cunt." Getting to his feet was the easy part, it was the not falling over that required effort. Caged by a ring of dead rodents, the Tyger was holding its own, but for how long depended on him. "But it wasn't good enough. Maybe if you had stopped prattling on about a thing that will never love you, you could have had me." And speaking of that certain black-eyed bastard, he was nowhere to be seen—or heard. But that didn't mean he wasn't far. The Outsider wouldn't miss a confrontation like this, not when it was taking place on the equivalent of his doorstep.
"I already have you, dearie. Your soul at least. Sadly not your bones," Granny Rags said with a sigh. "And they would have made such a wonderful stew." She clasped her hands and rubbed them, her rich attire changing into what she had been wearing that day when she made him choose between Slackjaw and her, to take sides in a fight not his. He supposed she hadn't cared for his choice.
"And how, exactly, do you have my soul?" Because the blood whooshing in his ears and the ache in his spine felt real enough to him. Was this all in his head? Or could a soul be injured in the Void as a physical body in the real world? A dream body in this case, but could it take more, or less of a beating? Piero would know...always dabbling with the unknown, the mysterious Void. Creating theories and inventions that walked that fine line between madness and brilliance: The Mask, Piero's Spiritual Remedy, The Door to Nowhere.
Doors with teeth, reminded an imaginary Arella. By the Void, he couldn't even get rid of her in the Void.
Granny continued to taunt him, and her little birdies continued harassing the Tyger. "You owe me a dance, dear one. Remember? Come to Granny and I'll give you the peace you crave." Her dark hair lightened to gray, jewels from the net holding her coiffure pinging to the floor and turning to dust.
"I think dancing is out of the question for a while." His dream kneecaps complained with a twinge. Would he have dream bruises later? "And I'm not handing my soul over to you. You going to have to work for it."
"Yes, dear one, I expected as much—my, you are putting up quite a struggle aren't you? Just like the beast you are. But you'll eventually tire and die. I only asked you to dance to take your mind off it. Death doesn't have to be difficult or painful if you let Granny ease the way. Give up, dearie. Your Empress whore is never coming back, and you let your bastard daughter tumble off a cliff. There's no reason to continue on. Everyone despises you, my black-eyed groom most of all. Why else is he allowing me to do this?"
The Tyger pounced on a fresh wave of rats, gore caking its muzzle, its eyes wide and radiant with fury. His soul, eh? It would explain the taste of blood in his mouth, and the violent need to start breaking things— the first being the foul-mouthed old hag in front of him. Her misty powers and teleportation proved a challenge last time, one after he'd burned her cameo, he left for Slackjaw to finish. But burning the cameo must not have been enough to destroy her, and now he was in her world—or some twisted version of it. The advantage belonged to her, but every trap had a release somewhere. It would take some pulling and jiggling to find it, but once that door sprang, he was going for her throat.
"The Outsider wants us to fight because it's entertainment," he said. "That's his only use for us. Not courting, not marriage - and certainly not your wedding night. Your delusion isn't even funny anymore. It's sad. Pathetic. Granny Rags pining for her black-eyed groom. He's laughing at you, Vera."
"He laughs at fools and I'm far from a fool, dearie. He chose me. He loves me. The others of you are tools of circumstance, dull and ordinary, made for one use. You've been tossed aside."
"In favor of you?" His mask hollowed his laugh into something unsettling and empty. "I don't think so. We're two hounds in a pit and he's not wagering a single coin. He wants us to kill each other. It was the same with Daud. It was the same even with that Delilah. All this choosing and marking and claiming we can change the world— it's oxshit! And what's worse is that I bought into it. I believed him. I was going to take down the Empire, free The Isles! And before everything went to shit I did do one thing, the most important thing. This filthy Serkonon drove an entire city into the Void and sent her leaders right along after her. And you think you can take my soul, witch? You think you're strong enough?" He advanced, and while she didn't back away, she wrung her hands and pressed her lips together, the rouge on her cheeks like smears of red paint against the ashen skin beneath.
"Such an ill-mannered boy you are, threatening an old woman. You're just like that Slackjaw, all bluster and no bite."
"Oh, I bite, witch." He took his mask off and threw it on the floor where it skid into the mirror version of itself. "And when I taste blood I don't let go."
Granny went even paler - if that was possible- but stood her ground. "I ate that lout and pickled his eyes. I wear his strong white bones around my neck." She yanked the necklace from under her dirty jacket. Her hand shook as it closed around a fingerbone pendant, and unseen bone charms sang in warning.
"Good for you. Let's get this over with." He didn't have any bone charms, but the Void sang all around him, the whales humming, the eerie trill of the wind. Somehow that infused this dream body of his with more energy, more strength to fight. The mark glowed white, and then settled into another color he'd never seen before: a vibrant violet. Bloodied and weary, the Tyger in the mirror readied itself for another charge of the vermin army.
"Wait…I have a different proposition."
The Outsider's voice rang through his head, ruining whatever concentration and stamina he had mustered for battle. Granny Rags uttered a startled, joyful cry-forgetting all about feeding his soul to her little birdies. She transformed from ancient crone to summer maiden, moth-eaten jacket to satin and lace. Even the sapphires were back in her hair, polished and glittering. Despite all she had done, it tugged at his dream heart to see that much hope in her eyes, knowing the one who put it there, could easily crush it with a word.
The mirror demons waltzed slower, and slower as if being cranked to a standstill, leading to final positions that were both unintentionally amusing and profoundly disturbing. The same happened on the light side of the party: the guests freezing mid-bite, mid-gossip, and mid-dance. And not only them, but the rats and Tyger became taxidermy displays, caught at the precise moment of launching themselves at one another. A strong suction of wind then, as if both dark and light sides of the room exhaled in a rush. Absolute stillness. Time crystallized.
In the vacuum of silence, he teetered on his feet, the floor suddenly a seesaw instead of solid marble. Disorientated, ears throbbing, he steadied himself against the mantle, fingertips accidentally bumping against the screaming-witch painting - aka, Delilah Copperspoon, would-be murderer to Emily Kaldwin if she had gotten her way - but that had been his privilege all along, his betrayal and sin. Mother and daughter, stains on his soul that would never come clean.
Wheezing in his ears— or was it distant howling? Phantom lips, cold and rough against his neck. Lord Protector... it said. Then came the unmistakable glide of a wet tongue. Revolted, he lurched away from the painting and groped toward the safety of the nearby buffet table, taking great pains not to touch the human statues that surrounded it. That had been another harsh lesson. After poking the bald head of a frozen Hiram Burrows (just to see what would happen), the rush of numbers and lists and paranoid ramblings had sent him almost tumbling into the Void.
Granny Rags wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to his flailing about - in fact, he doubted the entire Gristol navy firing a barrage of cannonballs would've fazed her. Like a faithful wife awaiting the return of her husband, she pressed her forehead against the mirror, hands on either side, palms flat-and said three dreaded words in breathless adoration: "My darling comes."
And like most evil things, his doom approached from the dark side of the mirror. The Outsider glided past the paralyzed mirror demons with an oily fluidness, the Void gathering around him in an ever-shifting cloud of stars and smoke. A faint purple nimbus, like translucent silk, threaded through this cloud and trailed behind. In all his meetings with the Outsider, this was the first time he'd seen those black boots touching the floor. Not floating like a spirit, but walking like man for once.
But…wait. In a dream-like reversal, one that had him addled and doubting his sense of direction, Granny Rags now wasn't looking into the mirror, but facing the other way— toward the green giant jello molds sparkling in the lights, and half-eaten tarts clasped in the hands of hungry statues. Her hands fluttered at her breast, a sickening expression of kittenish yearning on her face.
The mirror reflected a similar expression on his own face, but it had nothing to do with love and yearning. Running at this point was out of the question, and forget about waking up. He was caught, finally, and he had no way to predict how The Outsider would handle this reunion. If he was lucky, he'd wake up in chains, if not…well…
"What happens next depends on you, Corvo. And of course, my lovely Vera."
Granny Rags loosed a pent-up, shaky sigh that seemed to deflate her entire body. He held his breath and turned. How in the Void (and yes, he realized the irony of using that word in the very same place) had that bastard gotten so close without him realizing?
The dark mirror Outsider stood in the center of the mirror demons, but the real Outsider levitated no more than three paces away from them, attired in his usual unremarkable tunic, overcoat, and pants, dark hair barely long enough to wisp over his forehead, and skin like a pearl glowing in moonlight—not glowing from a mystical source, but from the light surrounding them all: rat lights and whale oil lamps all radiating the power and mystery of dusk. And that shimmer of light in the inky cosmos curling around the Outsider, like glimpses though a key hole, teasing the conception of those firefly stars.
He took a step back, and then another, and then stopped himself before he outright fled. Seeing the Outsider after so many years was like being kicked in the stomach by something divine, causing a clash of elation and terror so intense that it brought back the attic at the Hound Pits Pub, that dizzying first dream, the peculiar beauty of the Void, the anxiety and hope of being chosen for something greater, the burning pleasure of the Mark searing his flesh and soul, and then that exhilarating leap into the unknown, The Outsider bowing with that impish smile: "come find me".
A chance to spread his wings, to fly. No limits. No rules. Pure freedom...or so The Outsider had led him to believe. Every possible future, an infinite number of doors—but he only ever had the keys to one. That was reality. That had been his co-called "choice".
"But it wasn't your only choice," the real Outsider said, canting his head and studying him with more than the usual mix of apathy and polite interest. A frown creased that pale forehead, and the black-eyed stare seemed colder, more calculating.
"Stay out of my mind, Outsider," he snapped, ignoring the sensible voice that told him to behave, to respect—to not piss off the ancient being that could crush him into nothingness. "You never had that privilege and you don't have it now."
"Brute! Mind that tongue of yours or I'll cut it out!" said Granny Rags, going from doe-eyed to madwoman.
He spun on her so quick she flinched and pawed at her breast for Slackjaw's fingerbone. "Go on, you old hag, do it. I'll even hold it out for you —oh wait, that's right. We're not really here, are we? So there's no tongue for you to cut. What was that you said? All bluster and no bite?" She bristled as he laughed.
"I'll tear you to pieces and scatter them across the Void," she hissed, sneaking glances at the Outsider as he floated closer, watching them with alien intrigue. "Kill you a thousand times in a thousand different ways, trap your soul in this plane and leave your body to rot."
He held out his arms, flicking his fingers in a "come on" gesture. "All I hear is barking, Granny."
"Where are my little birdies? Kill him! Strip his bones clean!"
"I think your little birdies are too busy being little statues."
The small, dark chuckle from the Outsider made him cringe, sheepish, caught slinging river mud at a girl he disliked. Granny Rags, cords of her slender neck taut with rage, instantly softened, a rosy flush gathering in her cheeks and ironically, taking even more years off her mask of false youth.
"My most devout and most defiant…what a pair you make!" The Outsider raised his arms as if congratulating them. "Settling old feuds and past slights with such grace and understanding. Perhaps my intervention was unnecessary after all."
"Everything you do is unnecessary," he said and shifted his glare from Granny Rags to the Outsider. "Why can't you leave me alone? Five years wasn't a big enough hint? And don't tell me you weren't watching because how does Granny Rags conveniently manage to snag me the one time— the only damn time—I can't protect myself? This is your kingdom, Outsider. Nothing happens here without your consent."
"Yes, I allowed Vera to bring you here." The Outsider's humor— what little there had been—disappeared under a tone of mild reproach. "But not for the reasons you assume. And protection, Corvo? Is that what you call severing the bonds between you and the Void, night after night. Year after year. Weakening them, and in turn, weakening yourself?"
"No, the magic always came back." The Holger device had been his shield, sturdy and proven. And so what if he had woken every morning nauseated and head pounding. The peace it gave during the night had been worth it. "And it was the same…even better. Actually manageable for once." Heat pulsed in his cheeks, but from embarrassment or anger, he didn't know. "I have more control over it than before. It took eight of those music boxes to bring me down."
The Outsider craned his head forward, leaning slightly with the movement. "It should have taken more."
Granny Rags huffed and fanned herself with a fan made entirely out of roses and leaves—and that had materialized, it seemed, from the stream of wine flowing from the buffet table fountain. "It's true, dearie. Your spirit is weak. Otherwise I couldn't have summoned you here. Oh, you're so much like my husband! He too thought he knew everything, thought he had control, but he only hurt himself in the end— and me most of all. Selfish lout, leaving a hole in my world. Such a waste of intellect. Of talent! And you, you foolish man. All that nasty noise for nothing. You weren't keeping my groom away…he was avoiding you," she said with a growl of dismissal and collapsed the fan with a snap—sending a cloudburst of crinkled, dehydrated petals into the air—some drifting into the open mouth of a female aristocrat frozen in the middle of eating a stemmed cherry.
"Is she telling the truth?" He said to the dark mirror Outsider. It seemed easier to talk like this, a barrier between them. Something comforting about that side of the mirror: grimacing masks and weeper tears, decay and corpses, and this version of the Outsider standing as a normal man, albeit one that radiated stars and shadows. "I was…making it worse?…damaging myself?"
The dark mirror Outsider put his hands behind his back, a familiar pose associated with pointless and vague ramblings that usually made less sense in the end than they had in the beginning. "I can walk in your world whenever I choose, Corvo, despite the Abby's lies that I'm contained here. Far from it. I simply prefer the Void over the redundancy of your reality. No matter the Age, the year, or generation, it's the same situations, the same choices, the same outcomes. There's little in your world that can or will interest me for long—but know this," the Outsider lowered his arms, the black and silver rings on his right hand gleaming, "if I had desired to speak to you, or sought you for whatever reason, nothing in the Void or Cosmos— or in your dismal, tedious world could have stopped me."
"But...you said I was a beacon among millions." By the Cosmos, he sounded like Granny Rags. Wanting and needy. He tried to salvage his pride: "What was all that when I was falling asleep? You said I had your undivided attention. When you told me that I was— " faltering, unable to say it without sounding like a jilted lover, so he dropped it, switched directions— "so were you lying? Playing with me? I don't think so, Outsider. When Fairchild was throttling the life out of me, I remember your voice—" accusing now, desperation creeping in. The Outsider raised his eyebrow, the slightest beginnings of a smirk tugging at on the side of his mouth— "Damn you. I said stop playing with me! If I wasn't interesting, you wouldn't have bothered. And you wouldn't have warned me about Granny Rags," he said with a jerk of his head in her direction. She scowled and looked away, displaying the same profile—sloping nose, upturned tip, lips curved and plump above a jutting round chin—as the cameo he threw into the incinerator without a second thought. Too late to apologize now.
"I warned you because it suited me," the dark Outsider said. "And because we have a history, just as Vera and I have a history. I don't abandon my Marked, even when they fail to make the right choices. After all, there are only six of you left now—six souls that have the power to change your world—some will shine bright, altering their futures and the futures of those around them. Entire cities will change. Governments and Empires. But some will languish and fade, forgotten by all...except me."
"So which one am I?" he whispered, beyond humiliated, furiously blinking and focusing on anything other than Granny Rags standing smug and beautiful between two male party guests trapped forever in the act of refilling their glasses of wine.
A pause, and then a shift in those black eyes, like a kingsparrow ready to toss its young from the nest. Paternal to predatory. "You were the latter, but that has changed. Your current predicament…intrigues me greatly."
"Yes…right…of course it does." He threw his hands up, the Mark glowing. "That's what it takes now? Being chained to the wall? Tortured? Oh I'm sorry, Corvo," he said, mimicking the Outsider's bland tone. "You can't be interesting unless you're being betrayed or dying from poison or being chased around by cannibalistic witches."
"I beg your pardon, young—"
"Oh Granny, shut up!" Seething now, the Mark like a burning piece of coal on his hand. But there was comfort in this rage, a deep sense of rightness. He continued to address the dark mirror Outsider, who in turn, continued to gaze at him with the obligatory interest of a stranger— as if he was rambling on about politics or the weather. Another dismissal, once again reminding him how unimportant he was.
"If pain and suffering was all it took to turn your black eyes my way, we would have had this conversation long ago. No, Outsider. Say the real reason. Lay it on the table. This sudden interest has to do with a certain redhead who can see the future— and she really can. No tricks. No tea leaves or tarot decks. Or drugged trances. She's the real thing. And what's more is that she seems to be more than an Oracle…and I think you know what she is."
"I do," the Outsider said, and then said nothing more.
"Then…she is yours?"
"She is not."
"Right, another lie. Tell me, Outsider, then how can she see what she sees? What is that darkness in her eyes? That electrical magic she seems to have? And she knows things — and not only in the future, but in the past."
"Yes, High Oracle Arella is powerful witch…but she's not my witch."
"How can she not be yours? She's of the Void and you ARE the Void. Stop playing games with me, damnit. What is she?"
A slight narrowing of those black eyes, and then a tightening of expression, a look that settled in between patience and irritation. "That depends on you, Corvo."
Steady now. Breathe. The mark pulsed on the back of his hand. Odd how his emotions roused it, like it was more a part of him now than before. Not a tool to wield, but an extension of himself. But he wouldn't dare use it against the Outsider. It'd be like biting the hand that fed him, even though he wouldn't mind snapping off a few fingers for his trouble. But losing his temper now wouldn't get any answers, so he tried the direct approach: "And why would Arella — what she is, her state of being, her very existence— depend on me?" There, couldn't be any clearer than that.
"What remains of the Empire depends on you. Your precious Isles. Your entire world. All will be altered—but how, and how severely—is your decision. This is why I find you interesting again. So much hinges on your future, the path you take."
Reeling now, Arella's aspirations whirling in his head, all too real plans that required him to do the unthinkable. "And if I decide to kill you? If that's even possible…" His words trailed into silence, and that silence lengthened, deepened, became as dark as his thoughts. And the dark mirror Outsider waited, patient, face unmarred by expression or emotion, but those eyes said something different. Like Arella, something lurked beyond them, something inconceivable, intangible, a formless mass that churned and roiled like the sea under a gale, a force barely held in check, straining toward him.
Terrifying. Mesmerizing. The very air seemed to shiver with it. And Granny Rags shuddered at the edge of his vision, lost in an euphoric fugue.
The dark mirror Outsider tilted his head, his voice a gentle wave of brine and foam: "If you destroy me, you destroy yourself."
"So why not kill me first? What's stopping you?"
"Corvo…" The Outsider used the same tone Callista had used on Emily during her studies, that chiding: "you should know this, dear, we've gone over it before."
But he didn't know the answer, couldn't comprehend why he was even standing here when his very existence threatened to end this powerful entity. If the roles were reversed…
Another rare laugh, mocking and affectionate. "But lucky for you, Corvo, they are not. Perhaps you should be grateful."
"But he isn't, my groom." Granny Rags, reminding them of her presence. She had moved closer to him, which brought her closer to the Outsider, but refrained from approaching the Outsider directly, as if obeying some unspoken rule. "Oh why do you let him live? He doesn't deserve your mercy. He hasn't earned it."
"Hasn't he? He's the reason for the delightful state of the Empire, the Plague Wall around Dunwall, the city that eats itself." The dark mirror Outsider started toward them, the demons falling to ash as he passed. The vibrations increased, as did the thickness of the air. Instinct told him to turn around, face the real Outsider, but his body wouldn't turn. His feet wouldn't move. Paralyzed, his dream heart hammering in his chest and make-believe blood tingling in his hands. The Mark was on fire.
"No other has achieved such chaos, such single-minded destruction," the real Outsider said behind him. "Revenge solved all your problems and created a multitude of new ones. And I had a lovely time watching."
"You spare me because of that? Because I'm…entertaining?" At least his mouth could still move. The rest of his dream body refused. The muted hiss of dust hitting floor behind him. More statues meeting their fates. The real Outsider, and his dark mirror reflection, both of them…coming. Cosmos help him.
"Corvo, if I annihilated every threat to my existence, The Abbey of the Everyman would have died at conception. I would have wiped the very idea from the minds of its founders."
"Why didn't…you?" His dream lungs were imploding with every breath. A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by more. Whale song in his bones, in his teeth, splitting his skull. So close now, both Outsiders almost on him.
"They weren't always obsessed with me. Once they were a noble clergy, devoted to harmony with the Cosmos and to the well-being of all mankind."
"Until you…came…along." That earned him a smile from the dark mirror Outsider, their reflections juxtaposing, his own stricken reflection a ghostly outline that eclipsed the starlit faces. Dark threads stretched across his vision. Twinkling lights caught in the sticky strands. The Outsider lied. He was going to die here. Crumble to dust like the party guests, the mirror demons.
"Corvo, Corvo…what a web you've entangled yourself in," the real Outsider whispered in his ear, shocking the tiny hairs there. "Dunwall's still waiting for you. The city beneath the city, a secret place that will reveal itself—if you look hard enough."
"Dunwall…is…dead—" His throat convulsed, then closed. Words in his head were fighting to escape.
"It's never been more alive." Sobbing somewhere…Granny? Why was she crying? In the mirror, the real Outsider floated behind him, reflected chin above his shoulder, iridescence shining in the corners of his black eyes, like fine sand in the moonlight. The dark mirror Outsider stood in front of them, a reflection not a reflection, and pushed one pale finger though the mirror, reaching out, the tip catching a tear and turning it to ash on his cheek. His mind buckled, but his body remained frozen. The Outsider's touch was like being torn apart, caressed by a hurricane, or typhoon, all the depth and pressure of the ocean, and the teeth of the monsters that dwelt in its deepest fathoms. It scattered him. Left him senseless, unable to blink, unable to swallow or even remember his name.
His hand burned.
"You're a paradox, Corvo Attano. Running from the thing you seek, hiding from what you hope finds you. Years of yearning buried under blame and hate. Yes, I see everything. Your love, your fears, what you desire most. And it isn't want you think. Even when I Marked you, I knew the possibility of this path, the possibility that one day, you and I would have this conversation. That you could be my judgment, the one who ends my four millennia of enslavement and dominion by the Void. As improbable as it seemed, the prospect of dying thrilled me. It's why I chose you, Corvo. Not for the Empress, or Daud, or for the Regent, or the Empire. It was this moment. This choice that faces you now. The days to come are full of promise, of betrayals and blood. Our fates are entwined until the end. Who will lose, I wonder?"
The dark mirror Outsider traced his jaw, the bone cracking like a splintered tree. Lips grazing his neck, the real Outsider unable to help himself, following the line of straining muscles to his ear. Blood congealed in his veins, muscles spasming—and dream body or not, he was dying.
"No," said the real Outsider, "you're being rescued. Right now, actually. An unlikely ally…and he too, will play a vital role in our story. Listen to him. Learn to trust him. He might just save us both."
"Now..." the dark mirror Outsider said, breaching the mirror barrier, arms wide, preparing for a lethal embrace, "open your eyes, Corvo."
Falling again, this time up. And up. Swimming backwards in a whirlpool of clouds and sea. A flash of that ballroom at the bottom, light and dark sides merging and Granny Rags in the center, a circle of blood beneath her kneeling form. Ancient crone again, but her face was so far away, how could he know? And the Outsider standing over her, bowing to her as if she was royalty, and her tear-streaked face beaming at him. Such love there.
The Outsider extended his hand, words drifting up, but also so close, as if spoken into his ear: My lady, would you care to dance?
No! She'll die. If she touches him, she'll die!
He woke thrashing. Chains clanging. Pinking light bands against his bars. Dawn. The cell. The muck drying on his ass.
One lantern lit. Weak flickering light and a dark shape outside his bars— taller than Arella, but shorter than Hawk. It watched him, eyes covered by a hood of some sort. Not a guard then. And not a Warfare. One of Arella's handmaidens?
Several moments passed, both of them appraising each other— or rather it was appraising him. He couldn't see shit. The Outsider's words came back in haunting fragments: a city beneath a city…you're a paradox…an unlikely ally.
And Granny Rags…her last dance with her black-eyed groom.
"You dreamed of him, didn't you?" A woman, but not one of Arella's. Not any of the court either. Her voice had a deliberate quality to it, a slight pause between words. Gristol accent, strong and clear. A slim, brown hand grasped the bar of his cell, and shimmered in the pink light of dawn.
Then half her hand disappeared.
Her fingers flexed, a queer effect of translucency— radiant air in the shape of a thumb, a ring finger. Realization hit a second later. Damn, he was slow. He sat up straighter, tried to wake up.
"Wraith," he said. "Where's your leader?"
She ignored his question. "Did he speak to you? The Outsider. I know you dreamed about him. What did he say?" Eagerness in her voice, not so thoughtful. Thirsty, it seemed, for the Outsider.
When he didn't answer—when he sighed and glared at her shadow, she grabbed a bar with her other hand, this time turning her wrist, displaying something on the top part of her hand.
The Mark.
He stared at it— took a good hard look before shaking his head. If he had his hands free, he would have covered his eyes in shame. "You fool girl, you painted that on yourself. Why, I can only guess. Nothing good comes from the Outsider. He's evil, corrupt—" yes, I see everything. Your love, your fears, what you desire most— "You think that brand makes you special. Powerful. Even unstoppable. It doesn't. It damns you. Trust me, you don't want it."
"But I have it, Lord Protector. Would you like to see?" She grinned in the dark, all white teeth and the bright white of her eyes shining. Then the Mark flared to life on her hand, the light causing her hand itself to fade, and the Mark to stand in stark relief, like a glyph drawn in midair. "That's right," she said, gloating, proving him wrong. "I'm one of you now."
"You…deluded bitch," he said, wincing at the pride in her voice, her ignorance horrifying him. "You have no idea what he's done to you."
She came into full view then, hood pulling back, her face an exotic clash of high cheekbones and high forehead, wide nose and voluptuous lips— and then the war paint, transforming her from exotic to feral—like a Pandyssian savage. A cross of black went from the middle of her crimson forehead, down her nose, and over her eyes, slashes of black on her crimson cheeks. Lips red with a short band of black down the middle. And the rest of her, garbed in what looked like thin, shimmering black cloth, leather corset snug under her small breasts, kept sending his perception into revolt. Fading in and out of sight, light bending the wrong way around her, giving her the allusion of being formed out of shadow.
She stared him down like Granny Rags had in the dream, a mysterious dark queen, full of vanity and allure, daring him to judge her—prepared to punish, to strike him down if he opened his mouth and said something stupid again.
"Billie, leave him be. He's had a rough night."
Unmistakable, that voice. Its rough pitch, like purring sandpaper. An unlikely ally. Of course…Daud.
"Daud, how long have you been standing here?" he said, trying to scoot his pants higher in his compromised position, and ended up with more mud caking his skin. Wonderful. Chained and half-naked and rolling in mud. Could this get any more humiliating?
A cigarette lit from the darkened corner of the stairwell, flared once and then smoldered. Then footsteps, heavy, but balanced…meditated almost—and as deliberate in pace as Billie's spoken words had been upon introduction. The last five years had changed Daud little, and when he came into view, drawing back his hood, taking another drag of the cigarette and puffing it out thoughtfully, it was like being back in that ruined building in the Flooded District, on that ledge, Daud bleeding and kneeling before him, and the choice he had: I have one more surprise for you. I ask for my life.
That scar, hidden now under the same crimson and black war paint, but instead of the cross, the colors divided Daud's face, connecting at his forehead by the likeness of the Mark. An open, steady gaze met his. A hint of sadness…and pity. He matched it with one he had worn at Jessamine's court, revealing nothing of his emotion, setting his jaw, squaring his shoulders. Fuck the mud, and Daud's damn regret —always with that look, as if he were a hound Daud thought he had to put down, but always found a reason to avoid it.
"Looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the chains." Laughter in Billie's voice, and an ominous click. Something winked on her wrist…an acid green of a sleep dart. Daud threw down his cigarette, snuffed it out with the heel of his boot. Like Billie, he wore the same enchanted clothes with the same breathable material, but suited for a male: sleeveless vest and tunic, draping cloak and hood, various pouches and belts, gloves that went to his elbow. And a wristbolt mechanism, also armed with a little green dart.
"Dreaming of the Outsider is like not sleeping at all. It's a long, bumpy ride to the Void, and even worse coming back." Daud leaned against the bars, eying the hay, the chains, the overturned water jug. And then those eyes resumed their inspection of him, his state of undress, the mud on his pants. Daud smirked as if enjoying a private joke. "The black-eyed bastard certainly had his way with you, didn't he? And I doubt he was gentle. Never was with me. I would say it serves you right with that cursed box you kept in your room, but that goes without saying." Daud looped his arms through the bars, his arms disappearing, amputating him from hand to elbow. That gunk they glazed on their clothes—crushed Wraith Crust shells and their saliva— so the rumor said. Wraith Crusts dotted the shores of Serkonos, but thrived in the caves and deep trenches inland. All but invisible to the naked eye, a slight distortion of light around them when immobile, and a prism of colors when spewing their deadly venom.
"This can go two ways, Corvo," Daud said, amiable, old buddies having a chat. "We can make this easy and give you another nap—this one hopefully more peaceful— or you can come with us of your own free will."
"And the catch?"
"You come with me to the catacombs. As my…guest."
"But I'll be your guest regardless if I'm unconscious or not, so why the choice?"
"I'm trying to give you some dignity. Looks like you could use it."
He sucked in his breath, exhaled. Sensible, maybe he could use this. But already anticipating potential deception, Daud added, "You will be restrained, either way. Sorry, Corvo, but I know your powers. I know how they've grown. I'm not taking any chances."
"Why in the Void are you here anyway?" Billie's green dart pointed in his direction, a warning for his tone. He got the hint, eased back. "Did the Outsider tell you?"
"No, I'm here because of the bounty on your head."
"Don't be an idiot. There's a bounty on your head, not mine."
"I'm aware of that bounty, as I'm aware this High Overseer is framing me for the Duke's murder." A wink of teeth, and then a nod. "Roles reversed, Lord Protector. I suppose I had it coming."
"But I've been here for days. No one knows I'm here except the zealots that imprisoned me— so why would they post a bounty on their own captive?"
"The price on your head isn't from them, or from those pirates you pissed off last year, or from anyone in that tattered mess of an Empire." Daud leveled his stare, making sure his next words drove the point home.
"The bounty's mine," Daud said. "And I've come to collect."
I'll have a commentary on this chapter. Nifty and rare Outsider info. Link on my profile :D
