The Vileness of Man: Mission Ten – Scars are Forever
The sun was setting in Serkonos as Corvo stood outside his brother's estate. After the large-nosed chicken farmer had driven off, Corvo had taken a moment to collect himself before knocking on the door, enjoying the fragrant smell of oleander and the tranquil trickling of the lavish terrace fountains. What seemed like minutes past before he knocked against on the large, wooden entryway, peering through the side windows in hopes to catch a glimpse of a wandering housemaid. He reeked of poverty. Wet feathers and whale oil vapor soiled his dignified attire. He also hadn't bathed in a few days, and his hair was thick with grim and smelt of pungent fish from the salty sea. Exhaustion pulled at his features and the sword and pistol hostlered at his waist implied lethality. In truth, Corvo wouldn't have opened the door for himself, for if it wasn't for the expense of his linens, one might have mistaken him for a shameless vagrant. Thankfully, it wasn't much longer until the echo of light footsteps uplifted the filthy lord's spirits. He peered through the side windows again to alert the traffic to his presence, and tapped lightly on the beveled glass.
When the door finally was opened, a woman stood in its frame. She was strikingly beautiful, with hair the color of fire that enveloped her hourglass figure. Emerald eyes contrasted brilliantly against her pallid skin, and in an instant Corvo knew she hailed from Morley. Her apparel was extravagant and sensual, effectively distinguishing her from any simple servant girl. She wore a floor-length, jade, silk evening gown with heart-shaped neckline which caused the typically reserved nobleman's cheeks to flush as he locked onto her exposed cleavage. The dress had no sleeves, and was held up by genuine pearls stranded onto golden thread. Sexuality was much more accepted in Serkonos than in any other Isle. Women hinting their cleavage or revealing the cusp of their ankles was fairly natural and not at all risqué. It was just a part of the romance that surrounded their serene culture. This foreign woman had certainly immersed herself within this lifestyle, entirely abandoning the bleak and hardy ways of her heritage. While Corvo was seemingly lost in her radiance, he found himself pondering if he had the right address. He didn't remember his brother getting married, and was sure he would have at least sent him a letter, seeing as they were close growing up. "Can I help you?" the woman snipped, her pencil thin eyebrows rising in disgust as she grimaced at his dirty exterior.
At the sound of her voice, Corvo's wandering eyes darted back to the host's face and his cheeks grew hotter as he realized he had been staring too intently, "Is this the Attano residence?" his voice quaked, throat dry and scratchy from the uncertainty surrounding his situation.
She didn't actually respond to his question, only rolled her eyes and called behind her, "Drusus!"
Drusus. A wave of relief rushed his senses at the sound of his brother's name. At least he hadn't forgotten the address. At the woman's call, a pudgy little man waddled into the Grand Foyer. He was horrid and disfigured, and rose no higher than a woman's bosom, with shaggy black hair and the beginnings of a goatee. Gentlemanly apparel adorned his dwarfed body: a leather frock coat that nearly swept the ground and a satin vest tailored specifically for his unusual stature. His disproportionate arms extended outwards with enthusiasm as he stared up at the disheveled man lingering in his doorway, a large smile lifting his plump features.
"By the Outsider! Corvo, is that you?" he boasted, "Look how old you've grown! Your face has more deep-seated wrinkles than the fat on my ass!"
Corvo laughed, dropping to one knee and gave short but firm embrace to his dearest relative, "It's good to you see you too, Drusus."
Dwarf by nature, Attano by blood, young Drusus never seemed to wander too far from their father's scrutiny. Being born in a militaristic household came with certain expectations of greatness, and when one lamb failed to stay on the path, they were certain to be called a black sheep. Although he showed talent in swordsmanship—as did all Attano children—his physical disabilities squandered any practicality this acquired skill would produce. The older Drusus grew, the more of a shadow was cast over him by the success of his many brothers, and when Corvo departed for Gristol, the built pressure from the constant denial finally caved. He left Karnaca and his father's villa to find his own path, forfeiting his inheritance to begin a solitary lifestyle outside Cullero, where he had started a prosperous export shipping business.
"So tell me, to what do I owe the great honor of having her Majesty's protector gracing my doorstep?" he teased, jabbing Corvo in the knees with his elbow, "Our reigning sovereign hasn't sent you on another scavenger hunt, has she?"
Corvo chuckled, shaking his head. The last time he had seen his brother was when Jessamine had sent him to procure aid from the other Isles to alleviate the destruction of the Rat Plague. It was a dark time and not as cheerful of a visit as he would have liked, however, neither was this one. This time though, the banished nobleman had decided to hide his strife, for he was not selfish enough to allow his sorrow to become infectious, "No, actually I'm on vacation. I was hoping I could stay here for a while, if it's not a hindrance."
And yet with his words, all life seemed to be sucked from the room, "Seven years! I haven't seen you in seven years and you suddenly show up on my doorstep asking for favors?" the dwarf's tone grew cold as he stared menacingly at his brother. The air grew thick with anticipation as Corvo held his breath, swallowing a lump sitting uncomfortably in his throat. Perhaps he had been away from family for too long, however it was a hazard of the job, and he hadn't expected his brother to throw him out on principle. The silence dragged on for a few more moments before Drusus suddenly burst into robust laughter, clutching onto his gut to contain his amusement, "Hah! Scared you, didn't I?" he mocked, snapping his fingers repetitively before a fat servant lady hobbled into sight, "Take his bags upstairs, and set another plate at the table. We have company."
"He smells like a pigsty," the red-headed woman snapped, covering her nose as it turned up into the air.
"Give the man a break, dear. He can take a bath after dinner. I'm sure he's had a long journey," Drusus sighed, "Oh, I almost forgot. This is my lovely wife, Camille."
Corvo watched as the fat old hag carried his singular duffel bag up the grand staircase, "When did you get married?" he asked, hiding his surprise. It wasn't that he didn't expect his brother to wed just that…well…he didn't expect his brother to wed.
"Shortly after you left here last time. I would have sent you an invitation to the wedding, but you were in prison."
Ah, prison. Those were the days. Being beaten on a nearly daily basis till he passed out, threatened with more torture if he didn't sign that damned confession Burrows and Campbell kept dangling in front of his barely conscious eyes. Of course it was all in the past, but his body still bore the scars of those long six months. His back was mutilated with raised flesh from the constant flogging sessions and faint burn marks traced his chest and abdomens from the hot irons. Those were definitely the worst. Just the noxious smell of burning skin was enough to make a man heave and the aroma lingered sickly in his nostrils for days afterwards. The human body was amazingly resilient, and time had allowed most of these scars to heal entirely or become faint enough for most women to find attractive. He remembered when Emily had first seen his scars, and how her face had reflected such terror and awe. She was fourteen then, and wept at the sight, and if Burrows hadn't already expired in the depths of Coleridge, she would have certainly had his head.
When his mind flashed back to the present, he was standing in his brother's dining room, although he didn't quite know how he had gotten there. The area screamed Serkonan interior design, with its stucco walls, golden decorations, and overall open feeling as the large back window flooded the room with sensual moonlight. It was far too hot for a fireplace to be necessary, and instead the lighting came from a golden chandelier perched over the ebony dining table, which was filled with food. The spicy scent of the banquet spread burned Corvo's nose, making his stomach loudly churn as his mouth salivated. It had been so long since he had had genuine Serkonan dishes, and he yearned for their irrationally hot peppers to scorch his tongue. There was octopus and prawn, ham and veal, rice and beans, and the overwhelming scent of saffron and paprika to make Corvo want to forget all his manners and drive in mouth-first.
As everyone took a seat, the disheveled man couldn't help but find himself thoroughly speculating on which item to have first. They all looked so amazing, but certainly his stomach couldn't handle all these spices. Perhaps when they were children, or if he had stayed in Karnaca, but his taste buds had since become sensitive to all of his favorite dishes, tainted with the oil saturated, starchy, salt-and-pepper corrupted foods that Gristolians adored. The first course was soup, fish soup, layer in spices, with chile peppers floating within, and like a child left unattended in a candy store, Corvo went at it as soon as the servant got her hands out of the way.
"You'll probably want to eventually take a visit to see Father, so you'll need to know his current living situation," Drusus laughed, shaking his head as he watched his sibling devour the table.
"It's changed?" Corvo choked as he forced down a lump of fish as to not talk with his mouth full. Sure he was starving, but he did have some manners left…some. His father always went through a slew of women that changed with the cycle of the moon. Most of the time it was the women who left him, saying how he was "too difficult to deal with" or they caught him cheating on them with his next wife. Even Corvo and Drusus had different mothers, but those were from the earlier years, when marriage seemed to actually mean something to their dad. Step-siblings came and went, and the older children of the vast Attano family tended to instantly forget their names, or take bets how long this wife would last. After Wife Four, the head Overseer at the local Abbey of the Everyman refused to divorce him anymore, and so their father went to King Trinci himself to file permission to have all his divorces and annulments processed solely at the courthouse, without religious interference. How he hadn't gone bankrupt from the alimony was beyond comprehension.
"Of course it's changed! We're on Wife Seven. I think she's Gristolian, but I'm not quite sure. Oh, and you have a new sister."
"Wait, what happened to Wife Six?"
"Annulled two weeks in."
"Ah. So how many siblings do we have now?"
"I think that evens the count out to twenty. Twelve girls and eight boys."
"No new boys? I'll give this marriage another pregnancy before we're on Eight."
Through this entire exchange, Camille just rolled her eyes. It was impossible for her to know the irrationality of their father, and why Corvo and Drusus laughed at his love affairs as if they were a theater drama. Seven wives was too much woman for one man, now pushing his sixties and still relentless. He was only interested in male children to teach the art of swordsmanship to, though he had been noted to teach a few of his daughters in the past if they displayed remarkable talent from early on. The children he taught this skill to resided in the Attano villa, as the rest (mostly female) were thrown out with their mothers, though it wasn't as horrible as one might believe. If the woman produced a son, they were taught for free and the wife was offered a private cottage and received alimony for the rest of her life. If she bore a daughter who didn't display the gift, she was paid a handsome fee for the nine months she had resided with the pig-of-a-man, and then sent on her way, presumable to live with their parents again. Either way, they got money, which was what most his wives were after in the first place.
It was extraordinarily refreshing for Corvo to be able to relax his guard to such an extent and just enjoy a meal and family. The fish broth was insanely spicy, making him sweat as he stuffed bread into his mouth to alleviate the delicious pain. He had definitely been away from this cuisine for too long, and the perspiration on his brow was clear evidence of his blunder.
"I've heard you've been a real lady-killer yourself, huh brother?" Drusus smirked, biting nonchalantly into his pepper.
Corvo began to choke, pounding his chest and gulping water to force down the chunks of bread. As he cleared his throat, his eyes darted coldly across the table, instantly destroying the cheerful mood. How dare he bring up that at dinner! Poking so casually at his failures, it was horribly rude and not at all the familial atmosphere he was searching for in his "vacation". His brother was known for his sardonic remarks, but even mentioning that scaring tragedy was crossing a clear line, something that could not be remedied with a simple apology. He stood from the table, the chair screeching unpleasantly against the wooden flooring, and excused himself with false politeness, his words sneering as he attempted to maintain his anger, "If you'll excuse me, I believe I'm going to go take that bath now," he scowled and left the room.
"Ah, come on! I didn't mean it like that! Corvo!" He could hear his brother calling from down the hall. Even if his words weren't intended to offend, he should have policed his tongue more carefully, especially when skirting around that topic. It seemed like the entire world only remembered the failures of Corvo Attano, how he had allowed an empress to be killed and her daughter kidnapped right in front of him, without taking a single scratch. They knew nothing about Daud's men and how their powers had eluded his sheer skill, and some still believed that he was the true murderer. Surely, he would go down in bias history books as the "Empress-Slayer". No one would care for his crowning achievements, like how he had become the first Royal Protector to be born outsider Gristol, serving two empresses consecutively. They would never know about how he had single-handedly brought down the tyranny of the usurper Burrows, and restored balance to the Empire of the Isles. No, the only two things history would mistakenly remember was how he had loved Jessamine Kaldwin, and how he had then allowed her to die in front of his eyes.
Though he didn't actually know where the bathroom was, it didn't take him too long to find a servant to lead the way. A warm, soothing bath was just what he needed to calm himself, and clean off the rotten smell of poultry putrefying the surrounding air. Their bathroom was luxurious, even more so than the washroom in Dunwall Tower, which was an astonishing feat in itself. The tub wasn't standalone as they had in the palace, but actually embedded into the floor, which allowed for it to be far larger than normal. It was if he were about to bath in a fountain, or a very small indoor pool, and the grandiose quality the room possessed allowed Corvo to silently forgive the heinous crime his brother had committed. Marble flooring gave the area a precariously slippery layout, and bronze-cast statues of whales and random mythological creatures decorated the walls and tub. Even the faucet was cleverly hidden in the mouth of a bronze bass, with the handles disguised as its tail. Steam obscured the fancy wall molding and ornate paintings ornamenting the walls, which thankfully were not Sokolov originals, for he had grown tired of seeing the Tyvian drunkard's success. His brother had fared rather well without their father's money, even better in fact, with a beautifully exotic wife, grand estate, and profitable business to shadow his shortcomings. Drusus was the pinnacle of the bourgeoisie class, characterized by earned wealth and set apart from the ludicrous nature of politics.
The servant who directed him to the washroom generously asked to take his clothes so she could clean them, but he refused, not wishing to undress before her. It was probably common for the other heads of the household, but he was far too modest to allow a stranger to see him even remotely in the nude and quickly pushed her out the door so that he could strip his soiled attire. He unbuckled his belt and threw it over a chair, careful to place his pistol and sword on a linen dresser. His pants came next, in which he fumbled through his pockets to assure their emptiness, only to brush against something cold and smooth. His hands wrapped around the small trinket and a solemn sigh escaped his lips as he pulled it from the depths of his pockets. He had almost forgotten it was hiding there—the small, stone brooch Emily had gifted him for his birthday years ago. Life seemed so much simpler back then, before Banister's regency ran up and Emily had to face the gruesome reality of politics. As he stared into his reflection given by the shiny moonstone, his mind began to reminisce back to the day Emily had given him his present, which was coincidentally also the night she had first seen his scars.
The Isles were well into the Month of Rain, and just as its name foretold, Dunwall was overwhelmed by constant dark clouds and thunderstorms. The bad weather had loomed over the capital for a week straight, barely lifting for a moment and threatening to create another flooded district as the tides thrashed against the outdated floodgates. I unfortunately had to wander outside for some menial reason I can't remember for the life of me, and within the mere seconds my body lingered within the brutal tempest, I had become soaked to the bone. My clothing acted as a second skin, and my hair annoyingly stuck to the sides of my face. Emily had found my shivering exterior to be quiet amusing, laughing wildly as water pooled at my feet. There was not an inch of me that had successfully escaped the torrential rain, and as I watched my empress uncontrollably giggle at my sopping appearance, I couldn't help but chuckle a little too.
I ushered myself to my room to change into some dry clothes, my body shaking from the sudden change in temperature. Today was my birthday, although at my age that didn't amount to much, but I was still remember being rather aggravated at the fact that I was going to get catch a cold on my "special" day. Emily was still young, fourteen years, and she always urged me to allow her to throw a small party, despite my constant disapproval for such an event. I explained to her that a public celebration would only be more of a hindrance for me because of all the consideration for security that had to be set in place before anything could happen, and that if she really wanted to make me happy, she would gift me with an overall calm and boring day to allow me to ease my constant guard. The only events that would happen to even remotely hint that it was the day of my birth was a cake Emily and I would share around lunch, and the random presents select members court would give me. Haddon Mercer, the Royal Spymaster tended to gift a day's pass to the Golden Cat, though I rarely got to indulge his offering. I hated Lucius Banister, and he hated me, so all he would give me was some meaningless card which would become kindling for my fireplace. Callista often bestowed me with a bottle of wine, and Cecilia and Piero from the Hound Pits sent me a cask of whiskey and their best wishes. Emily's presents were always the best and most meaningful, and were typically a new drawing I could add to my collection. However, she hadn't given me it yet, so I wasn't quite sure if that was indeed also this year's present.
I entered my room, stripped off all my clothes, and I stood in front of my hearth for a few moments before slipping on some pants. The heat from the fire worked wonders to dry my dripping locks, and felt amazing against my icy flesh. I scrubbed my head with a towel and shook out the remainder of my hair's moisture. Thirty-four. I was thirty-four, over half way through my expected lifespan, and yet I had accomplished more than most men do in an entire generation. Of course, I did have a little help, a thought that came to me as I gazed down at my marked hand. My eyes eventually wandered onto my chest as I examined my physique. I wasn't in terrible shape, my abs and pectorals were clearly defined, though not as firm as say a boy just graduating the military academy. A few scars and nicks traced along my midsection, but the worst was a long burn mark that extended across my ribs. It had greatly faded since I had first received it, turning more brownish than the annoyingly obvious salmon color it had once glistened. The nastiest scars were across my back, which I was grateful for not being able to see. The only mirror I had in my room was a small wall mounted one, and it wasn't large enough to allow me to lower my self-esteem as I gazed at the atrocity that was my backside.
Six months of torture under the brutal arm of that mute bastard, Morris Sullivan, residing in our dungeon had scarred me for life. A web-like construction of raised flesh disfigured my back, created by the severe flogging I had to endure as punishment for my suspected treason. Sometimes small pieces of whale bone were bound to the ends of the cat o' nine tails, which tore my skin in odd ways, and I would typically pass out from pain and blood loss. The only reason the Royal Interrogator hadn't lost his position (or head) was simply because he was so damn good at it, and many times during my questionings I had pondered about the benefits of signing over my false guilt. It was still sensitive to the touch, though it could have been entirely psychological, and I was slightly self-conscious about my appearance. But these were not the thoughts I wished to reminisce about on this supposedly happy day, and so I pushed the past from my mind and grabbed my gray undershirt which I had laid over my bed.
As I forced my arm into one of the sleeves, a loud thud and high pitched gasp immediately turned my attention to behind me, and I whisked around to meet little Emily's terrified expression. Her hands covered her mouth as she silenced her exclamation and her large doe eyes stared at me with this strangely sublime look. A small box with a white bow had fell from her grasp onto my floor, though neither of us moved to pick it up as we were both locked in our awkward gaze. She hadn't seen me without my shirt on since my imprisonment, and surely the sight of my mutilated flesh had startled her. I had hoped to quickly remedy this by putting on my other sleeve, but as I covered my exposed skin tears began to trickle down her cheeks and she rushed towards me and grappled around my waist.
"I'm sorry. I know I'm ruining your birthday by crying but I just can't help it!" she sobbed, burying her face in my stomach. I silently cursed myself for not locking my door and bent down to one knee as so I could be at her height.
"You're not ruining anything," I whispered kindly, taking her face gently in my palms and wiping away her tears with my coarse thumbs, "I didn't mean to frighten you."
She huffed and crossed her arms at my remark, which made me smile from her stubbornness, "I wasn't scared. It's just so sad. I'm sorry." Of course she's would attest to being frightened, that would amount to weakness on her behalf, and Emily always attempted to display her bravery and resilience even when her emotions would dictate otherwise.
"You don't need to apologize. It's not your fault, and you shouldn't feel any blame. The only guilty persons were Burrows and Campbell, and they got everything they deserved. Trust me." Yes, they had indeed gotten exactly that was coming to them, and I had personally assured they served their due penance. I turned the corrupt High Overseer into a heretic that even his own men shunned, and had blared Burrow's heinous acts for the world to hear and judge him accordingly. I even stood watch as dear Mr. Sullivan perfected his craft along Hiram's backside, and a sadistic smile had crept up my lips as the sweet scent of irony teased my sanity, "Now what's in that box?"
Her eyes suddenly lit up as she remembered her gift and she snatched up the box off the ground, extending it outwards with a large smile uplifting her previously solemn façade, "Happy birthday!" she sang as I took the gift box and thanked her, carefully unwrapping the bow. After tearing through the tissue paper to get to the bottom, I uncovered a small piece of jewelry, an elliptical brooch, made of a cream-colored tumbled stone with a golden frame. The inside was hollow, and through the front I could peer into a window-liked fixture which revealed a singular flower constructed masterfully of hair. Hair art was typically a gift of romance or for mourned loved ones, but were also given as tokens of affection between family members. I could see how she would consider me as family, and I was grateful for the sentiment.
"It's beautiful. Thank you, Emily. It's a rose, right?" I asked as I pinned it on the collar of my shirt.
"No, Corvo, a gardenia. And it's my hair, so we'll always be together," she said as she latched around my neck.
"I'm never going to leave your side anyways," I muttered, securing her in my strong grasp. Tenderly, I kissed the top of her head,"Never."
And yet he would break that promise to secure her safety. He played with the golden locking mechanism as his trousers fell around his ankles, tracing its ornate edges carefully with his fingertips. He gazed at the hair art, twisted into the shape of a fully bloomed gardenia, and it seemed so obvious now that Emily had had a crush on him for the longest time. Gardenia was the flower symbolizing secret love, according to some female florists who had begun creating an entire language with meaning of flowers. It was a popular trend among females to arrange the perfect, significance arrangement, and an act of sensitivity among gentlemen to bestow a flower upon his lady with the proper connotations. Emily was a clever girl, laying her feelings right under his nose and knowing he wouldn't grasp the connection.
When he finished undressing he slunk into the steaming water, and relaxing groan escaping his lips as the warmth swallowed his shoulders. This was just what Corvo needed—a solitary moment of relaxation to rinse away the guilt and sorrow corroding his heart. He shut his eyes and let his body to float with the bath water's will, allowing the outside world to fade away under the fog of serenity and peace.
Realistically, this flashback should have been in here way sooner, but I actually forgot about the "smooth stone brooch" that fell from Corvo's trouser pocket in chapter one. My bad (-.-). The next chapter is a large flashback to make up for the vast amount of third person action I've had going on, and will emphasize at lot more on Corvo and Emily's intimate relationship.
The chapter title is questionable, but I couldn't think of a better one. Pm me if you have one you consider better. xP
Oh, and hair art was a popular trend starting in the 1600's all the way through the late Victorian-era. It's actually really cool and morbidly pretty, and even famous people like Napoleon Bonaparte wore his wife's hair in the form of a pocket watch chain on his person. History, bitches.