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They have disagreed many times, but never argued – not like this. Not with raised voices and hot tempers, only heightened tensions and strained words.
Corvo would not dare to challenge her publicly, but alone in her office, he could not restrain himself any longer. Jessamine fixes Corvo with a cross glare, any other man would wither under it, but not him.
“This is a fool’s errand! No one will help us! Sending me only looks like begging!”
“Hiram Burrows believes –”
“I don’t care what Hiram Burrows says! I care what you think. Why you are so intent on this course of action?”
Jessamine sighs, straightening the papers on her desk. She should not have to explain herself, but Corvo is not other people. He has never held back from her, nor she from him; that cannot start now simply because this cannot be solved by compromise.
“Because I cannot leave to entreat other nations myself. I must send my most trusted advisor – I must show I am placing my people’s safety over my own.”
“No one will view it that way and you know it.”
“Do not make me order you to go,” Jessamine snaps.
Corvo’s jaw clenches and he stands at attention; Jessamine bites her tongue. In all their years together, she has never once ordered him to do anything, much less threatened him with a command.
Circling the desk, Jessamine strokes his cheek, “It is only for a few months, my love.”
“I know. And it’s not as though you haven’t sent me away before – but something feels off.”
He would not be Corvo if he was not acutely fretting over what lurks in the shadows.
Jessamine smiles softly to assuage his fears, “Everything will be fine while you are away.”
Corvo exhales and draws Jessamine closer, his chin resting on her head. He sways gently, but straight and strong – dependable as ever. “I would feel better if I wasn’t leaving you and Emily at risk.”
Laughing dryly, “And how do you propose to protect us from the Rat Plague? You cannot cure it with your sword.”
“I know,” he admits faintly. “Can’t we at least remove Emily from harm’s way?”
“An Empress cannot leave her people in a time of crisis,” Jessamine recites her first argument against fleeing Dunwall and the Rat Plague. “Emily must learn this.”
It would grant her some peace of mind for Emily to be safe from contagion – to be far away from Gristol with her father. But therein lies another obstacle.
Jessamine has never much minded the gossip, but she and Corvo have been so careful never to confirm the rumors. They still cannot know what damage the truth of her birth might cause. Sending Emily away from Dunwall with Corvo would only serve as wordless affirmation at a time they cannot afford distraction.
Finally, Jessamine considers it may be her own selfish desire to keep at least one of them by her side. Corvo and Emily are the only comfort she has – she does not know what she would do if both of them were absent from her.
Atop her head, Jessamine feels Corvo grinding his teeth, resisting the urge to belabor the point.
“You know, I envy your leaving,” she soothes him.
Gruffly, “How so?”
“I do not know how I will manage Emily without you.”
Unruly and wild, Jessamine has heard Emily called – indirectly, of course, no one would dare criticize the princess’s behavior to her. And true as it may be, Jessamine will not punish her daughter for taking advantage of the freedoms she allows her. After all, Jessamine knows what it is to be a princess confined to Dunwall Tower; they do not.
But she has never had to worry over Emily’s tendency to climb trees or hide in brushes because Corvo has always been there, looking out for their daughter.
Jessamine gingerly toys with the clasps on his coat, “She takes after you, more than you think.”.
“Getting herself into trouble? That sounds more like you than me.”
His grin is astonishing as ever. Jessamine smiles back, in spite of her anxieties.
Much as it pains them, they will each have to manage on their own for a little while.
----------
Corvo may loathe greetings more than farewells. Stiff propriety he can live with on an average day, but after months of separation, he wishes they could run to each other without compunction as Emily does.
Instead, Jessamine’s relieved smile is accompanied by a polite welcome; their true reunion postponed until they can be alone. At least at partings they may exchange whispered words and tender caresses before donning their public masks.
Jessamine’s thankfulness for his safe and expedient return is short lived as she reads the letters – if only he had better news to bear. As the letters slip from her fingers, Corvo resists the urge to grasp her hand. The gesture can’t make matters right, but he can assure her she is not alone. But out in the open, it is not his place.
Corvo dreamt of little else during his journey, but despite his wishes and as the journey dragged on this is the greeting he anticipated. The months have worn them thin, separation and plague causing nothing but misery.
Emily, thankfully, is keen to Jessamine’s distress.
Travel-weary, it is Jessamine, not Corvo, who notices the absence of the guards. Pointing in the direction of the waterlock, Jessamine pulls Emily behind her.
Masked figures creep along the roofline toward the gazebo. Corvo draws his blade, warding them off and driving them back, but techniques which should be effortless are rigid; his muscles tense. A few moments of combat leave him sore. He can’t imagine what motive might have led them here only to be deterred so easily.
Everything still hazy, Emily throws her arms around his waist. Reassuringly, Corvo strokes her hair with his free hand, relieved he wasn’t forced to kill anyone in front of her.
He catches Jessamine’s gaze. She is rattled by shock, but this is nothing they haven’t faced before.
“Assassins are as plentiful as politicians,” he teased once. Wittily she retorted, “Though who is the more lethal?”
Senses on alert, Corvo spies a cloud of smoke over Jessamine’s shoulder. Instinctively, he pushes Emily away and raises his sword.
More smoke. A flash of green. Corvo struggles against an invisible hand.
Out of the cloud, a masked figure emerges with both hands raised, casting some dark magic, which holds him aloft and forces him to watch the scene below.
His stomach drops as another figure steps from the smoke, unmasked and donning the bright red of the Whalers’ captain. Corvo fights harder against the invisible grip, but it squeezes tighter as Daud grabs for Emily. Jessamine barely manages to intervene, and without hesitation, Daud sinks his sword through her chest.
Corvo screams, but the sound is blocked, gagging on his own blood.
The masked assassin snatches up Emily, trying to flee, and in a flash, the three of them vanish.
Corvo is dropped to his hands and knees, and crawls to Jessamine. Her eyes dim as she begs him to save Emily. He wants to assure her he will – to tell that she’s going to be alright, but he chokes on those words too.
Cradling her head, Jessamine breathes her last.
----------
It all happens so quickly, then an eternity of darkness…
----------
There is no method to track time here. No window to see the light of day. Irregular intervals of torture and starvation.
But then Coldridge is meant to break its prisoners, not coddle them. Corvo’s seen it done. Men and women sent here to rot with no hope of release – he’s done his share of the sending. Though he’s never aided in the inflicting of misery here, he is not ignorant of what they are capable to achieve their ends.
Morbidly, he wonders what the overseers will do when they realize they cannot break an already broken man. No matter what methods Campbell employs, Corvo won’t sign Burrows’ false confession. They will execute him regardless; they will hang him and bury the truth.
Corvo is violently jerked awake and dragged from his cell once again. The overseers force him to his knees before a basin of water.
Campbell toys with a knife in the corner, “I grow tired of asking, Corvo. Where is the princess?”
Corvo eyes Campbell in stony silence. It is all an act for the overseers whose hands pin him to the ground.
With a nod from Campbell, the guards shove Corvo’s head beneath the surface of the water. An icy chill surges through his chest, sucking the breath from his lungs, and suddenly he is yanked out again, gasping for air.
“I think you know what will happen if your obstinance continues, Corvo.”
His teeth chatter against the tiny droplets trailing down his neck, but Corvo stays silent. As long as Burrows needs her to legitimize his coup, Emily is safe.
“If that’s what suits you.”
Campbell waves his hand and Corvo is plunged into the rippling water. He jerks backwards instinctively, but the overseers’ grip is relentless.
Until Burrows sees fit to end this charade, Corvo is Campbell’s plaything to do with as he pleases – like one of Emily’s dolls, equally neglected or abused. His one solace is when the end does come, he will be with Jessamine again.
----------
The darkness is neither a comfort nor a concern. It simply is.
She floats, weightless and waiting. She knows not what for or if it will ever come.
Death is restless that way, a permanent flux between something and nothing, for that is what she is after all. Dead.
Then perhaps not – for she still has consciousness. Endless, ceaseless debates of philosophy taught her what is and what is not. Difficult to say whether they hold true here.
From the darkness an unfamiliar hand violently rips her from the fabric of herself – of this place, she cannot tell the difference anymore.
Then steady pinpricks pierce her skin. She wants to begrudge the pain, but it is almost soothing to feel something again, even the tug and pull of a needle and thread. It is crude work, having none of the care of a seamstress. Something hard and rough, like cold metal, is pressed against her and sewn to her flesh.
With a final yank of the thread it is cinched in place, rigid and uncomfortable. The metal piece clicks and whirs irregularly, agitating her.
“Let’s See What Use He Makes Of You,” the voice is a cold echo of a hollow man, both known to her and a mystery.
She would shiver, if she could. The clicking and whirring increase instead.
----------
The new blade rests uneasily across his lap.
“Does it work the way Piero intended?” Samuel asks.
Corvo’s gaze flicks to the boatman’s face. He isn’t intimidated by Corvo – that much is clear, despite having escaped an impenetrable fortress and being the convicted murderer of the Empress. And perhaps Corvo is overly accustomed to the company of torturers, but there is a kindness behind the man’s eyes.
He’s right though, a sword between them doesn’t leave much room for trust. Corvo sheathes the sword and they both relax some.
Though it is hardly bright out, Corvo cringes against the daylight; Coldridge disappears in the mist. The buzzing of the skiff’s motor and the steady lapping of the waves are soothing after months in the dark. Clouds gather overhead, he ought to count himself lucky this is the day his mysterious benefactors chose to liberate him.
He should count himself lucky – he doesn’t. Whoever they are – they waited until the last moment to set him free.
And deep in his core, Corvo can’t shake the feeling which has haunted him since the day he left Dunwall. The plague of rats through the city didn’t begin in the sewers, but started among the aristocrats, chewing their way to the heart of the Empire.
Samuel docks the skiff outside a dingy-looking tavern. Corvo has shaken hands with many lords and officers before, but Treavor Pendleton and Farely Havelock are men on a mission; anything they ask of him will have a secondary motive, but he owes them for his escape – his life.
Someone, Corvo’s not sure who, suggests he rest then they will take the next steps to find and rescue Emily.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last slept. Head heavy as lead, eyes barely able to remain open, Corvo finds sleep isn’t easy to come by at the Hound Pits. He tosses and turns fitfully, not knowing what the next day will bring.
When sleep comes, it is not the sunrise which rouses him.
----------
She would recognize his touch anywhere. How she has longed for it.
But never before has he held her in such a manner. His hands hold her cautiously – fearfully even.
There were reserved brushes of fingertips at court, warm embraces when no one was watching, desperate and hungry grasping as they made love, but not fear. Never fear.
The darkness fades to a thin veil between her and the world.
His hand reaches out for her again. She wants to comfort him – to tell him not to be afraid.
But at the squeeze of his fingertips, the veil is ripped away and the world’s light is blinding. She sees truth hidden by shadow and she is filled with bile. She sees corruption at the core of the city, creeping its way into its citizens through greed and terror.
“Misery. Everywhere.”
Uncertain if her message is heard, she is tucked away. Darkness greets her once more, but it is a solace now.
She feels the power of the Void echoing across the street, calling to her. She leads him to runes and bonecharms, longing for and dreading his touch. For each time she is removed from the sanctuary of his pocket, the veil is drawn back and only desperation and hatred pulse through her.
She begs him to show her the tenderness they once shared, but he merely returns her to the folds of his coat. His steady heartbeat the only company to her frantic, unnatural one.
----------
They found her.
Corvo keeps his face impassive, but his heart quickens. In Coldridge, he hadn’t dared to hope he would see Emily again – hadn’t dared to think he could fulfill Jessamine’s dying wish.
Eliminating Campbell felt more like a dream than his visions of the Void; branding him a heretic the only fate worse than death to a man such as him.
The mark on Corvo’s own hand prickles with the Void’s power. The abilities granted to him by the Outsider are at once a natural extension of himself and a curse – a cruel irony, he recognizes it as is the source of Daud’s power as well.
On his own, rescuing Emily might well have been impossible. But with the mark searing into his flesh as he grasps its power as his own, she may be safe again before the sun sets.
But just as Corvo’s pulse quickens, so too does hers.
Neither Havelock nor Martin notice Corvo draw out the heart.
Her voice whispers secrets in his ear, filled with anger and malice; by far, the Outsider’s cruelest joke. The moment he held the heart in his hand, Corvo knew; he fought back a wave of nausea and an urge tear it to pieces.
The heart has her voice but is it not Jessamine; Corvo will not be deceived by it. The heart is vile and spiteful, barely an echo of the woman Jessamine was.
Still her words feed his suspicions; despite what they declare their intentions to be, Corvo places very little trust in the Loyalists.
Pendleton makes the request himself; Corvo doesn’t know whether it is courage, the drink, or a thirst for revenge which spurs him to do it. Corvo couldn’t care if Pendleton’s brothers live or die, rescuing Emily is all that matters.
For once, the heart agrees. Her voice laments as Corvo creeps closer to the Golden Cat, “Poor Emily! Her childhood is lost! She has become a pawn in the games of men!”
----------
Shame. That is all she feels here; each racing heart pulses it through their veins as they moan and scream.
From the noblemen with perverse desires who press coin into the madame’s palm. From the scarlet-painted courtesans who feign pleasure for the sake of their supper. From the guards who may look but must wait to touch themselves late at night. From the kitchen girls who envy the jewels and finery which are adorned only to be yanked off.
Though none feels any shame at all for locking away Emily in this place. That sickens her most of all.
She is soothed by the echo of Corvo’s purpose: find Emily. Pendletons or Bunting makes no difference so long as Emily is safe.
They were once always of one mind and of one heart. She would weep for joy if she were able that they are again, though she knows he would close his mind to her if he could.
Strange how she still loves him so fiercely as he clings to the memory of her, not the piece of her he can hold in his hand. Strange how she can love him still as he tortures a man for a trifle of information. Strange how he is the only one in the world whose transgressions she is willing to forgive.
Ignoring all other distraction, Corvo moves swiftly from the pleasure rooms to the dingy attic. The doors of empty rooms swing wide on rusty hinges; those with something to hide never do. A handle jiggles but does not budge.
Corvo’s heart leaps; hers skips.
Forgetting caution, Corvo slams into the door, bursting through, and freezes. Sweet Emily boldly demands he reveal himself.
The horrid mask Corvo wears is tucked away beside her and Emily throws herself into Corvo’s arms.
----------
He traces the rim of the tumbler, but Corvo doesn’t drink. Over Havelock’s shoulder he watches Callista attempt to explain her lesson plans to Emily.
Despite everything she’s been through, Corvo keeps his distance. He would blame habit, but he does not trust these Loyalists implicitly – too many keen eyes and acute ears waiting for anything they might use to gain an upper hand. They hide as many secrets from each other as they do from him; she has whispered them to him.
But she is silent now. He reaches into his coat to reassure himself the heart is still there. Her pulse is steadier now – less erratic. Corvo is not sure why that should disturb him more. Of course, she would care as much as him for Emily’s safety. Is she not concerned Emily now resides among conspirators?
Emily ceases paying attention to Callista and begins to draw over her notes. With a sigh, Callista provides Emily with a blank page.
“She hides her fears. She seeks someone to trust,” the heart almost chastises him.
Not the only one, Havelock agitatedly demands, “Are you listening, Corvo?”
Shifting his attention to the matter at hand, “You were saying?”
Havelock glares. Martin is more troubled, eyeing Corvo.
“I was saying, there’s no time to rest. We must make a move on Sokolov now. Are you up for the task?”
Corvo is suddenly deeply aware of how tired he is, but Havelock is not a man accustomed to disappointment. With a nod, “I’m ready.”
Martin intervenes, “If you’re not, we’ll find another way.”
“No. Havelock’s right: there’s no time to waste.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll have Samuel ready the boat.”
They exit the booth, leaving Corvo a clear view of Emily, intent on her drawing. Mere hours since her arrival to the Hound Pits was possibly too ambitious on Callista’s part to begin Emily’s tutoring, but perhaps distraction is what Emily needs most now.
“She clings to her childhood things, but they bring her only brief comfort,” the heart speaks unbiddenly. Her mournful longing shames Corvo.
This separation is his own doing, but no matter how many knowing glances are directed at him by his allies, it is for Emily’s safety. Perhaps, when the danger is long past, he and Emily will discuss it.
Corvo glances down at his glass, contemplating a stiff drink before the mission, but thinks better of it. Looking back up, Emily is gone; his heart pounds before spotting her duck around Cecelia, heading toward him, picture in hand.
“I drew this for you,” she holds out the drawing.
He instantly recognizes the masked figure, wielding a bloodied blade above his head.
“It’s very good, Emily. Thank you.” He praises her, but something about the image disturbs him. “You know I didn’t have to kill anyone to save you.”
“You didn’t? But everyone talks like you do all the time.”
Corvo shakes his head, “Killing is the quick way out. There are more fitting punishments for people who do bad things.”
Emily glances at her drawing then back up at him, eyes searching his face. Resolutely, “I’m glad you didn’t kill those men, Corvo.”
Reflexively, Corvo reaches for the heart – for the last shred of Jessamine. She should be here to help him explain these things to Emily, to comfort her through this ordeal. She should be here.
For an instant, it appears Emily’s gaze follows his hand to the heart – as if she can sense its presence; it unsettles him. He could place the heart on the table between him and her murderers and they would see nothing, but Emily…
Removing his hand from his pocket, Corvo reaches out to Emily instead. She grasps it as a though he is a ship’s mast in a storm and bites her lip.
“What is it, Emily?”
“It’s just – what will you do when they find the man who killed mother?”
Corvo’s jaw locks. Burrows. Daud. Both are equally guilty. They deserve the hangman’s noose; he wants to tie the knots himself. To drive his sword through their chests. To see their eyes dim.
Made nervous by his silence, Emily lets go of his hand. The heart, peaceful until now, races in a fit.
He wants to, but none of it will bring Jessamine back to him. The heart slows.
Truthfully, “I don’t know.”
The door swings wide, letting the last light of day into the dim tavern. Havelock calls, “Corvo, it’s time!”
Stepping from the pub, Corvo pulls the mask from his pocket and dons it. It is his part to play, whether he fulfills it according to others’ expectations or not.
----------
For an assassin, Corvo sleeps quite soundly. It is astonishing really, how easily some villain could slip into this dreadful attic and slice his throat. He never used to sleep so deeply, and he cannot be so exhausted to have let his guard down.
Or perhaps she has forgotten what exhaustion feels like in this state. She has forgotten so much else. And it is only Emily who would disturb him now, but it irks her all the same.
Emily quietly settles into the corner and a sense of ease comes over the room like a blanket or the protective folds of Corvo’s coat.
He stirs, murmuring and drawing Emily’s attention. She stands at his bedside as he wakes, gently teasing him. A small grin lights Corvo’s face, dull from the sorrow eating at his heart and dim through the veil, but present.
How she aches for the days he would smile broadly at her – no more than a distant memory.
A knock at the door and Pendleton’s manservant beckons Corvo to the fighting pit; the prisoner’s awake.
Corvo rises and gathers his gear. His hand hovers over her as Emily begs forgiveness for intruding while he slept, “Callista told me if there’s ever trouble I should always run here.”
She pangs with regret. Emily feels as safe and secure in Corvo’s presence as she once did. If only these so-called Loyalists would allow him to remain at Emily’s side.
“You can stay here whenever you want.” With that she is plunged into darkness beside the mask.
She has come to detest the thing as much as she detests the mechanisms which allow her to see into the wretched hearts of others. Cold, expressionless – the instrument of the Loyalists. If they had need of Corvo himself, they would not ask him to hide his face.
Not as they do now. Muffled, she hears all as Havelock interrogates Sokolov, using Corvo’s identity as an example of true loyalty. She could laugh at the cantankerous fool’s bravado in the face of his captors.
Corvo stays silent, his heart beating in unnatural calm. He never held much fondness for the man, not as she eventually came to. In Corvo’s estimation, Sokolov is only another in a long line of betrayals.
Drawing nearer, Sokolov sounds more tired than she expected; day after day, still searching for a cure. He does not plead with Corvo, but addresses him, “You’re part of this rabble, but I know you have your reasons.”
Sokolov knows the truth, as much as anyone. He was there at Emily’s birth, nursed her through sickness as Corvo watched from a distance. It is pitiful how he has been reduced to this – at the mercy of men barely worthy of the word.
“The city owes much to his great mind. Let him drink and find company where he can,” she entreats, unsure if Corvo will listen.
“Perhaps I can find a bribe for you, Sokolov.”
Relief floods Sokolov’s heart, he would not have withstood any torture for long. Havelock’s twinges with irritation, but she cares not he is denied the pleasure of another man’s distress.
Whether Corvo sees what she sees, or he does not have the stomach for Havelock’s methods, it is still his heart which beats in this chest; no mask can alter who he is at his core.
----------
Corvo can’t remember the last time he went to a Ladies Boyle party. After the third or fourth they were all very much the same; overly elaborate, haughty, culminating in scandal involving at least one of the ladies.
He feels himself itching with boredom as though he is still the young Royal Protector escorting the princess to the event of the season – an occasion she dreaded no less than him. Though it was far easier to bear with her at his side, navigating the social obligations he had no knack for, and in return amusing her with anecdotes he overheard in the crowd.
The heart is no match for Jessamine’s companionship, but Corvo will make do.
Securing the mask in place, Corvo crosses the threshold of the mansion. Every bit as garish as he remembers and somehow more surreal.
Perhaps it is being a known fugitive being allowed entry which unsettles him. Or how in a room of masked guests, he feels utterly exposed. Or, most likely, that there is a gentleman dressed as the Masked Felon which disturbs him most.
Corvo suppresses an eye roll as the gentleman sulks because he is not the only Masked Felon here tonight before remembering no one would see it anyway. Strange as it is that his life has become the stuff of costume parties, he no longer stands apart but blends easily into the crowd.
Mingling has never been is strong suit, but he is spared that pain by drunken party guests spilling rumors from their tongues like liquor over the rim of their glasses.
Esma this. Lydia that. Waverly some other damn thing. He could barely tell them apart staring straight at them, but Jessamine always could.
Reluctantly, he withdraws the heart. Whispering, “Like old times.”
She is less than amused, seeing only cruelty and corruption, “Do not be fooled if you hear laughter or happen upon a smile. There is no lightness or merriment here.”
The Lady Boyle in white glides past as if in a trance; the heart recognizes her in an instant, “Of all the Boyle women, Lydia has the most to keep secret.”
Slipping through the crowd, Corvo keeps an eye on Lydia. But spying her flirt relentlessly with guests, servants, and musicians alike, he doubts any of those secrets is keeping Hiram Burrows’ bed warm. He should not be surprised, the Boyle sisters have always had promiscuous appetites, but Burrows has never been particularly good at sharing.
A blur of black stumbles into his arms. With a hiccup Lady Boyle gives him the exact number of drinks it would take to get her to sleep with him.
“That is Esma Boyle,” the heart practically spits venom. “She drinks to forget herself.”
Corvo offers only to bring Esma water. She shoves him away, seeking out someone more accommodating.
The heart pulses in irritation – or what Corvo imagines must be annoyance. Each hour he spends with it, the heart comes more alive; her voice bleeds through the fabric of the Void, expressing resentment and anger. Why not other emotions too? He shivers to think what her crossness is fueled by.
Her words already sink into his head altering his perspective, influencing his decisions, and with Jessamine’s voice, it would be all too easy to let himself fall under its sway. Corvo would suspect that of being the Outsider’s intention all along, if the spirit showed any interest beyond watching events unfold for his own amusement.
The final Lady Boyle does not cross Corvo’s path, so much as is thrown into it. A secret admirer confirms what he already had begun to suspect: Waverly Boyle, dressed in red, and mistress to the Lord Regent.
Unease settles over Corvo once again. He shouldn’t be surprised Pendleton is friends with a rat like Brisby, but to have an alternative solution handed to him so readily sets Corvo on edge.
In bright red, Waverly stands out from the crowd.
“The society of Dunwall know better than to make an enemy of Waverly Boyle.”
She is dangerous, to be sure, but as Corvo lures her to the cellars something doesn’t sit well with him. Though smaller and weaker than most of his targets, Waverly puts up a greater fight and weighs more heavily over his shoulder.
Corvo’s stomach churns as Brisby removes the garish mask and strokes her cheek, “At last. Oh, my love, someday you will understand.”
As the skiff disappears, the heart whispers, “He really did care for her once.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me?”
The heart has no response. Water laps against at the sides of the canal, filling the silence.
Corvo really ought not to linger, but his mind swims. What were Waverly’s crimes truly? Financing Burrows’ military assets? There could have been another way to disrupt those funds. Being Burrows’ paramour? How does that make her any different than him?
“Do you still care for me?”
The timid quiver is a sound he has not heard from the heart before – almost vulnerable, in a way Jessamine only ever was with him.
Corvo swallows his last bit of resistance and accepts the truth. It is Jessamine’s heart – her voice which speaks to him and guides him through the long dark night.
“Even broken, my heart is still yours.”
----------
She is growing more content to stay wrapped in the darkness beside Corvo’s heart.
She begins to imagine even he has grown more comfortable with her new form. His heart jumps less when she convulses with the call of the Void. There is more certainty in his grip when he reaches for her to point the way.
Shrouded by the veil she has found a way to be a comfort to him once again. If only she could comfort Emily in the same manner.
Corvo discovers Emily playing a one-sided game of hide and seek with her tutor. Emily sighs at how easily Corvo found her. Entreating her to return to her studies, he promises to teach her to move through the shadows as he does.
Something pricks at her flesh, springing loose from the winding mechanisms which keep her conscious.
History repeats itself, they say. Though most scholars would only claim so on a grander scale, it has happened here: personal and intimate. Another daughter left by her mother too young, to be guided solely by her father.
She must be grateful for small mercies: Corvo is nothing like her own father.
“This is a skill, Emily. It should not be abused for play. Understand me?”
“Yes, Corvo.” She pauses then presses something heavy into Corvo’s hand. “I found this on the beach. I thought it would bring me luck, but it just gave me nightmares.”
A familiar surge of heat courses through Corvo as the mark absorbs the rune’s energy. He suppresses a wince and tells Emily to run along to her lessons. Shivering, Corvo shrugs off the Void’s grip.
The moment may be temporary, but the longer she exists in this state, the greater she understands the Void. It latches onto mortals with shadowy tendrils, granting them a fraction of the Outsider’s power, and allows them to pass through the veil, but belong truly to neither realm.
She cannot imagine what others have given to obtain the Outsider’s favor and received nothing nor who would request such a thing. From her perspective, the cost of his gifts comes at far too high a price, even when unasked.
She shudders to think what Corvo was forced to give in payment or if the Outsider has simply decided to make Corvo his plaything.
----------
Nearing two days since Waverly’s abduction and Corvo is listless. He is accustomed to waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but ordinarily he is primed and ready. There are only so many times he can prepare his weapons before it becomes superfluous. Corvo is ready to end this, even if it is not quite time.
Inhaling, Corvo descends into the tavern. It has become an all too familiar a sight: Lydia attending the bar, Higgins preparing a tray for Pendleton, Cecelia sweeping. He is surprised to find it is Sokolov, not Callista, in the corner booth tutoring Emily.
Though he seems to be holding Emily’s attention more successfully than Callista.
“And what is the southernmost isle of the Empire?”
“Serkonos.”
“Its capital?”
“Karnaca.”
“Very good. And who is the current duke?”
Emily’s brow furrows as she struggles for a name Corvo will never forget.
“Perhaps our native Serkonan can assist you. How about it, Corvo? Care to join our little geography lesson?”
Corvo takes in the change in Sokolov. Only a few days ago, the man cowered in fear of him, now he treats Corvo as an old friend and dotes on Emily. It would stun him, if he did not recall the sudden shift in Jessamine’s esteem.
Still brusque and uncouth, Sokolov earned Jessamine’s respect through debate and a partnership grew between them. And though her opinion changed, she never asked Corvo to alter his – that first impression clinging to the back of his mind.
Sokolov could still be locked away in a cell, begging for clemency, but instead he sits here entertaining and tutoring Emily as he would have Jessamine.
“Theodanis Abele,” Corvo answers.
“See now, young lady. Corvo hasn’t even been studying and he knows the answer,” Sokolov teases Emily as she pouts.
Corvo assures her, “I had an unfair advantage. I’ve met the man.”
As her expression grows curious again, Corvo realizes how little she knows of him. Another casualty to the necessity of distance between them. Corvo knows all of his daughter; Emily knows next to nothing of him – of her father.
When there’s time. When all this is over, Corvo tells himself. There will be time for talk just between them – there must be.
Reminding them both he is still there, Sokolov booms, “How long has it been since you were last in Karnaca, Corvo?”
“Longer than you, I’d imagine.”
Sokolov laughs with a mighty guffaw.
Emily pipes up, “Do you miss it?”
Karnaca – his childhood on the streets, the apartment in the Dust District he scrimped and saved to move mother into – feels like a lifetime ago. It is long in the past.
The heart keeps a steady pace on the wrong side of his ribs, reminding him: Jessamine was the only future he ever wanted. He misses her now far greater than he ever pined for Serkonos.
“Dunwall has been my home for longer than I ever lived in Karnaca.”
“Were you scared to leave?” Her question is in such earnest, Corvo cannot help but hear the echo of Jessamine in her voice, asking if the passing of his father still hurt.
“Only a little, but there was a great adventure ahead of me.”
“Oh,” her voice shrinks. “Am I weak for missing the Tower?”
It grieves him Emily would think such a thing for even a moment. Shaking his head, “Leaving Karnaca was a choice. Dunwall Tower was taken from us, and I’m going to get it back for you.”
Tears well up behind Emily’s eyes, overcome by his promise, but the words sound hollow to Corvo’s ear. Ashamed of the broken oath he made at her birth, Corvo can barely look at her. He swore to protect her, but in the end, there was nothing he could do prevent harm befalling Emily.
Corvo reaches for the heart, not daring to touch Emily for fear of doing more damage. His fingers just graze its flesh when her voice fills his head, “She forgives you, though you are blameless.”
More firmly, “I will bring you home again.”
Sweeping in behind him, Havelock grabs Corvo by the shoulder, “Have no fear, your highness. I was just coming to collect Corvo to brief him on the details of our plan to regain your throne.”
Emily brushes away the tears which haven’t yet fallen and lifts her chin a little higher.
“Come now, Corvo. No time to waste,” Havelock tightens his grip, leading Corvo away.
Mustering greater strength into her voice, “Good luck.”
Corvo halts in his tracks, resisting Havelock’s pull. Head held high, shoulders squared, a look of determination in her eye; Corvo does not see Emily as she is, but the Empress she will become.
Bowing his head, Corvo follows Havelock to his chamber, where Martin and Pendleton have gathered. One way or another, this ends tonight.
----------
His mind focused, pulse steady, purpose clear, Corvo is no more than a passing shadow across Dunwall Tower’s gardens.
She is equally calm until he dodges a searchlight, finding himself crouched in the gazebo.
A blinding flash of light and a thousand white hot knives are plunged into her flesh. Searing pain and rage convulse through her. Hate, pure unbridled hate causes the mechanisms which keep her pulsing wind and twist and spin madly.
Someone must pay for this. They must feel this pain as she does. They must burn with her.
She urges Corvo onward, “Find Burrows.”
Even with Burrows’ alterations, Corvo knows this place better than even she did. Its weak points are made exploitable by the Outsider’s gift. He leaves guards and servants alike undisturbed as he makes his way towards Burrows’ safe room. She would laugh at the irony of the name if she could feel anything but this burning hatred.
She hisses, “How I misplaced my trust! Now that I see so well, I know how truly blind I was.”
Corvo’s heart hardens, resolve setting in.
He warned her; she ought to have heeded. So much she would have done differently if she could have seen Burrows’ treachery or even troubled herself with Campbell’s discontentment. If only she had rooted them out of her inner circle while she still could.
Twisted up in her malice, she does not notice Corvo slipping into a deserted wing, but suddenly the daggers are drawn out; she is safe here. A flood of sweet memories come back to her; nights by Corvo’s side, whole and complete, entwined together with whiskey on their lips and smoke in their hair. She never should have left his arms.
She is cautiously calm but does not understand why he has detoured to the royal apartments.
The telltale scratch of an audiograph causes her to twitch, “Emily, my daughter, I know that one day you will be grown up, and I wonder what you will remember of these years…”
Her voice. Before. Clear and melancholy and hopeful.
Corvo’s heart pangs next to her.
It angers her. They were happy and the villain responsible for destroying their happiness is here. Why does Corvo delay?
A crumpled page is stuffed beside her, the words whisper themselves to her, gentle as the day she wrote them: …When you are away, every day seems a heavy burden…
If only it were sorrow and longing which still weighed on her; it is only vengeance now.
“You have delayed long enough.”
Swiftly, Corvo moves through the tower, closer and closer to the darkness calling to her through the Void. He is pacing – Burrows. He can sense something is amiss. The anticipation of an attack feeds his natural paranoia.
Good. He should feel fear. He should know terror – blood-chilling, bone-rattling terror.
The safe room door swings wide and Corvo blinks through, perching atop a chandelier. His shadow hangs over Burrows as he rails at his security while they file out.
Sword poised, Corvo waits.
Burrows turns his back to Corvo, leaning over the mantle and muttering to himself.
Still, Corvo waits.
Desperately, “Disease and death and murder, that is what Hiram Burrows – the Lord Regent – has brought us. He must be punished.”
Corvo’s weight shifts, rattling the crystals gently, as he draws her from his pocket. His fingers graze her lightly as they would in the old days. The veil is drawn back and her vision of him becomes clear. He is not waiting; he is reconsidering.
Filling her voice with as much empathy as she can muster, “This is it. This is the moment we have been waiting for.”
“Have we? Or have you?” Even through the mask, she knows Corvo’s lips have not moved, but his voice echoes through the Void.
Shame rattles her core, but she remains steadfast to her outrage, “That man had me murdered!”
Corvo sheathes his sword, “But he didn’t kill you.”
“So, you will let him go free?”
“There are other ways to destroy a man.”
He tucks her away again and her anger mounts. She does not care; she wants Burrows dead. She wants her vengeance.
But Corvo is no longer listening, seeking out another means to damn the man who had her banished to this hellish existence. How could any other punishment compare?
Even as Burrows’ confession resonates throughout Dunwall Tower and across the city, she is not placated. Even as he is dragged down the steps toward Coldridge by his own guard, she does not believe justice has been served.
Burrows may have betrayed her trust on multiple counts, but only Corvo could break her heart. And he may as well have shattered it with his blade.
----------
Though she railed against him as he sought out the confession, she goes silent after Burrows’ arrest. Corvo can’t say he isn’t relieved.
Boarding the skiff, Samuel congratulates his resourcefulness, but mostly keeps to himself for the remainder of the voyage. Corvo finds he is finally able to breathe easy.
The sun hands low in the sky, dawn just peaking over the horizon. The long night is over and Emily is safe once again. He can take Emily home. Bring her back to where she belongs. They can mourn Jessamine in peace and hunt down Daud.
The skiff bumps against the dock, “They’ll be waiting to celebrate with you inside, I’d imagine.”
Removing the mask, “You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be along shortly. Gotta tie up the boat.”
Corvo pats Samuel’s shoulder. It is the lightest his heart has felt in a long while – probably since before the Rat Plague and now even that has a culprit. Sokolov may be able to find a cure, knowing what he’s looking for.
He can hear glasses clinking and blithe voices – the celebration has already begun. The cheer is almost deafening as Corvo steps through the door. Fresh drinks are passed around, toasts are made.
Through it all, the heart says nothing. Whether she has nothing to say or she simply does not wish to speak to him, Corvo tries not to let himself guess.
Havelock and Pendleton start to ramble about all the work to come: Emily’s coronation, instating Martin as High Overseer, establishing a new cabinet, dismantling Burrows’ institutions.
“Sorry, Corvo, we’re nervous. Your work is over and ours begins.”
Havelock’s words wash over him. His part is over. No more targets, no more moral quandaries. Rest lies ahead of him; everything else can wait.
“Samuel! Nice of you to join us! Bring Corvo another drink! I have one more toast to make!”
Havelock continues on about coronation preparations, security, and the like, reminding Corvo he will have to be on the lookout.
A glass appears before him in a shaking hand, Samuel’s face has gone sickly pale.
Taking the drink, “Is everything alright –?”
Havelock raises his glass, “To Corvo! The man who served to change the course of history!”
“To Emily Kaldwin and the new dawn rising for Dunwall and the Empire!” Pendleton follows.
Samuel drains his glass faster than anyone, staring vacantly ahead. Corvo follows suit, his gaze resting on Emily as she watches everyone toast her ascension.
She holds her head high and puts on a good show. He wishes he knew if she is ready for the responsibility being place on her, the way Jessamine was, but for Emily it comes too soon, at too high a cost.
Draining the last drop, Corvo’s head is instantly heavy. He tries to shake it off, but the night’s escapades must be catching up with him. The stairs to the attic are a monumental climb for his exhausted limbs.
Though he cannot have had more than two drinks, his vision spins.
Within arms’ reach of the cot, Corvo collapses to the floor.
----------
Voices echo in and out.
“Did the poison work its magic? Is he dead?”
“It better have worked. It cost me a month’s profit.”
“Yessir, I believe Corvo has breathed his last, just as you wanted.”
Samuel?
“You’ve done a fine job, then,” Havelock commends him.
“Remember, we need the body. If we come forward with the corpse of the man who murdered the Empress, we’ll be greeted as heroes,” Martin boasts.
Corvo would scream if he were able. They were smart to convince him he owed them a debt, but he never should have let himself trust them, not for a moment. After all, conspirators only know ambition and deceit.
But that is not Samuel. Corvo cannot believe Samuel had any hand in this.
Havelock praises their fine work, “Yes, it’ll grant us legitimacy. We’ll be the men who rescued Emily and brought down the Lord Regent and his assassin.”
Samuel’s voice is horse, “You’ll have a hell of a time convincing the little miss.”
Emily! Where is she? What have they done with her? What lies have they fed her?
Corvo tries to grasp for his sword, but his limbs are locked in place. If they’ve hurt her – Void knows what he will do to them all.
“She will see things our way soon enough. You’ll see to the body, won’t you, Samuel?”
The harder Corvo fights, the stronger the poison’s hold. Strain takes him and the world fades once more.
---------
Body aching, Corvo groans.
Someone shushes him, clasping a hand over his mouth.
Corvo’s eyes snap open. Samuel hovers over Corvo, his eyes tired and harrowed, but Corvo is not stirred to pity.
“Why I keep sticking my neck out for you eludes me, but I only gave you half the poison, Corvo. They were watching me do it, but not close enough. Maybe you’ll survive it.”
His head swims, hardly listening as Samuel grasps at straws for some sense in all this. But there is no sense in conspiracy at all, only madness.
He hears Emily’s name and dread and shame fill his stomach. Twice he’s broken his promise, twice he’s failed her – failed Jessamine. He expects her derision and anger blame. It doesn’t come.
Just Samuel’s plan to sneak him out of the attic and his fear of retribution from Havelock and the others. Bidding Corvo farewell, “If you’re lucky, you’ll wake up and find your way out of this doomed city. If not, well, goodbye…”
Corvo can’t fathom how Samuel manages to carry his dead weight to the raft unseen, but cut adrift and alone, Corvo feels a heartbeat against his chest.
----------
Steady. Indifferent.
He feels her as he drifts along the Wrenhaven River. He feels her as he drifts in and out of consciousness.
He is more aware of her than his own heartbeat – still slow and weak. His breath is just as shallow. Barely alive, but not quite dead.
Corvo opens his eyes. The sky is sickly grey, unfamiliar buildings loom over him, an eerie glow refracts against walls of rubble. Fallen structures create bridges and walkways overhead.
It takes Corvo a moment to realize he is not looking through the eyes of the mask.
A whispered conversation echoes unintelligibly through the flooded street. His head lolls to the side. Spotting a pair of hooded figures in Whaler masks above him, his heart stops.
Willing his strength to return, Corvo reaches for his own mask, tucked away since his return to the Hound Pits. But his limbs only partly respond, jerking upward then rolling over the edge of the raft and splashing into the water.
Both heads snap in his direction.
Helpless and exposed, he almost expects the heart to laugh at him, but she says nothing. Her pulse remains indifferent to his predicament.
The Whalers vanish and in a cloud of smoke reappear beside him. The closer one examines Corvo. He flinches at their hands but cannot struggle any more than that.
Recognition is almost instantaneous, “This is the one who was with the Empress when she died. Poisoned. Tyvian stuff.”
“Amateur work. He’ll live.”
“That’s up to Daud.”
Anger and dread twist together inside Corvo as the Whalers alleviate him of his gear. One of them reaches inside Corvo’s coat, they feel around the heart but take only the mask.
That he should be brought before Daud in such a manner – presented as an offering – vexes him. The Whalers don’t even restrain him to deliver him to Daud.
Standing out in crimson red without a mask and a chest under his arm, Daud watches as Corvo is delivered to the top of an old factory tower. At last, they meet on equal ground, marked by the Outsider, wielding the power of the Void, but Corvo cannot so much as stand. What sort of game is the Outsider playing?
They stare at each other a moment, both cold and calculating.
Her heartbeat quickens.
Daud breaks the silence, “I know a great deal, bodyguard. I recognize those marks on your hand. A gift from your friend, the one who talks to you in the dark.”
He pauses, waiting for some reaction. Corvo won’t give it to him; Campbell trained him for six months to withstand interrogation, he won’t crack now.
“Talks to you when you visit his shrines. I’ve visited those shrines too.” Daud opens the chest and extracts Corvo’s sword, “And I know what it felt like to shove a blade into your Empress.”
The Whalers snicker behind him, though Daud’s face is stone.
Corvo’s heart freezes; hers seems to burst into flame. He wants to release the blood-curdling scream he’s repressed since that day. He wants to reach into Daud’s chest, rip his heart out, and force Daud to watch as he drives a sword through it.
He wants to, but Corvo doubts there is anything more than a shriveled, black organ where Daud’s heart should be. He wants to, but he will not give Daud the satisfaction of witnessing his distress and rage.
But whatever hurt and pain he wants to inflict, is nothing compared to her. She burns with the thought of long overdue vengeance, nearly drowning out the part of him which holds him back from lunging at Daud. It wouldn’t work anyway; the poison’s hold is still too strong.
Putting the sword away, “But I don’t know you, who are and who you fight for.”
Corvo’s glare lessens. He’s not so sure himself anymore. A long time ago, he fought to survive. Then there was Jessamine. The Loyalists put him to work, but he did not fight for them or for their cause. Perhaps he is fighting to survive again. Maybe he never stopped.
“You’re a mystery and I can’t allow that,” without a trace of remorse, Daud tosses the crate into the abyss below.
Corvo barely registers what Daud has done before all is dark again.
----------
When Corvo wakes, she is the first thing he reaches for. His fingers caress the glass plate covering the open wound through her. Daud’s handiwork – the place he drove a knife into her, deprived her of life, and separated her from her loved ones.
She has calmed some, but the mechanisms still click and whirl with impatience. The thought of Daud alive and well sickens her.
“How can you intend to let him live? After what he did?”
Corvo bows his head, hair slipping into his eyes, “I don’t.”
Raising his gaze upward, he reaches out the hand bearing the Outsider’s mark and blinks up and out of his prison, strength and agility returned to him from the poison at last.
He gives Daud’s hideaway a wide berth and recovers his gear without incident, except from the weepers. The poor souls are done a service by being spared their miserable existence. She wonders how much longer she must endure hers.
Piece by piece, Corvo equips his gear. Crossbow, pistol, blade, but he hesitates when he comes to the mask. A hideous thing, but one that has allowed him to accomplish so much.
Corvo looks between her and the mask, something stirring in him she does not understand in this form. His voice resonates through the Void, “What have we become?”
“We are what Daud has reduced us to. Do not let remorse blind you.”
Carefully he tucks away the mask, “Then I must look him in the eye when I kill him.”
Her pulse quickens with anticipation and bloodlust as they draw nearer to Daud.
Corvo’s heartbeat hastens too, though anxious.
“There is no turning back from the path he has chosen,” she assures Corvo.
He makes no response.
A distant, unsure voice echoes through the Void instead, “What will you do when they fine the man who killed mother?” And with each Whaler Corvo slips past without so much as pricking them with a sleep dart, the voice fills with gratefulness, “I’m glad you didn’t kill those men.”
It near shames her. For so long now, vengeance is the only thing she has truly desired. Corvo ought to crave it as well. It is their lives which were ruined – their hearts which were broken beyond repair. Death is what Daud wrought; it is what he deserves.
She cannot tell if Corvo agrees or if he even heard the voice; his focus solely on getting close to Daud. For that reason, she does not ask; it would not do to distract him from his purpose now.
The ramshackle building Daud uses as his headquarters is even dinger on the inside, befitting a man whose heart has been bought by coin and whose soul has been washed in blood. Not wasting time, Corvo moves quickly through the maze of rooms.
He stumbles into Daud’s office more than discovers it, blinking out of sight and waiting for the Whalers to turn their backs.
This is it. This is the moment of her justice.
But Corvo waits and listens.
Daud flicks the record switch on his audiograph and offers his thoughts to the near empty room, “Hiram Burrows. You small, worried man. You’ll never know how many times I’ve thought about trying to get close to you again, just to put a piece of sharp metal in your eye.”
Though her pulse is stronger than it ever has been, she misses a few beats. Her murderer hates his contractor as much as she.
Corvo shifts his weight. His pulse slows to an unnatural calm of someone about to kill.
Daud continues, “How many people did I kill for you? None like the last. None like her. I’d give back all the coin if I could. No one should have to kill an Empress.”
He flicks off the audiograph and leans over the desk. Corvo still has not drawn his sword.
Outraged by his reluctance yet again, “Why have you brought me here, if not this? Am I meant to forgive this man for what he did?”
“Do you think I could?” Corvo spits back through the Void.
Drawing his sword, he leaps down before Daud and steel clashes against steel.
“And now we fight the duel that, no two others could fight, against the ticking of the clock.”
The fighting draws the attention of the Whalers, but Daud calls them off, as intent on Corvo as Corvo is on him. It is an even match, Corvo’s speed against Daud’s strength; Outsider’s gifts give neither the upper hand. It is only a matter of time until one of them missteps.
Corvo is the first unlucky one, Daud landing his blade on Corvo’s upper arm. “Why do you fight? For the men who poisoned you and left you to die? For your dead Empress?”
Corvo winces, but soldiers on, fighting back twice as hard.
Bewildered by Corvo’s persistence, “Go on, strike as if you mean it! You know I killed her.”
Both she and Daud are caught unaware by the ferocity of Corvo’s next series of blows. Daud is knocked to his knees. She is blindsided by an anger greater than her own; for the first time, she is frightened of her revenge – of him.
Corvo breathes heavily, overcome by his sudden burst of outrage. Daud sees his chance, taking advantage of Corvo’s hesitation, and vanishes. But he is hurt badly and cannot run far.
Still on his knees, Daud cowers in the next ruined building behind a pair of Whalers. They raise their swords on Corvo’s approach, but at their leader’s word and let him pass.
Struggling to his feet, “I have one more surprise for you. I ask for my life.”
Corvo breaks his stride, his sword arm lowering.
Daud pleads, “When I killed your Empress and took her daughter, something broke inside me.”
Daud confesses to all the crimes he committed, all the murders he perpetrated, and she can feel Corvo’s resolve crumbling like the district surrounding them. Then he speaks of the Outsider, a voice each of them knows all too well, and Corvo’s heart pangs in a manner which she refuses to understand.
“But what have I accomplished? More than you have, or much less?”
She has had enough of Daud’s riddles and falsehoods, “This man does not know the meaning of remorse. He will pick up his sword and reign blood and terror down on some other city.”
“I’ve had enough killing. So, my life is in your hands. Make your choice.”
Without hesitation, Corvo grabs Daud by the collar and raises his sword to Daud’s throat.
At last, she will know some measure of peace in this cursed existence; she pounds with excitement.
But the seconds toil on and Corvo does not strike. The longer she waits for her satisfaction, the more apparent it becomes he is searching for the truth in Daud’s words.
Beside her, Corvo’s mask stares. Silent, cold, unfeeling. How she loathes it but wishes he had donned it for this fight – more a battle of wills than of strength.
Corvo hisses through his teeth, “There is no depth to my hatred for you, but the guilt you carry is a worse penance than any I can bestow.” He lowers his sword and takes the sewer key from Daud’s belt. “Don’t ever let me see your face again.”
Nearly inaudible, Daud marvels as Corvo turns away, “And you choose mercy. Extraordinary.”
Corvo does not look back, not even as she berates, “How could you let him go? After everything he is responsible for.”
Landing ankle deep in water, “Taking my revenge would have made me a greater monster than him. Then how could I bring myself to face Emily?”
As his footsteps echo through the sewers. shame floods the hole left by Daud’s blade.
She never once ordered Corvo to do anything he did not wish to. What sort of demon has arisen through her to demand such an act? Has the Void twisted her so much she is beyond recognition to herself? Can Corvo still see her through the Veil? Would Emily know her as she is?
She could ask, but she is too frightened by the answer she may receive.
She marvels Corvo has stayed true to himself through this nightmare, though how she may never understand. And she will never ask.
----------
A lump forms in Corvo’s throat as Cecelia details the bloodbath.
He barely dares ask, “Where’s Emily?”
The girl shakes her head despondent.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” she sobs.
Corvo yanks the key from the wall as Cecelia begs him not to leave her alone. But she is safer here and he must discover what became of Emily. Ignoring her cries, he ducks into the street.
He flinches against the broad daylight and the ground shakes under the footsteps of a tallboy. With his back against the wall, Corvo takes out the heart.
She has been silent since he let Daud live, but it is not the cold anger of before. It is something else – more contemplative. But no matter what she thinks of his actions, Corvo knows there is one thing she still cares for.
Pleading, “Help me.”
She thuds, pointing him towards the attic room, “I cannot see her, and her presence is faint. I fear she may be far beyond this place.”
Far from, but not beyond reach. Traitors require chaos; conspirators require legitimacy. Both demand bloodshed. The Loyalists see themselves as true operatives of the throne, they cannot harm Emily without harming their cause.
The Hound Pits crawls with soldiers. Corvo eludes them as best he can, but it is near impossible to get inside. He stumbles through the yard, stomach churning as he climbs over Wallace and Lydia’s bodies.
He supposes he ought to be grateful the pile is not higher. But instead it enrages him. They did nothing but serve Havelock, Pendleton, and Martin and this is how their loyalty is repaid.
Corvo is sick of cowering in the shadows. He is tired of waiting to strike; it is time to get moving.
Spying an open window in Piero’s workshop, Corvo gets an idea. But he is as surprised to find Piero and Sokolov still there and working together as they are to see him alive. With one burst from their improved arch pylon and his way will be clear.
He doesn’t need any more prompting to find his way into Havelock’s room, but directly under the attic, her pulse quickens against his chest. Snatching up everything on the desk, Corvo tiptoes upstairs. The attic swarms with guards, as if they knew he would be back here. He grabs each of them from behind and silently drops them to the ground unconscious.
Corvo’s heartbeat is near indistinguishable from hers as he searches for some sign of Emily.
He withdraws the heart for another pair of eyes.
She captured you perfectly.”
Looking up, he sees it – a great mural hung over his cot. His own face stares back at him with a slight curve to his mouth; it feels an age since he last smiled. He didn’t think such an expression was still possible.
Beneath the mural, he spies a scribbled note in Emily’s hand tucked under the pillow.
Remember before when I mentioned a special drawing I was working on for you? This is it. I don’t know where you went, but I hope when you get back you see this and like it. Everyone’s acting strange tonight. Samuel was whispering to Callista about a flare launcher that she was supposed to use to call him. He told her to lock the door to my old tower. I heard the Admiral tell the others we are leaving tonight. I hope you get back before then.
Already gone. But where? How long ago? It could have been the night they poisoned Corvo or mere hours ago; there is no way of knowing.
Corvo glances back up at the portrait. He is no judge if it is a perfect likeness or not, but it is the man Emily sees when she looks at him. The man behind the mask – the man he must endeavor to be. Until recently they were one and the same. No longer.
Corvo will fight for Emily – fight for himself.
“There’s your answer, Daud,” he says aloud though only the heart can hear him.
The stairs creak – more guards on their way, reminding Corvo he doesn’t have time to linger.
Piero and Sokolov find the notes they need and toss the rest aside. Corvo flips through the pages aimlessly as he waits for them to complete the arch pylon. Havelock’s covered their tracks well, it would seem; no records of the Loyalists’ plans remain.
Corvo scoffs at Havelock’s orders to the captain of the company stationed here. So much for apprehending Piero and Sokolov. He almost feels sorry for what they are about to do to them.
He glosses over the rest of the message until he reaches the end. His eyes snap open: I’m keeping Empress Emily Kaldwin with me at the Lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island until we’re certain that Corvo and his fellow conspirators have been properly dealt with.
His heart leaps. Havelock left a trail straight to them. He can’t wait for Piero and Sokolov to finish their work. He must make his way to Kingsparrow now. Ignoring their protests, Corvo climbs through the window to the tower.
Hoping against hope, Callista is still there, he pounds on the door, “Callista, it’s Corvo.”
“Corvo! I can’t believe you’ve alive!”
The door swings wide and Callista steps forward then shrinks back. Corvo hadn’t realized what a frightful sight he must be: bedraggled and frantic.
But the tremor in her voice betrays shame, not fear, “They killed everyone, Corvo! They killed everyone to cover it all up, then they took Emily with them and they left! I couldn’t do anything to protect her. Please find her! Make her safe.”
Jessamine’s dying cry echoes through his mind. Grief prevented him from promising her then; he is determined not to fail her again.
Squeezing Callista’s shoulder, “You did everything you could.”
Corvo watches the signal flare arc through the air, waiting for something – some sign Samuel is still out there.
Next to his heart, hers is slow yet steady. She whispers to him; a clearer picture of what happened here forming through the shadows left by the Void. “Emily banged her head in the confusion. They dragged her crying into the waiting boat. She called your name.”
Anger rises up in Corvo, but not at himself. At Havelock. And at Pendleton and Martin. They have done as much harm to Emily as Burrows and Daud. And even when she cried for help they thought only of themselves.
Samuel’s skiff appears on the horizon and Corvo practically leaps from the tower to the beach.
Samuel nearly laughs with delight, “It never pays to bet against you, does it?”
“We’re going to Kingsparrow Island. That’s where they’ve taken Emily.”
“Good. Then it’s one more trip across the river, to where it meets the sea.”
If his luck holds out, it will not be the last.
----------
Corvo has not donned the mask since he let Daud go.
She marks something different in his heart. Not so palpable a change in tattoo, but it is strong. Perhaps stronger than his feelings even for her.
Standing on the rocky shore, Corvo does not fear the charging soldiers. More than ever before, he calls on the Void, confusing and confounding them by blinking past and slowing time, if any gets too close, he shows mercy.
She may never understand why he has chosen this road, but if it gets him to Emily faster, she doesn’t care.
As Corvo ascends the Lighthouse, the battle grows less chaotic; sneaking past guards rather than challenging them directly. Most do not know he is there until the elevator has begun to rise and the world shrinks below them.
She does not speak to him nor him to her. The Void seems to rattle along with the elevator in anticipation of this confrontation. There are no words to alleviate the mounting tension, so silence prevails.
And for the first time, she is glad Corvo has not stained his hands with blood. For the first time, she is glad he has no intention to. It would not do to tarnish Emily’s vision of her father so.
Corvo disrupts even fewer guards at the top of the Lighthouse, slipping unnoticed into the lavish bunker.
The doors locked behind Corvo, Havelock’s voice echoes down the spiral staircase.
His regrets grow louder with every step closer, “Remember when this was just a dream shared by a few angry, desperate men in the back room of a bar?”
As Corvo reaches the landing, Havelock ruminates on each of their strengths and weaknesses and why they failed. Each of the Loyalists’ bodies slumped over the table. Corvo touches the back of Pendleton’s neck – dead.
“If we hadn’t gotten greedy and –” There is no mistaking the cause for the pause in Havelock’s speech. Corvo even raises his blade. “Did you think I’d fight you, Corvo? Sorry to disappoint. This is yours. The key to Emily’s cell.”
The way is open, but Corvo does not reach for the key. He learned the hard way not to trust anything from Havelock on a silver platter.
Havelock begins rambling again, only about Emily now. There is admiration in his voice, for Corvo. Confusion over where their plans went wrong. Wonder for Emily’s fasciation for the whole affair.
“She’s become an interesting girl. If she lives, she’ll make a memorable Empress.”
Corvo suddenly dives for the key and Havelock swings a hefty sword down upon him. It catches the fringe of Corvo’s coat, but nothing more.
He swings again. Corvo blocks. Each move is slow and falls heavily.
Havelock is drunk – possibly off the same whiskey which killed Pendleton and Martin. Perhaps sober, he may have been a match for Corvo, but intoxicated – Corvo need only wave his hand to get behind Havelock.
It is over quickly. Havelock falls onto the table alongside his comrades and Corvo runs to the pounding of Emily’s fist against her prison door.
Without hesitation Emily throws herself into Corvo’s embrace, “Corvo! I knew you’d come. Is it going to be okay now? Will I be Empress?”
----------
He knows better now than to make promises he cannot keep, but Corvo whispers assurances in Emily’s ear while he carries her down the lighthouse to the skiff. She falls asleep with her head in his lap as they sail towards Dunwall Tower; Corvo mindlessly stroking her hair.
Though Samuel does his best to keep his eyes peeled on their destination, Corvo catches him cast a few glances in their direction and smile. After everything that’s happened, contentment feels near impossible to come by, but Corvo doesn’t begrudge Samuel the feeling.
In time, perhaps he will find it too.
For now, Corvo will settle for security. Calm. Trust.
Emily stirs as Corvo carries her to her room. Blearily, “Where are we?”
“Home. Home, at last.”
She buries her face deep into his shoulder, stifling a sob of relief.
Though a layer of dust has settled over everything, her room is much as it was. Corvo places her gently on the bed and does a quick search to make sure nothing else is amiss.
“Corvo?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“How can you be so sure everything will be alright now?”
He knows better, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to make those promises and wishing he could keep them.
Corvo inhales and places a hand on her cheek, “I’m not. Things might not feel alright for a long time to come, but I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to ensure that it will be.”
Emily grabs onto his wrist, “You will be my Royal Protector, like you were mother’s. Won’t you, Corvo?”
He almost laughs at the question. With or without the title, Corvo would do anything to keep her safe. But when it mattered most, what good did having a Royal Protector do for Jessamine?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, “If that’s what you wish, but you know I will always be more to you than just Royal Protector, don’t you?”
She skips a beat. Unnoticeable since Emily was safe in his arms, she pulses eagerly.
He hadn’t intended to tell her. They debated time and again whether they should tell her the whole truth, Corvo always arguing against for fear of her safety – much good it did her. But now, he can think of no reason not to.
“Of course, you and mother were always good friends.”
“Even more than that, Emily. I’m your father,” The words come like a breath of fresh air, Corvo doesn’t know why he waited so long to let them out.
Under his hand, Emily quivers with the threat of more tears. Scooping her up, Corvo calms her as Jessamine did when Emily was a baby.
“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry we waited so long to tell you.”
Emily pulls back, looking at him as though she can hardly believe he’s real, “I’m not sad. I just never thought I’d meet you, but you’ve been here the whole time.”
Corvo smiles down at her, wiping the streaks from her cheeks, and kisses her brow. Jessamine looked at him the same way a number of times.
And for the first time, Corvo realizes he has not lost her entirely. For as long as he has Emily, Jessamine will never be completely gone.
----------
He hasn’t touched her in weeks. Though she still resides in his breast pocket; Corvo has no need of her now.
She hears things during the day. Preparations being made for Emily’s true coronation. Plans for distributing Sokolov’s cure. The news: Havelock never woke. Burrows’ formal execution. Recommendations for restoring Dunwall to its former glory. None of which interest her.
She longs for the nighttime, when Corvo wraps himself around Emily to protect her from her nightmares. When she feels both their hearts pressed against her.
Though they are safe and sound, there is still deep sorrow in the well of their hearts. She tries to fill them with comforting thoughts, but she cannot reach them.
Her voice weakens a little more each day.
She clings to these moments, but she is slipping out of this world. The Outsider beckons her back to the Void and she must obey.
As she fades, she calls out to Corvo. She calls out for the touch of his hand. For a single word. She calls out for something – anything. But he cannot hear her anymore.
She cannot help but wonder how long it will be until they see each other again.