Chapter Text
Three weeks into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is ready to throw himself off the side of Kaldwin’s Bridge.
The whole government is in shambles after the arrest of Emily’s latest Lord Regent resulted in the ten-year-old monarch abolishing regency altogether and demanding to be governed by a council instead. Parliament deliberated for days about the proper course of action, but with both appointed Lord Regents currently behind bars for crimes against the Crown, they had no choice but to accept their Empress’ suggestion.
The council is to exist of the Prime Minister, the Royal Physician, the Royal Spymaster, the Royal Protector, and the Commander of the City Watch. Emily wasted no time appointing people to the necessary posts, with Lord Treavor Pendleton becoming head of Parliament, Geoff Curnow receiving the well-earned promotion to Commander, and Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin elected as two halves of one properly functioning physician.
Thomas himself was officially inducted as Her Majesty’s Royal Spymaster some days later, when his heritage as heir to the Carmine family had been established and the evidence he’d produced regarding Farley Havelock’s treachery was deemed authentic. There were no objections, despite his long absence from the limelight. Perhaps Parliament believes his disappearance is testament to his ability to remain in the shadows. Or perhaps they’re just relieved to have a noble take up the position, after low-born Hiram Burrows literally brought the plague to Gristol’s shores.
No Royal Protector has been chosen yet.
That was a conscious decision on Daud’s part, and not an unwise one. Dunwall is still reeling from the plague and the loss of three rulers in just a year’s time, and Emily will need to establish her worth as a leader before she can invite the Knife of Dunwall to join her court without all hell breaking loose.
Until that time, the protection of the Empress is officially the responsibility of the City Watch, and not-so-officially that of the Spymaster’s Office, at Daud’s urging. Thomas hardly ever leaves Emily’s side, and there are Whalers lurking in the shadows whenever the Empress has to leave the Tower. It’s a hefty burden to bear on its own, but combined with the other duties that fall to the Royal Spymaster, Thomas has all but forgotten what the word ‘sleep’ even means.
Not that sleep comes easy to him even when he does have time to rest, not since slicing open Corvo Attano’s neck that fateful day on the gazebo of Dunwall Tower. Thomas dreams of that wretched moment nearly every time he slumbers, of the fact that he’s taken an honourable man’s life when there was no missive calling for it, of what might have happened if he hadn’t done so, Attano’s sword piercing Daud’s back and taking away everything Thomas ever was, is, and will be in the process. By now, he’s seen more death in his dreams than he ever has awake, and he’s been a professional assassin for almost a decade.
Thomas can count the nights he’s properly slept through on one hand, because those were the nights he did not sleep alone, Daud’s presence a constant, comforting sensation that soothed him into a dreamless sleep without fail. Those few nights were his only respite, first at the Hound Pits Pub, sequestered from the other Whalers, and then that one night at Pendleton Manor, resting his head atop Daud’s chest to hear the steady heartbeat of a man who escaped execution, the heartbeat of the man he loves beyond all else, the heartbeat of the man who’d kissed him and called him his partner and promised him they would have time.
Except there is no time for Thomas to do anything but work, and he has barely even caught a glimpse of Daud among the Whalers, now under Thomas’ command. He knows this is how it has to be for now, knows Daud cannot set foot in Dunwall Tower before his official appointment as Royal Protector, but Void, Thomas feels his absence like a physical ache. If only Emily’s rule wasn’t so precarious; if only something would happen to strengthen its foundation.
That something happens on the First Day of the Month of Clans, when Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin burst into the parliamentary meeting an hour late.
“We have it!” Sokolov exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. “The cure, we found the cure!”
And just like that, Emily Kaldwin transforms from the child Empress to the monarch under whose rule a cure to the rat plague of Pandyssia was discovered. Almost overnight, her reign is unshakably cemented into history.
She announces her choice for Royal Protector the very next day.
The shock that echoes through Parliament the moment Daud steps through the door is more amusing than anything, every face contorted in some degree of shock or outrage. Thomas has to fight to keep a straight face himself, not in the least because Daud’s new Protector’s coat looks incredible on him, the navy blue fabric bringing out a different vibe of danger. He is still deadly, and he exudes it, but he is not an aggressor anymore. He is a Protector.
“Your Majesty,” one of the Lords – Alderdice, if Thomas remembers correctly – chokes out, his face ashen at the sight of Daud, “what in the name of the Everyman…?”
He cannot finish his sentence, and it’s no surprise. Alderdice has hired Daud and the Whalers on numerous occasions, and the Spymaster’s Office has the records to prove it. For that matter, quite a few members of Parliament have requested their services one time or another. It’s no wonder the room has gone as silent as the grave they ordered dug.
“This is Daud,” Emily says again, as if the first time she introduced him to her court wasn’t already unnecessary. “We appoint him Our Royal Protector.”
“But… but Your Majesty!” Alderdice tries again, looking close to passing out altogether. “Your mother –”
“Our mother is dead, Lord Alderdice,” Emily says so sharply it’s easy to forget she’s only ten years old. “Former Spymaster Burrows made sure of that. We, however, would care to remain alive. It is to that end We have entered Lord Protector Daud into Our service.”
She’s never pointed to Daud and Thomas as her parents’ killers. Officially, the one who murdered Jessamine Kaldwin and Corvo Attano is still at large, even if all of Gristol has long suspected the Knife of Dunwall.
“I have sworn fealty to Emily Kaldwin,” Daud says briskly, staring Alderdice down with chilling ease. “And when I accept a job, I do it well. You ought to know, Lord Alderdice.”
Alderdice sinks back into his seat. There are no more objections.
In theory, Daud’s official appointment as Royal Protector lifts some of Thomas’ workload. In practise, he’s busier than he was before.
With the discovery of the cure for the plague, it’s become paramount to produce enough for every citizen infected with the disease, and the numbers are staggering. Sokolov and Piero have their team of physicians working around the clock, but they can still barely keep up with the demand. Thomas and his men, in the meantime, are working overtime trying to collect the ingredients the natural philosophers require, while at the same time assisting the City Watch with rounding up plague victims, making sure no one slips through the cracks.
It’s gratifying work, if not exhausting, and it’s not until the commotion begins to die down almost a month later that Thomas finally gets some proper rest.
He’s just leaving the Royal Physicians’ labs when there’s a tug at the Arcane Bond; Daud’s way of requesting his presence rather than demanding it. He has the ability to summon the Whalers to him without any say-so from the one he’s summoning, just pulling them through the Void at his leisure, but Daud prefers to catch his Whalers’ attention in this less invasive way. Only in battle does he actively summon his men.
Daud has done this a few times the past two weeks or so, but Thomas hasn’t been at liberty to respond, despite very much wanting to. Now, however, there’s no one else requiring his presence, and most of his paperwork has already been squared away.
Thomas lets the Arcane Bond guide him, transversing blindly to Daud’s location.
Unsurprisingly, he ends up in the Royal Protector’s quarters. Daud sits at his desk, a pince-nez resting on his nose as he reads through the last of the parliamentary reports of the day. He signs it with an aggression that speaks of a long day of paperwork, and only then does he remove the glasses and acknowledge Thomas.
“You look terrible,” is the first thing he says after months of separation.
Thomas would be offended, if it weren’t true. He’s hardly had time to eat and sleep and bathe, let alone shave or cut his hair. It’s almost reaching his chin at this point, the blond strands curling at the tips. “I take it you don’t think I should grow my hair out,” he responds wryly.
Daud smiles, tired but earnest. “Come here,” he implores as he stands, and Thomas does, allowing himself to be drawn into the embrace he’s been denied for far too long.
“You should grow your hair out,” Daud hums, winding a lock of it around his finger as he says so. “It’s a good look for you.”
Thomas smiles against his collarbone. “Alright.”
Daud pulls back just far enough to kiss him, and Void, Thomas still cannot quite believe he gets to experience this, gets to be held like this, gets to kiss the man he’s been in love with since the day Daud took him away from his ancestral home and gave him a true family, gets to see that love and admiration mirrored in Daud’s grey eyes, knowing that look is meant for him.
“When was the last time you slept?” Daud asks, no doubt noticing the bruising underneath Thomas’ eyes that stands out spectacularly on his fair skin.
“Pendleton Manor,” Thomas admits.
Daud snorts. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” he mutters, rubbing his nose where his pince-nez has left an indent. “If I’d known we’d be drowning in this much work, I’d have thought twice about accepting this Voiddamned job.”
“And you’d have reached the same conclusion,” Thomas says with absolute certainty, because Daud has never been able to deny a child in need of his assistance. “Who else could glower away the nobles who come to ask the Empress about something trivial?”
That gets a chuckle out of Daud. “She’s quite capable of that herself. It’s the gangs and the riots I’m more concerned about.”
“It won’t be long now. The council has been established. The plague is almost gone. Things will settle down soon enough,” Thomas says, the words of encouragement meant as much for himself as for Daud.
“And since when are you such an optimist?” Daud inquires, an eyebrow raised in amusement.
“Since I get to do this,” Thomas grins, and presses their lips together again.
Daud’s grin matches his. “Hmm, I can see how that would lift your spirits, yes,” he lilts, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down Thomas’ spine. “Will you stay the night?”
The ‘yes’ is already on the tip of his tongue when he falters, thinking of the last of the paperwork still awaiting him in his office and the early-morning meeting he has scheduled with Curnow and Rulfio. He’ll have to leave before dawn.
Daud notices his hesitation, and there’s a brief flash of disappointment in his eyes before they harden. “Do what you have to,” he says in a clear dismissal, turning back to his desk to sort out his reports. “There’ll be time later.”
Void, but Thomas is so sick of the word ‘later’. “I have an early meeting.”
“Then go.”
Back when Billie was still Daud’s second and Thomas was nothing but a loyal subordinate, Daud’s harsh tone would have had him tripping over his own feet in his hurry to obey the order. But Thomas is not Daud’s subordinate anymore, both their new titles and their new relationship marking them as equals, and he’s learned how to read Daud in the months he spent as the Whalers’ second in command. The bitterness in his voice is not anger. It’s disappointment, and petulance.
Thomas lays a hand on Daud’s shoulder, gently easing him back against his chest. “I have an early meeting,” he says again, “so we should go to bed now.”
That’s all Daud needs to hear. He drops the file back on his desk, takes Thomas’ hand, and leads him from the Royal Protector’s office to the adjacent personal quarters.
Daud’s new rooms are still sparsely furnished, the constant turmoil that’s held Dunwall in its grip since his appointment having kept him from decorating. But what is there is familiar, as though he’s somehow managed to replicate the Commerce Building in this new setting. There’s an impressive display of weaponry spanning one of the walls, blades and bolts and mines lined up to intimidate anyone who dares set foot in the Royal Protector’s quarters. All of Daud’s old books, and a handful of new ones, are placed painstakingly on shelves, and Thomas knows without looking at them that they’ve been ordered alphabetically, as Daud always does. A work of art has been framed and hung above the fireplace, and Thomas is amused to learn it’s not an expensive painting, but the drawing Emily made for them, depicting Daud and Thomas standing victorious over an Overseer.
Thomas looks over the new books Daud has acquired, their spines still shiny and uncracked. “Are you learning Tyvian?” he asks, trailing a finger over the symbols spelling out an unreadable title, unmistakably written in the Tyvian language.
“Yes,” Daud answers from across the room, where he’s shrugging out of his heavy Protector’s coat. “I know Serkonan and basic Pandyssian, but not Tyvian. I want to know what the dignitaries are gossiping about. And whatever Sokolov is muttering behind my back.”
Of course he would want to learn every language spoken in the Isles. It’s a stroke of luck that Morley speaks the same tongue as Gristol, even if they insist on calling it Morleyan rather than Gristolian. “You know Pandyssian?”
“My mother taught me,” Daud divulges, and when Thomas looks at him over his shoulder, he’s very interested in unlacing his boots. Thomas knows nothing of Daud’s mother, other than the fact that she wasn’t a very good cook.
“Where did your mother learn Pandyssian?” Thomas dares to ask, though he turns back to the bookshelves to give Daud some semblance of control over the situation.
It’s a while before Daud answers. “She grew up on an island just off the coast. They spoke a dialect there.”
Thomas doesn’t know what compels him to ask another question, other than the desire to know everything there is to know about this man he’s fallen so stupidly in love with. “Why did she choose to come to Serkonos?”
“She didn’t choose anything,” Daud spits immediately, his voice filled with so much fury Thomas can’t help but flinch. “They made her.”
This would be an excellent time to stop talking. But the next question leaves his lips without his permission. “They?”
“Pirates,” Daud growls. “They took her.”
“Why?” Void, he really should stop.
“The man who… sired me,” Daud grinds out, the word ‘father’ nowhere near appropriate, “did not know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Oh. Oh, Void, that is – Outsider’s eyes, he was not expecting that. “The man who sired me hired an assassin to kill me,” Thomas offers, rather lamely, in an effort to break the tension. “Though I guess I can’t be too upset about that.”
Strangely, miraculously, it works. The stormy look on Daud’s face lifts, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come to bed, cariño,” he implores, and Thomas does, laying his high-collared Spymaster’s coat next to Daud’s own before toeing off his boots and getting into bed.
It’s a large bed, not unlike the one at Pendleton Manor, not unlike the one in Thomas’ own quarters. He hates it. Hates the soft mattress, the silken sheets, the ornate canopy. It reminds him far too much of the bed of his childhood bedroom, where the maids had to wash the blood out of the sheets at least three times a week, because inevitably his tossing and turning re-opened one of the wounds inflicted on him.
But then he’s never shared that bed with anyone, let alone the Royal Protector and formerly the most wanted assassin in the Isles, and that makes all the difference. Daud has always made all the difference in his life.
Thomas lays his head on Daud’s chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat a comforting lullaby that has him drowsy within a minute. But a thought breaks through the fog of impending sleep, and he cannot help asking: “What does it mean?”
“Hmm?” Daud mumbles, nearly gone himself.
“Cariño,” Thomas says, failing to replicate Daud’s accent on the vowels. “You called me cariño.”
“Darling,” Daud rumbles sleepily, and Thomas can feel the word vibrating through his chest. “That’s what it means.”
He falls asleep then, likely not even aware of what he’s just divulged, but Thomas lies awake for a long time, his heart soaring, pounding in his chest. Darling. Cariño. Void, he feels like he might spontaneously combust. Or take flight. Or both, simultaneously.
When he does finally sleep, he dreams he has wings.
He flies far too close to the sun.
Three days later, Thomas is out in the field with a small team of spies, preparing to break into a condemned building just off Clavering Boulevard where some citizens infected with the plague are reportedly living, hiding from the City Watch herding those with their affliction. Thomas has it on good authority that they’re members of the Hatters, and of course they would not want to attract the attention of law enforcement, even when their lives are at stake. But the State cannot allow anyone infected with the disease to roam free, the risk of re-contamination far too high.
The mission today is simple. Scout the building, break in, confirm the presence of plague victims, or lack thereof, and if possible, subdue them. It’s nothing the Whalers haven’t done before. Thomas is only dealing with this himself because he’s short on manpower.
There is a ledge that will grant them easy access to the window on the first floor. It’s up too high to easily reach from the ground, but not high enough to warrant a transversal. In broad daylight, in service of the Crown, Thomas prefers to keep the use of his supernatural abilities to a minimum in any case. And this close to Holger Square, he’s definitely not risking it.
Instead, he grants himself a running start and jumps, intending to catch the ledge and pull himself up, like he’s done hundreds of times before.
That’s not what happens.
His jump is high, impossibly high, too high, and he soars above the ledge, barely catching himself on all fours when he lands, ungracefully. For several long, tense seconds, Thomas holds his breath, listening for movement at the window, but all is quiet. Thank Void.
“What in the Void was that?” Rulfio hisses at him from below, where he and three other Whalers are staring at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
Thomas scratches the back of his neck. “Neither did I.”
When everything is said and done, he makes a point of stopping by Daud’s office to ask him about it.
“Increased agility?” Daud inquires, an eyebrow raised. “Huh. I didn’t think I could share that through the Bond.”
“So it’s a power?”
“Something of the sort. More of a passive ability, really,” Daud explains, his brows furrowing in thought. “I’ve had it since I got the Mark, but no one else has ever taken to it. Not even Billie.”
And Thomas understands.
He is not close to the sun because he can fly. He can fly because he is close to the sun.