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Martin was almost ready to pull the trigger when Corvo shattered the door.
He jumps-- at the noise, at Corvo, at the hair raising on the back of his neck that tell him it was black magic. At the bodies of his slain men behind him. The shock that would normally be channeled into being ashamed that he'd been wrong, that he'd been caught off guard, that he'd miscalculated, is instead used to compose himself and stifle the panic in his chest. Corvo's boots crunch over splintered wood and Martin collects his expression before his jaw is able to go slack.
"Corvo," he says with a welcoming smile. "I can't say I wasn't expecting you."
He looks like death. The glow on his left hand is still fading from its use, and his chest heaves with bloodlust and terror and fury and Void fucking knows what. He isn't wearing his mask; it dangles on his belt, in between his crossbow and his razor mines, and Martin almost wishes he was wearing it so he didn't have to face the raw anger in Corvo's eyes.
His eyes. His eyes.
They seem darker than before.
"How's the Flooded District treated you?" Corvo approaches him, slowly, stone-faced, but Martin can see his hands shaking. "Not well, from the looks of it."
Corvo parts his lips, then purses them again. Everything he says is carefully pieced together after precious thought and consideration. Martin isn't expecting a reply. He is simply biding his time.
"Please, sit down," Martin gestures to the chair across from him. "Have a drink. Dunwall's finest."
"After the last drink you gave me?" Corvo almost laughs. "I don't fucking think so."
Martin opens his mouth to reply but sees the Mark glow and before panic can grip his throat again, it's Corvo's hand, wrapped firmly, but not tight enough to choke, around his neck.
"You," Corvo says, his breath deep and heavy, face inches away from Martin's. "Talk too much."
A grin pulls at the corners of Martin's mouth, despite the situation. "Do I?"
"I head you out there. Spitting your Overseer libel. Write your own speeches, do you?"
His mouth opens to reply, and Corvo squeezes. If he had the mind, Martin would be disgusted at the choked noise he'd just made.
"Martin," Corvo says his name like a weapon. Martin recognizes the tone.
"Where the fuck is Emily?"
The air is heavy. They are almost breathing in unison.
This is a test, Martin thinks.
This is a test, and if he fails... what? Corvo will kill him? Martin glances to the pistol on the table. Hardly an unfortunate outcome.
This is a test, and if he fails, Corvo will find some other means of getting what he wants. He's resourceful. He told him once, at the Hound Pits over whiskey, that he'd once killed a man with a harp string. It's personal vendetta Corvo is operating on. Not practicality.
This is a test, and...
And if he fails, Havelock's chances of success go up. His chances of getting exactly what he wants go up. His chances of dying a martyr go up and either way Martin won't live to spit on his corpse but at least, at least, he can prevent that.
Martin's vision is starting to go spotty around the edges when he chokes out, "The lighthouse. The lighthouse."
Corvo relaxes his grip but doesn't move. He allows Martin the small mercy of letting him cough himself back into composure.
Martin is still gasping when he takes in Corvo's deadly gaze, and asks, "You're not done, are you?"
Corvo doesn't reply. Doesn't shift from his position of straddling Martin on his chair, doesn't loosen his grip on his sword.
His silence had never been so dangerous.
Wordlessly, he runs a calloused thumb against the skin of Martin's jaw-- unshaven; rough, like sandpaper, or like fallen cliff rocks that haven't yet been softened by the sea. Martin doesn't flinch this time. Corvo wasn't expecting him to.
There's a tension. Corvo grips Martin's jaw with one hand-- the Marked hand. That in itself is a threat, Martin knows. In his other he grips his sword, painted deep red, hanging low next to the stain on his pants where he habitually wipes his blade, in an attempt to clean it. It doesn't work anymore. Martin isn't sure it ever has.
"Do you want to die, Martin?" Corvo says, thick as death. His thumb rests on Martin's lips and Martin considers biting it in response, like a child. He doesn't. He smirks instead, under the finger, under the glare. There is no humor in it.
"You're being theatrical," Martin says. "You know the answer."
Corvo narrows his eyes. Martin's sins weigh heavy on his spirit but he feels Corvo's too, now, the weight of a ruined empire on his shoulders, the weight of a dead empress and a lost daughter in his heart, the weight that anger brings. He feel he might suffocate before Corvo gets his chance in.
"There's a gun right there, you know," Martin says. "I could kill you."
He says to the walking weapon, the walking heretical artifact, the human incarnation of the desire to slaughter anyone who's ever wronged you. Death on two legs, death with a face, death with a daughter he has done and will do anything for.
No one can kill him. No one is stupid enough to try.
Corvo says nothing.
The silence is maddening.
How will he do it? Martin wonders.
The crossbow, the gun, the heinous gifts the Outsider has bestowed upon him-- oh, he knows, he knows, he kept quiet for the sake of the movement but he's seen and he knows. Even before tonight. Corvo never was discreet.
He wonders what it's like to die at the hands of a heretic, at the hands of a man in which the Outsider has planted his seed to watch it grow and fester and take his mind and body and soul, to die at the hands of a man who has himself cheated death two three four five eleven times. He wonders what it's like to die at the hands of a man who has nursed such fury in his heart that he can feel little else. Martin glances at the mask hanging from Corvo's belt. He wonders what it's like to die.
Corvo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.
You want theatrical? He thinks.
I'll give you fucking theatrical.
"Tell me, Martin," Corvo says, and Martin almost flinches again, if only because Corvo speaking is never expected. His deep baritone drawls, and Martin almost wishes aloud that he'd hurry the fuck up already. He shifts his weight. The thumb presses harder, against his teeth. "How many times have you lied in your life?"
Martin can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The panic he feels when he's wrong begins to rise again.
"How many times have you lied and cheated and." Corvo pushes his mouth open. "Preached?"
Corvo grips Martin's tongue with two fingers.
"The Empire's first mute High Overseer." Corvo grins pure malice. "One for the history books."
He lifts his sword, his custom-made, razor-sharp, responsible-for-the-deaths-of-hundreds bloody filthy fucking Void-damned sword and slices Martin's tongue in two.
And, for the first time he can remember, Martin screams.
His hands clasp over his mouth in an attempt to stop the blood pooling in it from overflowing. It's futile, of course; it flows between his fingers and down his chin and onto the matching deep red of his High Overseer uniform. Corvo stands and he doubles over, out of his chair, wheezing, desperately trying to get himself under control but he can't. Can't. He thinks he feels himself cry but his face is so wet already and with his mind swimming the way it is, he can't be sure.
He reaches out to Corvo with a bloody hand and tries to say something, anything, but only chokes.
The man is writhing. Corvo enjoys a few moments simply watching before heaving him up by the collar of his coat and dragging him onto the balcony overlooking Holger Square, still littered with citizens. Martin leans heavily on the railing with one hand, but still covers his bloodied mouth with the other. Corvo wraps an arm around Martin's shoulder, and this one last time together, they gaze upon the ruin that is Dunwall.
Corvo leans over to whisper, "Hope you have another speech prepared," before leaving his side. Martin whines.
He turns back just in time to catch Corvo pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He raises it, as if in toast.
"Farewell, High Overseer."
He downs it in one gulp, and tosses Martin's pistol at his feet.