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“Corvo,” the Outsider murmurs, and you wash up on his shores, bleary eyed and tired.
You remember.
Emily was taken. You were locked in a room and Emily’s throne was ousted by Jessamine’s half-sister. And Emily was- well, where was Emily? Karnaca, you heard, and it seemed like that was correct, but then Piero let you know that Anton had been captured and was also in Karnaca, and he might know what’s going on.
Your real body is on the couch of Piero and Geoff’s little cottage. You had trekked through the fen that surrounds their house to get there, in pouring rain, nearly scaring Piero into a coma and getting shot at by Geoff.
Sam was on his way — blessed Sam — to take you to Karnaca in the morning. But now you were sleeping fitfully, and visiting the Void.
“Oh, Corvo,” the Outsider sighs, “Our dearest is away from the nest, ousted by the cuckoo.”
You stand groggily.
The Outsider glides to you, his face as young as it had always been, vaguely sickening if you thought about it too long.
“I cannot blame you. I have never blamed you. But she is very precious…” he says, crossing his arms, the miasma behind him thickening with his anger, “and so I expect you to keep her safe.”
You nod, breathless and weary, like someone punched you in the ribs.
The Void lets go of you, and the Outsider sighs.
“Apologies. It was vexing to mark Lady Emily.”
You sit up, a pulse of adrenaline rushing through you.
The Outsider sees your wild eyed apprehension, and sighs gently, looking away from you.
“She is in a situation much like yours years ago. She is not helpless — not with all you’ve taught her — but the Void,” and here he pauses, looking for the right word, a first, “can give her aid.”
Your face is burning. Burning hot with fear and worry that you had almost, almost forgotten in the Outsider’s presence.
“She is safe,” he says, kneeling before you and taking your hands, “This I promise. And she is fighting.”
You exhale shakily.
“You, if you’d like, can also return to the fight.”
You look up at the Outsider. His youthful face is pensive, curious, but it lacks any patronizing bite you had seen the first time you were Marked.
You…
You had missed the Outsider. You had missed him quite a lot, really. It wasn’t as though he had completely disappeared after you had given up your Mark, but your reasons for seeing each other diminished, and…
and truthfully, you missed the singing Void on your hand, the physical marker that you were treasured.
So you consent. You present your hand to him, and like the first time, he Marks you.
The darkness overtaking your hand forms into his sigil, and it burns, but it’s like your blood is singing.
The Outsider steps forward, as if seeing you again for the first time, slightly rapt.
“Does it feel good?” He murmurs, as if he doesn’t know.
He reaches up to feel your beard, sparked with what Emily called “glitter” and you called “gray” (you compromised on “silver”, eventually)
You nod, the echoes of whalesong in your skull deep and enrapturing.
His fingers linger on your cheek, and you have missed this cold, damp hand, so you press it against your face.
He swallows, and murmurs, “My old man.”
You laugh, and lean into his hand.
“Much older and yet,” he murmurs, stroking an affectionate thumb over your cheek bone, “Having lost none of your spark.”
He coaxes you into his arms, making the two of you weightless.
Once you settle comfortably against him, he sighs, and strokes your hair. He had picked it up from you, learned that you loved having your head scratched, would purr if your vocal chords worked. It calms you, enough, that the thoughts of Emily and your old home ebb away into whispers, goals for later but not for right now. The scent of him — sea salt, ambergris, lilies, something undeniably dead — clings to you, and allows you a moment’s respite.
You nuzzle against his scarred collarbone, and he laughs. The laughter sounds like an echo of silence, but it is familiar now, familiar as the darkness of the Void and he lapping expanses.
“Oh, my dear, old friend.”
The solid platforms of twisted earth slip away from under your feet, spinning slowly as you two orbit one another. The movement reminds you of a ship in calm water.
“I have missed you so, while you were without my Mark.”
You stroke down his spine.
“The journey ahead will be difficult, and long,” he says, voice gentle, unbelievably gentle, “There are those you have not met yet. Those tied to your dear ones in ways you could have never expected. Sokolov’s child; the spawn of your kind leader corrupted into cruelty and debauchery; an old enemy repurposed into a great ally; One of my Marked. One who stole my Mark, and steals for something approaching good. A precious woman, mind divided.”
You ponder this. And you close your eyes and hold the Outsider closer.
“It will be hard. But I have confidence in you.”
Your mind begins to ebb away. The Outsider’s gentle hands in your hair and on your back are lulling you to sleep.
“Listen carefully. Outside of here, outside of this very old place, everything has already begun. You do not yet know its players. But you will.”
He presses a soft kiss to your head, and murmurs against your hair, “Rest well.”