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pen-of-dunwall · 8 years ago

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Tales of the Heart, Ch. 15 - Now I Got My A’s and Z’s

by essie-essex

for citywatchoverseer

City Watch Guard

“He taught himself how to read.”

There oh... uh... once was a cat named Ollie who lived in a co-cozy ho-hose... hoss... a house, a cozy house, with his Mama, Papa, Bro-Bruh-Brother, and... Sister. But Ollie was no oh-or-di-na-ry cat. He was very c-curious and... oh-often got into tr... tr... trou-ble.

Un... One cold w-win-ter eh... ehven... even... e-ven-ing, it beg-an to s-snow...

...and s-snow, and snow, and SNOW. Haha.

“Oh, boy!” said Ollie. “My f-first w-win-ter!”

Ollie le-leapt on-to the... the, uh... the w-win-dow-sill, his eye-eyes fo-fol-low-ing the stra-strange white dots as they flo-a... flo-floated to the ground. He put his paws up to the cold gla-glass, rai... rais... rais-ing himself up on his two hi-hind legs to get a bet-better look. Brother and Sister played ou-out-side, thro-throwing hand... fuls of white po-po-pow-powder at each other, their ch... cheeek... cheeks and noses red and ro-round. Ollie's tail swis... swis-sh... swished with, oh boy, ex... exit... exit-me-excitement as he watched them.

“How I would love to play in the snow,” Ollie said, his eyes filled with de-des-desire. “I would buh... buh... bur... burr-ow under it oo... uh-until I found the per-fect spot, warm and dark.”

The cat til-tilt-tilted his head back, pee-king at the door. Papa sat in his big chair reading a book, and Ollie could hear Mama in the kit-kitchen.

Surely, they would not not-notice...

Ollie ju-jumped to the gro-ground and cro... croch... croached... no, crouched, he crouched low, ti-tip-tip-toe-ing his way to the front door where the ch-child-ren would be re... ret-returning at any mo-ment, and when they open-opened the door, he would spr... sprin... sprint out into the snow and bur-bury himself in it before they could catch him.

He heard fa-faint la... lau... log... log-ha... lag... la... laugh-laughter as the ch-children ne-nea-neared the door and his ears per... perk... perked as he heard moo... muh... muffleh... muffle... muffled sto-stomp-ing.

“Ready... Ready...” he said to himself. He dar-dared not move. It was almost time.

The door click-clicked as one of the children turned the dork-door-doorknob, the door crack-ing open a mom-moment later. Ollie star-star-ted to change-charge but stopped sud-den-ly as the cold breeze cau... caused his skin to shiv-shiver. The children enter-ed the house, brus-brushing white powder from their coats.

“The door will close soon,” Ollie said. “This is my last chance!”

He took a deep breath, cr-crouched low, and chan-charged outside.

I let my arm drop, still holdin' the open book between my fingers, and sigh.

When I got this book from the library, the lady told me that this was for kids, but Ollie the Cat's First Winter by T.J. Brownstone ain't no easy reader. I can feel myself gettin' tired, and my head kinda hurts.

I probably shouldn't be readin' durin' my shift, but it can get real borin' just standin' here waitin' for somethin' to happen. It's kinda rainy today, so the market ain't too crowded, so that means no fights over the last fresh fish to break up, no youngsters stealin' sweets to chase after, and no pretty ladies to holler at. Nope, nothin' to do but just stare at the sky... or read if you know how.

I hear laughter from in front of me and spot two boys in worn clothes whisperin' to each other. I guess the rain didn't keep everyone away. They stop, the larger one takin' a few steps towards me.

“Hey, aren't you reading Ollie the Cat?” The boy looks up at me with tight lips and somethin' that ain't just innocent curiosity hidden behind his eyes.

“Yeah, what about it?” I say, pullin' my shoulders back. “Shouldn't you kids be at home anyways?”

“It's a free city,” the boy says. “We're just walking home from school.”

“Yeah, well, keep walkin'. I gotta job to do,” I tell him.

“You didn't look like you were doing your job. You looked like you were reading an Ollie the Cat book.” The little brat smirks.

“Well, you kids just don't know any better. Now, scram.”

The boy snorts, his mouth tight and his face red. He looks back at the other, who has the same expression on his face, like he thinks somethin's funny.

“That's a kids' book,” the boy says. “Like for babies. I read all the Ollie the Cat books when I was nine.” He turns to look at his friend behind him, who giggles.

“Yeah,” says the smaller boy. “Me too. Isn't that the one where Ollie goes outside in the winter and freezes--”

“Hey!” I scream. “Don't give it away! I ain't read the whole thing yet!”

The boys jump at the sound of my voice, but pretty soon they ain't scared no more and start laughin'.

“Wow, City Watch Guards really are dumb!” The taller boy says. His little friend giggles along with him, but I'm about done with their shit.

I draw my sword and lunge towards 'em, like I'm about to attack.

“Yeah, keep laughin' when you're in damn pieces on the ground!”

The boys scream, scurryin' away like rats, and I watch until they're out of sight, takin' a deep breath to calm myself.

“It's okay, Murray,” I say. “They're just a bunch of spoiled kids.”

That's right. They're a bunch of spoiled schoolboys. Not everyone had the money to go to school when they was kids.

I grew up during the Morley Insurrection, when spyin' on your neighbor, makin' sure they wasn't helpin' the Morlish (or the “Morleyans” as we was s'posed to call 'em, just to piss 'em off), or that, stars forbid, they was Minnows themselves, was much more important than goin' to school or doin' any kinda work that wasn't helpin' the Empire win against the rebels.

There was plenty of jobs with the war on, and the factory fatcats was glad to get their hands on any children, so they could work 'em hard. An eighteen-hour workday, each and every day, is what I remember from my childhood. But there was bread to eat and bunks to sleep in. Sure, they was dirty, but they was indoors. I sent my pay home to my parents so they could take care of my sisters and brothers who was too young to work.

So, no, I didn't have no time to read like the little brats these days, but that don't make 'em better than me. Hell, I'm better than them, since I learned how to read all on my own. That's right, all by myself. No one helped me learn my letters.

Now that I know how to read, though, there's plenty around to practice with. It's crazy how many signs they got posted 'round the city, and there's even more than usual in the marketplace with words like “FRESH FISH” “HOMEMADE SOAP” “GARDEN VEGETABLES” “RARE FRUITS” and “BAKERY”. I tried to read them all when I first started learnin' my letters, but now those signs are so easy to read, I can understand 'em all in just a second or two.

I've learned a lot from readin' posters on the walls and such, too. Like the recruitment ads for the City Watch say guards are s'posed to make a whole four coins a day, and Officers make six coins. I ain't never seen more than three coins in a day, and lately they've been givin' me just two. I told this to the others so maybe we could get together and ask for our real pay, but they just told me to quit bein' so smart.

“You read it on a poster?” Jackson was the first one to speak when I told the boys about our pay.

“Yeah, we're s'posed to be gettin' four whole coins a day,” I 'member foldin' my arms and leanin' against my bunk, thinkin' I was somethin'. Like I was gonna start some kinda movement, leadin' all the guards in the Watch through the streets holdin' up signs. But that attitude didn't last for long.

“I think he's just makin' that up,” another one of the guards said from across the room. “You can't even read anyways.”

“I learned,” I said. “Well, I'm learnin', but the poster really does say that. There's one right next door. Just come with me, and--”

“You tryin' to get us fired, Murray? Quit bein' so smart.” Jackson turned toward the door. “Now, I'm gonna go steal me some food, and then I know a certain lady who's waitin' for these two coins in my pouch. You all comin'?”

The others followed Jackson, leavin' me alone. Just a year ago, I never would'a passed up a night with a girl, but sometimes a man just wants somethin' more.

I'd thought that by learnin' to read that maybe I'd feel better about myself or the world or somethin' like that, but I don't know. Now instead of others makin' fun of me for bein' dumb, my own fellow guards make fun of me for bein' too smart.

But now that I can read faster, I'm startin' to get why there's people that actually like to read. Some books are really interestin'.

My shift ends, and I head back to the bunks while the others go for a drink.

I wish that boy from earlier today hadn't told me what would happen to Ollie the Cat. So, he freezes to death? I take the book out of my bag, flippin' through it and lookin' at the pictures. On one page, I can see Ollie racin' out the front door into the snow. I turn the page and see a picture of a sad little cat, all curled up in a ball, with icicles hangin' from its fur.

Poor Ollie.

But the book's not over. There's more. I turn the page and gasp. Papa carries Ollie into the house. He's alive!

I turn the page again. Now he's in front of the fireplace, and on the next page, he's smilin' and warm, and on the next—wait.

I slam the book shut.

No, I gotta read it. I can't just look at the pictures.

Cold and wet, Ollie had no energ-energy to run from Papa and, in-stead, curl-ed... curled up in his arms, shiv-shivering v-vio-vio-lent-ly. He cried when Papa tried to put him down, hanging on tight to his clothes with his sharp claws. Fin-finally, Papa man-aged... managed to set Ollie on the floor, where Sister and Brother waited for him with two flu-ffy to-wels. They dried him off as well as they could, and handed him to Mama, who w-wrap-ped... wrapped him in a soft blan... blanket.

“Let's put you some-place nice and warm,” she said, cudd-ling him in her arms. Papa picked up a box and took a woo... wood-en stick from it. Ollie watched the stick, which nor-normally, would have looked very fun to play with, but he was far too cold to play. With a quick g-g-gues... gest... gesture, Papa stuck it against the box, making o-rang... o-range light come from it.

“How strange,” Ollie said, tilt-ing his head to the side. Thog...though Papa had now cau-caught his at-ten-ti-on, he was still much too cold to do anything but watch laz-lazily from Mama's arms.

Papa put the stick into a hole be-hind a grat-grating. Ollie had never not-not-noticed that hole before. It looked like a great place to hide. But Ollie was too cold to think of hid-ing there now.

Wips-wisps of smoke and then orange waves grew from the bo-ttom of the hole, con-sum-ing the large chunks of wood in its in-ter-i-or. Ollie watched the flames. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. Mama took him closer and set him down, and Papa replac-ed... replaced the grat-ing, ob-scur-ing the dan-king... dancing fig-ur-es... figures. Ollie was dis-a-ppoin-ted. He wanted to watch them dance, but he was too cold to arg-argue. He lay in front of the fireplace, feeling the warm-th flow from it. Oh, how good that warmth would feel ag-ainst his skin. How good it would be to bury himself in warm orange waves.

Ollie stood, get-ting closer to the fireplace, but Mama st-stopped him.

“No, no, Ollie. That is fire. It is hot. You cannot get too close, or you will get burn-ed... burned.”

But Ollie did not un-der-stand. What was hot? Like a hot sum-mer's day? He could almost puh-purr, think-ing of the past summer when he lay out under the sun, while Mama stood near-by fan-fanning herself with her hand.

“W-hew, it's so hot today,” Ollie re-mem-ber-ed... remembered her saying. “It feels like I'm burn-ing up out here.”

So, hot was not bad at all! Mama mig-might not like it, but Ollie lov-loved when it was hot.

Hearin' voices outside, I look up from the text and close the book. The boys are back, drunk and loud as usual. I have a bad feelin' about this story, but I'll have to finish it later.

But I'm so worried about Ollie that I can't even sleep.

That mornin', the boys and I reach the marketplace and then go our separate ways, heading to our posts. Up ahead is Lee, who does the shift before me. He's singin' a song. I can't make it out at first, but as I get closer I hear the familiar tune of the A's and Z's song.

“A, B, C, D, E, N, G/ haych, I, J, K, elementally,” he sings.

I can't help but laugh.

“It's not 'elementally'. It's 'L, M, N, O, P,'” I almost say, but I don't wanna come off as a smart-ass.

It's funny how easy it is for me to sing that song now. When I first tried to learn it, I couldn't understand it. It was just a bunch'a sounds. How could anyone memorize it?

I 'member first hearin' it bein' sung by a bunch'a little kids goin' to school. They walked behind their teacher in a straight line, and she sang right along with them. It was the weirdest song I'd ever heard. It didn't have no words in it – at least not until, “Now I know my A's and Z's/Tell me what you think of me.”

Now, I was at least smart enough to know that A's and Z's meant letters. So that's what all that gibberish was. The kids was learnin' their letters!

Every mornin', I tried to listen to the whole song, but I never caught the whole thing, and I still didn't know what any of it meant. Finally, one day I just went up and asked.

I 'member the teacher saw me comin' and slowed down before she put her arm out to shield the children.

“Hello, Ma'am,” I said, rememberin' to be polite, of course.

“Good day,” the teacher said. She eyed me real cautious, like she was scared I was gonna attack her or somethin'. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I mean, yeah. I was, uh--” I took a deep breath. “I just wanna know what that song is you're singin'.”

“What song are we singing?” The teacher's eyes got wide, and she looked at me like there was somethin' funny. “It's the A's and Z's song. We're reciting the alphabet.”

“So, that's letters, right?” I asked.

“That's, uh, that's correct, yes.” The teacher nodded. “Um, is there anything else?” she asked, after I didn't say nothin' for a moment.

“Could I learn it, too?”

The teacher opened her mouth and closed it again.

“I – sure. I mean, I could.” She stopped to think for a moment. “We could use an escort on our way to the school. I much prefer walking my students there to letting them go by themselves, but I would feel much safer with an actual guard to protect us.”

I knew I wasn't supposed to just leave my post, but I only had to walk them to school and then I'd be right back. Plus, there was other guards nearby.

“Sure,” I agreed. “And you'll teach me the song?”

“You can learn right along with us,” she said. She took a piece of paper from a bag hanging on her shoulder.

“Oh, I can't read,” I said, lookin' at all the funny symbols on the paper.

“Well, each one of those is a letter. So, here's A, B, C...” she pointed to each as she said it. “Let's get going. Children? A's and Z's, but let's sing it very slowly so... Sorry, I didn't get your name.”

“Murray,” I told her.

“And I'm Helena Delaney,” she said, smilin' kinda quick and then turnin' to the kids. “Okay, let's sing slowly so that Murray can read along with us.”

The moment I heard her say those words, I couldn't help but think how strange it sounded. “...so that Murray can read along with us.” Me. Readin'. How crazy was that? But I guess it was also kind of excitin'.

The school kids' voices interrupt my thoughts, and I wave Lee off and take his place.

“Murray! Hi, Murray! Good morning, Murray!” the kids all say as the line approaches with their teacher, Miss Delaney, at the front.

“Good morning, Murray,” she says, smiling.

“Mornin' Miss Delaney. Mornin' kids,” I say, givin' them all a big wave.

“Shall we carry on?” says Miss Delaney, and they head off, the A's and Z's song startin' automatically as I line up behind them.

“So, Murray, how is the reading going?” Miss Delaney asks.

We've arrived at the school, and all the kids are gettin' ready for the day and sittin' at their desks. I notice the familiar A's and Z's chart at the front of the classroom. I can recognize all the letters real easy now, and to think I used to not know what any of it meant.

“It's goin' pretty fine,” I answer. “I'm readin' a book about this cat. His name's Ollie.”

“Oh, Ollie the Cat. A bit too advanced for my children, but I'm still very familiar with those books. Which one are you reading?”

I lift up my helmet to rub the back of my head.

“It's the one where it's snowin' and Ollie goes outside.”

“Oh, that one.” Miss Delaney frowns and shakes her head. “Those books are always so tragic for an animal lover like me, but that one was especially sad.”

“Don't tell me!” I nearly yell, holding my hands up. “I haven't finished it yet.”

“Okay, okay!” Miss Delaney chuckles, putting her hands out. “Calm down, I won't spoil it for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, relaxing my arms. “Well, I gotta go back to my post. I'll see you tomorrow.” I turn to the kids. “Bye, kids!”

“Bye, Murray!” They all say, and I turn to leave while Miss Delaney starts class.

Time to get back to Ollie.

The flames wigg-led wiggle-wiggled and pop-popped, dancing in a way that made them almost ir-re-sis-ti-ble... irre-sistible to a cat like Ollie. He watched the emb-ers float into the air and disappear as he w-hipp-ed... w-hipped his tail back and for-th, his eyes con-cen-tra-ting in-ten-se-ly on the tan-ta-li-zing fire.

But how would he get past the grating? He would have to move it, but sure-ly Mama or Papa would stop him before he could get past.

He sc-scanned the room, noticing-noting that the children had gone to bed and Mama and Papa sat do-doz-dozing off on the nearby sofa. So, he stood, war-i-ly stepping forward, his eyes locked on the nearly-sleeping couple. Creep-ing toward the bar-bar-ri-er s-se-pa-ra-ting him and the fire, he put his claws through the grating and yank-yanked it right down. It fell to the floor with a loud cla-clank that nearly made him dart in the other di-rec-tion, but he clamed-calmed himself and jumped on the grating, ready to make the final po-pounce.

“Ollie! No!”

The sound had wo-ken Mama and Papa, and they stoo-d, making their way to him. Ollie pa-nic-ked... panicked. He didn't have much time. The warmth from the fire toa-toast-toasted his skin like a hot summer's day, but he wanted those fla-mes flames for himself. He pounced, ready to trap the w-rig-gling w-riggling fire under his paws, as Mama sc-rea-m-ed... sc-reamed from behind him.

But soon he was the one sc-rea-ming.

“Hot! Hot! Hot!” he scree-ched... screeched. The fire was too hot. He bat-ted at the flames co-ver-ing his body, trying to keep them away, but it was no use as the fire cha-char-red... charred his bea-u-tiful fur, turn-ing it to the color of ash. Ollie screamed and screamed and screamed until his black-en-ed... blackened body went still, his life having fl-fled his us-use-useless co-corpse.

The End.

I can't believe it.

“Hey, Murray, you comin'?”

What in the Void just happened?

It's the end of my shift, and my buddies are all ready to go, but I clutch the book in my hand, my heart banged up and all but broken.

“No, you all go on. I'm gonna take a walk,” I say and push past 'em without sayin' another word.

You know, I figured things wouldn't turn out good for Ollie, but still the endin's left me kinda down. I got just as much into that book as someone would get into a story bein' told 'round the fire--

The fire.

Emotion hits me and leaves me with a bad feelin' in my stomach. Why'd that cat have to be so damn stupid?

I curse Ollie and T. J. Brownstone and the damn librarian that gave me the book and the goddamn library that kept the book on its shelves like it wasn't nothin' but another kid's story, just like the rest.

“Murray, what are you doing here?”

I walk into the classroom, and seein' the look on Miss Delaney's face, I let the tears fall.

“Is something wrong?” Miss Delaney asks. Her eyes get real wide, and she looks from side to side, but I'm too busy blubberin' to notice.

“Ollie died,” I sob, sniffling between words. “He... just jumped into the fireplace... and burned up.”

I look up at Miss Delaney, who, for just a moment, smirks before putting on a sympathetic face.

“It ain't funny,” I cry. “Why are you laughin'? Don't laugh!”

“Oh, Murray,” Miss Delaney approaches, putting her hand on my arm. “You didn't know?”

“Didn't know what?” I swallow, trying to keep my sobs at bay.

“Murray... Ollie dies in every book.”

The tears stop, and I stare at her through blurry eyes.

“W-What?”

“The cat dies in every book.” Miss Delaney replies. “That's the theme of the series. It's supposed to teach you not to be so curious that you get yourself into trouble.”

“I... wait a—What?”

Miss Delaney smiles a bit and then giggles, taking a handkerchief from her pocket.

“You poor thing!” she says, dryin' my eyes. I take the cloth from her, rubbin' it all over my face, wet with wasted tears.

“It's the same cat in every book? But how does he come back to life?” I hold up my finger. “Wait, wait, I know this. Cats got nine lives, right? So, as long as he doesn't die a whole nine times, he's okay.”

“Not quite,” Miss Delaney chuckles. “I think the trick here is that Ollie isn't a real cat. He's just a book character.”

“Well, that ain't realistic.” I sigh. “I could write a better story than that.”

“Maybe,” says Miss Delaney. She raises an eyebrow. “Are you looking to be a writer now?”

I laugh, feelin' my eyes dry up. Look at me, cryin' over a book.

“Oh no, nothin' like that. I just wanna read a better story. Somethin' happier.”

“Well, the library's still open. Maybe I can help you find some books you'd like to read.”

I nod, thinkin' of the possibilities—plus maybe Miss Delaney has a better taste in books than the librarian.

“Yeah, that'd be nice. Just no sad endin's,” I say. “And no cats.”

#dishonored #TotH #tales of the heart #for city watch overseer

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pen-of-dunwall · 9 years ago

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Pen of Dunwall turned 3 today!

#tumblr birthday #tumblr milestone

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pen-of-dunwall · 10 years ago

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The Tale of The Shadow on Bitterleaf

by essie-essex

based on “The Shadow on Bitterleaf” from Dishonored

Introduction

When I first found the crumbling pile of loose paper, littered with scribbles and strange drawings at the now abandoned Bitterleaf Almshouse, I mistook it for nothing but trash, for what else would one find among the poor and decrepit dead? Just as one does not expect to find a rail car in the middle of a desolate forest, gold is not an item for which one would search while exploring an old building littered with filth and the rotting remains of its former tenants.

Sorting through those scribbles and drawings has not been an easy task. When I first started this project back in 1835, I simply thought that I would be reading through a bunch of rambling nonsense, probably from some old man or woman not sane of mind, but in that strange hand were words, and to my surprise, the words strung together to form a story.

And so I became engrossed in this twisted tale of forbidden lust, a story that is both cautionary and provoking, intertwined with dark magic and the unclean taint of the soulless beings who practice it.

Our protagonist in this work of horror is Leona Blackhill, a young woman most foolish and undisciplined, lacking the morals which are so crucial for ladies in this strange and modern world to learn in order to resist the temptations brought to Gristol by immigrants and foreign merchants, who are so apparently devoid of the sophistication so taken for granted on this enlightened isle. We all know at least one Leona, the one who would rather daydream than focus on her studies, who would rather play than work, who refuses to marry and take on the responsibilities of a respectable wife. Luckily, most of these women have someone in their lives to set them straight, as is so with the newly married Mrs. Blackhill whose parents arranged her betrothal to a rich businessman-turned-philanthropist by the name of Claudius H. Blackhill, but sometimes even we are not enough to save these poor and misguided women from acting on their own treacherous whims.

Certainly, in this story, Mister Ignacio Delmarino, a young scoundrel raised on the filthy streets of Cullero, is not the antagonist (though in real life, it is usually this type who does the most evil). When he travels to Dunwall, only crossing paths with Mrs. Blackwell due to a serendipitous mishap, our story is set into motion, and as I believe most of you expect, the path will only lead to tragedy and pain most agonizing, not only because of Mrs. Blackwell's and Mr. Delmarino's sinful escapades, but because of the evil that follows the Serkonan and his shipmates across the sea -- an evil that can only be attributed to one corrupt being -- one who works with dark forces. A witch.

I have attempted to write the entire story, keeping it as intact as I can, but due to the inevitable and destructive forces of nature, many of the original pages have deteriorated, some completely lost forever. And so, I present to you, the honorable reader, a story written by a poorman whose name shall sadly be lost forever, but whose legacy shall continue to live on in these pages.

- Cornelius J. Crowley - Dunwall, 1839

#dishonored #dishonored fanfiction #totsob

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pen-of-dunwall · 10 years ago

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Where the Lights Mingle (part 3)

by essie-essex

Well, it’s only taken me about a year to complete this not-so-well-written part, but here it is. Part 3 of my 200 Followers story for i-want-a-callisto.

This story is tagged “wtlm” at Pen of Dunwall for those who want to read the first two parts.

Eleanor Hickey is thrust from her world at the Academy of Natural Philosophy after meeting Overseer William Huxley - a man who desires a simple solution for a very serious problem. Together, they search for the truth amidst the lies of the Abbey and the comfort of the Academy, their only weapon marked on the back of the Overseer’s hand.

Part 3: Who Makes the Magic?

The Month of Nets, 1st day of the Second Week

"You drugged me!"

I pace back and forth in front of the fireplace where, just a few moments ago, Overseer Huxley and I had been having a pleasant chat.

"I didn't drug you." Huxley throws his hands up and sighs.

"Then you did something! This was all a setup, wasn't it? You knew those Overseers would be there. You knew that building would be boarded up." I stop, standing over Huxley who sits on a faded couch, clutching an empty mug between his hands. "I bet this gash in your leg isn't even real! Nobody's stupid enough to kick their leg through a glass window." I draw my foot back, letting it accelerate forward and connect with the Overseer's calf.

"Outsider's Eyes!" Huxley yells, throwing his leg up onto the sofa, where I cannot reach it. "I assure you, I am indeed that stupid." The Overseer rubs his leg, wincing slightly.

The wound has been cleaned and bandaged and now smells heavily of some mystery herb. Just moments before, as the old woman ground the plants with a mortar and pestle, I studied Huxley whose wide eyes scanned the room repeatedly, his jaw tight. The old woman worked on his leg, humming casually as if the man in her room full of herbs, crystals, and mystery potions were not an Overseer of the Abbey of the Everyman. The poor woman. She would probably heal Huxley only to have him go straight to the Abbey after leaving her cottage. I imagine the Overseers dragging her from her home, as I had seen so many times in the city.

Huxley had mumbled something in reply, his attention occupied by the contents of the room.

I waited in silence, studying the old woman as she worked. We had simply entered her house, not knowing who she was or why she was so eager to help us. Perhaps she was just a nice person, but I always suspect others of ulterior motives when they are overly generous.

"My name is Anne," said the woman.

"Eleanor," I replied.

"Overseer William Huxley of the Abbey of the Everyman." Huxley brought his shoulders back, holding his head high. "Quite the collection you have here, Anne. You might want to take caution in what you decide to keep in your home. It is very easy for one to be influenced by the Outsider, even unintentionally." "Oh, don't start with all that Outsider nonsense!" said Anne with a wave of her hand. I felt my breath catch in my throat, but the old woman simply rolled her eyes, hobbling closer to the Overseer. He raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but please remember to whom you speak. I am an Over--"

"And I'm an Oracle, so it should be you who remembers to whom you speak."

"Right, an - " Huxley starts, but then his face goes pale. "You weren't being serious, were you?"

"Oh yes, dear. Yes, I am--or at least I was."

"Ha!" Huxley exclaimed. "Oracles stay in their positions for life."

"Do they, now?" Anne said nothing further, and Huxley, for the first time since Eleanor had met him, said nothing.

In fact, Huxley stayed quiet throughout the ordeal, though he seemed to mutter under his breath every now and then.

I focused on Huxley, noting every twitch and shift of his body, my eyes wandering to the strange symbol marked on the back of his hand. He had somehow transformed from a man into a mystery. He made no sense. But it had to make sense, his power--somehow, it had to be explainable. But all I could see was the impossible, sitting on a table and wincing slightly as an old woman pulled glass from his leg.

"My, you really got this lodged in here good. What did you do? Stick your foot through a window?" The old woman tsked at him, shaking her head. "You really must be more careful."

Then, there was Anne, petite with soft wrinkles, her hair pulled back into a long braid. The corners of her lips tilted slightly upward as she worked. She plucked the glass from Huxley's flesh, her hands steady and firm. Once the glass was out, she would have to clean and disinfect the wounds. I scanned the shelves for the appropriate liquid--ah, yes. In the brown bottle.

Anne took the bottle from the shelf, opening it and pouring a bit onto a clean towel.

"This will sting," she warned.

Then the wound would have to be sewn shut. Anne would need thread and a clean hooked needle.

The old woman sewed the Overseer's torn flesh back together, like a tailor mending a jacket.

And finally, the bandages.

"Well, I guess I feel a bit better," Huxley said, attempting to move his injured leg.

"You need to rest now, dear. The leg will heal quicker that way." Anne motioned toward the doorway. "Please, take a seat on the couch, and I will make us some dinner. How does that sound?" Both Huxley and I nodded eagerly. I felt as though I haven't eaten in days, and my mind wandered back to my abandoned potatoes, probably lying scattered and smashed against the cobblestone in the streets of Alder's Court.

My thoughts are interrupted by a small gasp followed by a young voice. "Oh no! He's been hurt! I'll save you, Mister!"

Huxley and I stare at the small girl who has now appeared beside the couch. She studies the Overseer's bandaged leg, poking at it with her finger.

"It seems Gramma has done a good job, as always, but only I can perform the final step!"

The final step?

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for the girl to continue.

"Yes, the fiiiiinal step! Now, stand back!" The girl throws her arms up, her hands waving dramatically in the air. "Your leg shall be HEALED!" Suddenly, the girl approaches Huxley, bending over and folding her hands behind her back before planting a small kiss on the Overseer's bandaged leg.

"There," she says. "By tomorrow at this time, your leg will be fully healed." She smiles and giggles, looking up at Huxley's stunned face.

"Um, thank you," he mumbles. Then, the girl turns to me, her face bright.

"I'm Lynn. What's your name?"

"Eleanor," I reply. I bring my right hand to the back of my head, fidgeting with my ponytail. "That woman, Anne, she's your grandmother?"

"No, that's her name! 'Gramma'."

I look to Huxley, who shrugs, but suddenly his eyes widen, and he stares at the girl as though he remembers her from long ago.

"Are there... other children here, Lynn?"

"What? No! Just me and Gramma."

"And how did you come to live with Gramma?" Huxley's face has turned cold, like stone.

"She rescued me from the masked men. They burned my parents, and they wanted to burn me, too. But then Gramma said I should be an Oracle!"

"You're training to become an Oracle?"

The girl puts a finger to her lips.

"I don't know. After that, Gramma took me here, and now we live here together." Lynn's answer seems to satisfy Huxley. The Overseer sighs, leaning back on the couch.

Dinnertime at Anne's cottage is a scattered and disorganized event. The old woman brings a bowl of stew and a hot roll to Huxley on the couch, while Lynn runs into the kitchen, emerging with another dinner roll tucked into a napkin. I watch as she sets the napkin on the ground, taking a bite of the bread, and then running away again.

"She's energetic." I say as I follow Anne into the kitchen. The woman raises an eyebrow.

"Oh yes, very much so. She must be to bear her burden." Anne says nothing more.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

The old woman smiles, motioning toward the kitchen table.

"Sit, dear. Have some dinner while the bread's still hot."

As I am occupied with my stew, it takes me a while to notice that I eat alone. Once I finish my bowl, I leave the kitchen to check on Huxley, but he seems to be missing as well.

Someone screams from outside. My heart pounding, I rush out the back door.

"Ha ha!" The voices come from a flat stretch of grass just behind the well, one of them belonging to a man and the other to a woman. I approach the scene to witness an old woman, mace in hand, standing victoriously over a battered Overseer.

"You hit me right where I hurt my leg!"

"I know, Overseer. You need to be more careful."

"You deceitful witch!" Huxley's face turns red.

"Oh, come now, dear. Don't be such a so--"

"Don't you tell me what to do!" Huxley stood, pointing a finger in the old woman's face. "I am one of the best Overseers in Dunwall--"

"Yes, one of the best Overseers in Dunwall who stuck his leg through a glass window." I waltz toward the two, lifting an eyebrow.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?" Huxley sighs. "The one mistake I make. Damn it." The Overseer turns away, his fists clenched and his breathing heavy.

It is only then that I realize that Huxley is genuinely upset about the incident. And here I was thinking that he was just some hard-headed Overseer, used to acting before thinking.

"It was just a joke, Huxley, I - " I hesitate. "I apologize if I upset you." I say the words clearly, without emotion, with my head held high, as though I were simply stating a fact about the ocean or whales.

"You do not understand," Huxley replies, his back still turned. "I must not make mistakes such as these. I panicked. I - I'm not supposed to panic."

"Aw, come on. You didn't panic." I try to put on my best reassuring smile. "You're the one who got us here safely, after all."

Huxley stays silent for a moment before turning toward me. He nods.

"I suppose so. The spirits are drawn to me, now that I have fallen so low."

I open my mouth to utter generic reassurance phrase number two, but Huxley continues to speak.

"What is happening to me? Why me?"

"Oh shush, child," says Anne. Her words seem to break the strange spell that bound both Huxley and me just moments ago.

"I am no child, old woman." Huxley turns toward her.

"Then stop whining." The wrinkles on Anne's face move as she twists her mouth.

Lynn has wandered out the back door and makes her way toward us. I can't help but notice that the girl's attention is fixated on Overseer Huxley.

"It's because you're interesting," she says. Both Huxley and I turn to her, puzzled.

"What are you talking about?" Huxley asks.

"You wanted to know why it was you who was chosen. It's because you're interesting." Lynn smiles, looking up at the Overseer.

"By who? The Outsider?" I ask sarcastically. Before Lynn can answer, Anne speaks once again.

"Oh no, not more Outsider talk, Lynn. We've discussed this before."

"But - "

"So, you don't believe in all the Abbey nonsense? Even though you're an Oracle?" I cut Lynn off before she can speak.

"I was an Oracle," Anne replies. "I am not an Oracle anymore."

"And why is that?" Huxley seems to have returned to his normal self. "Has the Outsider made you stray from your path?"

Anne chuckles.

"If there were one, I suppose you could say that he did. But I do not believe the Outsider exists, so--"

Huxley gasps, his eyes wide. He takes a step backward.

"How, how did this happen?"

"It happened over time, dear. With much study, observation, and meditation. I realized that many of the incidents supposedly caused by the Outsider could be explained in normal, natural ways. I'm certainly not denying the existence of spirits. Perhaps they are here, working with nature at this very moment, but the Outsider--"

"The Outsider is not natural, so how can you say for sure if he's real or not?" Huxley spits.

Anne shrugs.

"I can't really say anything for sure, but I know I've seen more damage done by the idea of the Outsider than by the Outsider himself."

"Which is why we try to--"

"Yes, you warn the public against him, but how do you know anything about him? Have you met the Outsider?" Anne asks.

"No, but High Overseer Perry--"

"--was high as a kite, most days."

Huxley's jaw drops.

"Wh-what? You can't say that about him!" He sputters.

"There's a certain plant from Pandyssia--very closely related to Oxrush, but with certain side effects... "

"High Overseer Perry would never--"

"High Overseer Perry did, High Overseer Gainford did, and many High Oracles, as well. Ha! In my chapel many of us smoked at least once a week, though not for recreation--mostly." Anne's eyes crinkle, the corners of her lips turning upward.

I watch Huxley's face, attempting to hold back the smirk that so desperately wants to form on my own. But his expression is priceless. I've never seen that much emotion on an Overseer's face, though I admit, Huxley is the only one I've seen without his mask.

"So, basically," I start. "You're saying that the entire Abbey is made up of plant-heads. The same Abbey that's allowed to kidnap and kill people."

Anne notes my smug expression, her face darkening.

"You can just wipe that smirk off your face right now, young lady," she says, putting her hands on her hips. "The Abbey is a complicated institution filled with corrupt men. It's the women who make the policy, but the men carry it out. Needless to say, much gets lost in translation."

"But why don't you just tell them the truth?" I ask.

"The truth? What are the Oracles supposed to say? 'Perhaps there is no such thing as the Outsider, and our entire religion is a sham.' Ha! We'd be branded as heretics, Oracles or not. And then all of our work will have been in vain. What I want is for religion and natural philosophy to work together. Imagine what we could accomplish!"

"We already do. The Abbey encourages new technology, for it eliminates the need for magic--" Huxley resumes his Overseer demeanor.

"Yes, I understand that the Abbey loves all the new technology that's been popping up these days. But, do you even know how any of it works? Do you even know how nature works?" Anne eyes Huxley, waiting for an answer.

"Do you?"

Anne shrugs.

"I only know what I've studied, and the information we do have is far from the whole picture. The world is a humongous place, you know. Filled will all kinds of things, from the biggest trees to the tiny creatures we can't even see with our own eyes."

Huxley turns toward me with a questioning look.

"It's true," I confirm.

"But if there are creatures we cannot see with our eyes, then how can you deny the Outsider's existence?"

"I simply haven't seen any evidence that suggests the Outsider is a real being. I have seen magic, but not the Outsider."

Huxley's face has turned red.

"But the Outsider is real!"

"Oh, sure he is," Anne says, waving her hand. "And all Oracles are blind and pure. The Outsider is simply a myth to make the populus behave."

"Then, how did I get this?" Huxley holds out his hand.

"I don't know," Anne says, shrugging, "But I'm sure it can be explained if the natural philosophists are up to it." The old woman eyes me briefly. "That is, if they're not too stubborn. Magic is just another part of nature, you know."

"Of course The Outsider exists!" Lynn interjects. The small girl has been standing quietly, forgotten in the debate. "How else could he have gotten here?" The little girl stamps her foot in the grass and points at Huxley's hand. "I believe you, Mister Huxley."

Huxley acknowledges the girl with a slight nod, but he is not done with Anne.

"Then who makes the magic?" Huxley folds his arms over his chest.

"Who makes anything natural? It simply is, just as a tree, it is natural," Anne replies.

"There you go again! Natural? Ha!" Huxley puts a hand to his forehead. "Magic is anything but natural. I know this from experience."

"Mommy was a witch. Daddy was a witch. They burned together, screaming in the fiery pit!" Lynn recites. She turns to Huxley. There is no sorrow in her eyes. "Gramma is a witch, but the good kind."

"I've taken note," Huxley replies, his eyes locked on the old woman. "But there are no good witches. Remember that."

All of this talk about magic makes my head hurt, and I find myself wanting to be back at the Academy, where every problem has a solution. Where every question has an answer.

"You know what, Huxley?" I say suddenly. The Overseer and Anne fall silent, turning toward me. "You're right. You've been right all along."

Huxley's eyes widen.

"I - I was?" he sputters.

"Yes. You were right to turn to the Academy to answer your question. I admit it, okay? If you haven't been drugging me or something this entire time--" Somehow, I doubt Huxley's intelligence when it comes to such manipulation. "--then you transported us instantaneously from that warehouse to this cottage. My guess is that you've stumbled upon some sort of advanced technology." I note the smile that has formed on Anne's face. "If we're going to figure out what's happening with you, we're going to need someone with a better understanding of it, and I think I know who we can talk to."

We make our way inside the cottage, exhausted from our talk, but Lynn is not even nearly done. She stands next to Huxley, hopping her way through the back door as she holds on to the Overseer's hand.

"I think that the Outsider is just bored, all alone in the Void. He has all that magic and nothing to use it on! If I had magic, I'd give some of it to my friends, and we could use it on people--spank the bad men with brooms and give candies to all the good children. I'd give some to you, Mister Huxley, to catch all the bad witches, like Mommy and Daddy, and burn them so that they'll never hurt anyone ever again! And Miss Ellie-nor, I'd give you powers so you can bring lights to every place in the whole Empire - and Pandyssia, too - and nobody would ever have to kill a whale ever again, and the whales would live free and sing their pretty songs with the birds. And then I'd ride one of them!" She adds.

I chuckle briefly, but then stop, turning my head toward the girl.

"How did you know that? That I'm trying to make cruelty-free and renewable energy?"

Lynn looks up at me with wide eyes.

"When I look at you, I can see the lights," she answers.

Huxley leaves to put Lynn to bed - the girl refuses to let go of his hand - and I am left alone in the living room.

I find myself on the couch staring into the lit fireplace. The flames dance, wood and bright ash crackling beneath them... almost like magic.

Having escaped Lynn for a while, Huxley enters the room, hobbling toward me. He sighs, taking a seat.

"I would have killed you," he starts.

"What?" I reply. "What do you mean?"

"I would have killed you by now - or at least I would have turned you in to be detained by the Abbey until you confessed to your crimes." Huxley's face is turned toward the fireplace.

"My crimes? What did I do?"

"In the eyes of the Abbey, everyone is guilty. Everyone deserves to be burned," the Overseer murmurs.

I scoff.

"Well, I could've told you that. Like I said before - I've known people who have been -"

"--Yes, I know, I know." Huxley waves his hand briefly. "But you wouldn't be here, and Anne would be dead, and Lynn - I would have killed her, too. Evil lurks in even the most innocent of places, and I've seen it." Huxley's eyes lock onto mine, turning my skin cold. "I know you don't believe me Eleanor, but I've seen horrible things. People just do the most awful things when given power over others."

"I know," I reply, my eyes meeting his gaze. I can see the uneasiness that has formed on the Overseer's face. He knows exactly who I am referring to. We turn away from each other.

"So, we're going tomorrow?" Huxley asks, changing the topic.

"Yeah, we'll go tomorrow," I confirm.

I am more than elated to finally be able to go to bed after such a long and strange day. Anne shows me to the guest room.

"Your Overseer friend can sleep on the couch," she says with a wink. "I think I like you more than him, so far."

She does? She's hardly said a word to me this entire night. Mostly she just argued with Huxley.

Once Anne has left, I decide to wash the day's dirt and grime off of my skin. A wash basin and towel has been left on the dresser, and I sigh, holding the damp cloth to my face.

I hear a giggle in the room next to mine. Lynn's room. It is followed by Huxley's deep voice. I thought Huxley had put Lynn to be already, but the voices are unmistakably theirs. Perhaps I should check on them - make sure Lynn's okay. She seems to have taken to Huxley quite quickly, but I worry that the Overseer will feed her nothing but Abbey propaganda.

I sneak into the hall, walking on the balls of my feet, until I near the door to Lynn's bedroom. The door is cracked open, giving me a way to look inside. It seems as though the two are having a pleasant conversation, Lynn sitting up in bed, and Huxley half-sitting half-squatting near her in a chair that is far too small for him.

It feels wrong to spy on them, but the girl piques my interest more than anything. She is an enigma--something to be studied so that she will make sense within the laws of the world.

Lynn waves her hand in the air, her lips curling upward into a smile.

"Who are you waving at?" Huxley asks, scanning the room.

No doubt, one of the many spirits that roam around us, I think sarcastically.

"I'm waving at the Outsider, to say goodnight."

"You can see him?" Huxley asks, leaning forward.

"No, but he's watching. I can feel it." Lynn's eyes scan the room.

"Does he watch you all the time?"

"No, he's never watched me," Lynn answers.

"This is the first time he's ever watched you?" The wood creaks as Huxley shifts in the small chair, leaning his weight forward, but Lynn is more than happy to answer, her words as clear to me as they are to Huxley.

"He's not watching because of me, silly! It's because you're here. He's watching you! He watches you all the time."

I shudder, turning from the door and tip-toing back to my room.

Once my head hits the pillow, the lights are extinguished all at once, and in my dream is not the handsome black-eyed young man, but a young girl with dark hair. Lynn. There is wisdom in her eyes.

"You have to go back," she whispers, her form fading and then disappearing into the empty blue of the Void.

#dishonored #dishonored fanfiction #wtlm #where the lights mingle #essie-essex

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pen-of-dunwall · 10 years ago

Text

Sworn to Protect

by mataalturtle

One of my friends suggested that I write an AU where Corvo has to end up killing a grown-up Emily in the High Chaos ending.

Warnings: Major character death, suicide

Emily Kaldwin had ascended the throne in her youth upon a pile of corpses left behind by a vengeful spirit of the Void, an assassin with a skull for a face and a cloak made of the blood of those he’d slain. The assassin who’d aided Emily in her ascension was unmasked at her coronation and revealed to be Corvo Attano, and the young Empress’s first act was to pardon the Serkonan of all crimes – both those he had not committed and those that weighed heavily on his heart alike. Reinstalled as the Lord Protector, Corvo was tasked with guarding the child Empress, standing at her side as she began a bloody reign of tyranny, casting a dark shadow over the once revered Kaldwin name.

As Emily grew, so did her tyranny. The people of the Empire dared not speak against her for fear of invoking her wrath in all corners of the Empire, even in their own homes where only the shadows and walls were present to hear their hushed whispers. The Empress inflicted harsh punishment with little warning, sending many officials who dared oppose her to the gallows or the executioner’s block for the smallest of offenses. Any who made attempts on the Empress’s life was lucky if Corvo cut them down where they stood, for those who survived were sent to Coldridge, made to endure the same horrors Corvo himself once suffered for six months before being publicly executed, the headsman’s axe a mercy after all that had been inflicted upon them. Emily saw enemies everywhere, both real and imaginary; in her court, whom many would rather be dead than a part of, in the city of Dunwall where she resided, even in the shadows where nothing but dust resided. Emily’s paranoia only grew stronger with each passing year, and with it, her wrath.

As Emily aged, growing into a fair young woman, then becoming a lady approaching her middle age, Lord Protector Corvo Attano, too, grew older. The crimes in his heart and his weariness of his Empress’s tyrannical rule aged him beyond his sixty-nine years. His dark brown hair turned as white as sea foam and his face paled, skin darkening around the eyes in a permanent expression of exhaustion, wrinkles marring a face once considered handsome. Corvo could still wield a blade, should the occasion call for it — he had fended off many attackers seeking Empress Emily’s life — and yet, he had grown weary of it. Enough blood had been spilled, he thought, enough lives had been cut needlessly short. Emily left behind her a path of corpses, much like Corvo had before her, and all Corvo wished for, with every fiber of his being, was for the needless death to come to an end. However, it seemed that the death would only cease if Emily’s own life came to a close.

Corvo refused to admit it in the beginning. Turning his blade on Emily, for whom he had fought so hard, was a crime so vile that he didn’t dare dream of it, pushing the dark thoughts from his mind as soon as they came to light. Emily was more than Corvo’s charge; he’d fathered her, protected her and raised her up from birth, watched as she blossomed into a bright young girl and as the death of her mother and the decay of Dunwall turned her innocent child’s spirit into something much darker, something that invoked fear in others and yet was afraid for itself. Corvo loved her, loved her with all of his heart; a father’s love for his daughter never waned, even after the horrors of Coldridge mangled his soul and turned him into a creature thirsting for blood. However, despite his love for her, despite all that he had done in her name, Corvo wasn’t blind to what Emily had become; a blight upon the Empire, a tyrannical horror whom many were too afraid to curse even in secret. And this was something Corvo couldn’t bear to subject the Empire to; for despite how much he cared for Emily, he cared for the Empire and its people just as much, his thirst for blood subsiding with age. As time went on, Corvo pondered more and more on what to do, on how to end this problem of tyranny — and, more and more, Corvo’s mind turned to turning his blade on she whom he loved most.

Corvo’s window of opportunity was closing swiftly, this much he knew; the weakening Serkonan would not live for much longer, and Emily, if kept safe, could outlive him by many decades. The Lord Protector, therefore, finally decided to act. It was the second day of the Month of Rain — Emily’s birthday — when he persuaded her to dine in her quarters, alone with him, rather than in the safe house among the other guards. Corvo was the only person whom Emily truly trusted, and so convincing her to take supper with him and only him took little effort. Corvo arranged to have their meal delivered to them in Emily’s quarters at nine, and the Lord Protector met his Empress there fifteen minutes before supper was due.

Corvo, dressed in his Lord Protector’s uniform, walked into Emily’s quarters to see her standing before her mirror and tugging a brush through her long, dark brown hair, working out the artificial curls and tangles — so much like her mother, Corvo thought to himself. The woman was dressed in a pale blue nightgown, her feet bare on the marble floor. Emily turned and glanced over her shoulder as Corvo entered the room; her makeup, which had been so carefully applied earlier that morning, had been washed off, revealing premature wrinkles around her mouth, nose, and eyes, the exhaustion that seemed permanently settled on her features. Living in constant paranoia was a tiring way to live, aiding in Emily’s premature aging. All of the added years on her face, however, seemed to vanish as she smiled, a sincere, warm expression much unlike the cold, stoic mask that so often graced her features during the day.

“Good evening, Corvo,” Emily greeted in a light voice — a tone she only adopted in Corvo’s presence — as she turned fully to face the Lord Protector. She held the brush at her side, her slender fingers playing with the handle. Emily could never keep her hands still, Corvo observed with sad amusement.

The Serkonan forced a smile on his lips and bowed shallowly in greeting, remaining formal even in private. It was an act ingrained in his psyche, a reflex, almost, when greeting the Empress. In the past, he had always been required to show the proper respect to Emily and her mother despite how close they were. “Good evening,” he replied, his now-hoarse voice still carrying the honeyed weight of a thick Serkonan accent. At his bow, Emily laughed; a light laugh, a laugh that brought back memories of happier days. Corvo’s heart ached at the sound.

“You don’t need to be so formal with me, Corvo,” Emily stated, gesturing to the table and chairs that had been brought into her quarters from the other room. “Come, sit.”

Corvo nodded in acknowledgement and walked over to the table, taking a seat upon one of the chairs. Wine had already been brought in — a new bottle, for Emily never drank from a bottle that had already been opened — and beside the bottle stood two wine glasses, their crystal rims lined with gold leaf. The wine was a Tyvian vintage, one of Emily’s favorites, the dark red liquid glimmering in the bright light of Emily’s quarters.

Another, smaller object weighed down in Corvo’s pocket, and on his heart as well; it was a little bottle filled with a clear liquid, poison imported from Tyvia, much like the wine he and Emily would share tonight. It was the same poison that the Loyalists had used in their attempt to kill him after the Lord Regent’s death; a sweet liquid that blended perfectly — too perfectly — with Tyvian wine. It was nearly undetectable, its effects going unnoticed until it was too late to attempt to prevent death. Corvo had it smuggled in at great personal expense, and now the little bottle was in his possession, its contents ready for use. Corvo would have to find a way to sneak it into Emily’s glass — not an easy task, but one Corvo had done before.

Emily sat down across from Corvo, sighing softly as she settled into her seat. The Empress had left her brush on her dresser, and now she ran her fingers through her hair, tilting her head to the side. She glanced over at her Lord Protector, who quickly met her gaze; Corvo didn’t want to give Emily reason to be suspicious. Even for Corvo it was easy for him to arouse Emily’s suspicions, her paranoia eating at her mind.

“I decided that I will retire immediately after dinner,” Emily said, explaining her choice of dress for supper. She gestured down at her nightgown with both hands. “I hope that you don’t mind me wearing this to supper.”

“Not at all,” Corvo assured his charge, allowing the nightgown a quick glance. It was a short-sleeved garment, the collar and the ends of the puffed sleeves lined with dark blue lace. It had been custom-made, commissioned from a seamstress in one of the richer districts in Dunwall. It was nothing like the handiwork of the old tailor who once sewed the formal attire of the late Empress Jessamine and her daughter, but it was a fine garment all the same. Corvo didn’t allow himself to admire it, though, instead shifting his gaze to the wine bottle on the table.

Emily rested her hands on the table, impatient tapping her fingers against the dark wood. She was always restless; in her childhood she channeled her energy into art, painting vivid pictures that turned darker after her mother’s death. Now, she simply fidgeted anxiously, her fingers always searching for something to fiddle with. Corvo missed the days where she painted dearly, even the days when her beautiful pictures began to take a dark turn. The Empress of the Isles pursed her lips, obviously searching for something to say.

“I assume that you wanted to talk in private with me, considering that you wanted to dine alone with me,” Emily finally murmured, reaching over and grabbing one of the wine glasses. Corvo watched her slender fingers run along the golden rim, her nails scraping gently against the crystal.

“You know I was never one for talking, Emily,” the Serkonan replied smoothly, resisting the urge to reach into his pocket and feel for the vial of poison. “I simply wanted to have a quiet supper with you; it is your birthday, after all.” He forced another smile, his cheeks feeling heavy.

A small smile ghosted across Emily’s lips. “Of course,” she said softly, looking down at the wine glass in her hand. With her other hand, she pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Corvo swallowed thickly and stared down at the table, resting his hands in his lap so that he could fidget without being seen. A knot formed in his gut as he thought of what he would have to do tonight — it seemed so much easier simply thinking about it in the darkness and privacy of his own thoughts, but now, here, sitting before Emily, the reality of what he was to do finally dawned on him. All of Corvo’s effort went into trying not to visibly tremble.

A few moments passed and there was a knock on the door. Emily immediately set down her wine glass and looked up, sitting up straight and raising her chin.

“Come in,” the middle-aged woman commanded, her voice adopting a cold tone. Corvo simply sat in silence, pursing his lips and straightening his posture as much as he could bear. A small, painful twinge shot up his spine at the action; his back had been bothering him for a while now.

The door opened, revealing a guard and a servant girl carrying a tray. The guard held the door open for the servant girl as she hurried into Emily’s quarters, casting her gaze to the floor without daring to look her Empress in the eye. Quickly and silently she set the tray down on Emily’s desk and picked up two platters, one in each hand, and carried them over to the table where the Empress and her Lord Protector sat. Salmon and vegetables was tonight’s supper — the salmon being one of Emily’s favorite dishes. The servant girl set the platters down before the two sitting at the table, then bowed deeply in the direction of the Empress.

“Stay where you are,” Emily growled at the servant girl and the guard at the door before turning to Corvo, gesturing at the platters before them. “Corvo?”

Corvo was always in charge of tasting Emily’s food to check for poison; Emily would trust no one else to do the deed, suspecting all of her previous taste-testers of keeping antidotes on them or hiding food rather than swallowing it. Corvo picked up a fork that had come with his platter and stood, walking over to Emily’s side. He speared a corner off of the salmon and tasted it, along with the vegetables on the platter. He let the food sit in his mouth for a while, searching for any odd taste, before swallowing; all seemed well, and the servant and guard were dismissed, once again leaving Emily and her Lord Protector in privacy.

“Will you pour the wine?” Emily asked, shedding the ice cold tone from her voice and nodding at the bottle on the table once Corvo was once again seated. The Serkonan nodded wordlessly and reached over for the bottle, grabbing it and pulling the cork before pouring the red liquid into each of their glasses.

It’s now or never, Corvo thought to himself as he poured wine into Emily’s glass, staring at the stream of liquid trickling into the glass. He briefly considered using the powers the Outsider had given him, but their strength waned as he grew older — and besides, the glow of Corvo’s Mark on his bare hand immediately before and after the use of his abilities would give him away to Emily. Swallowing thickly, Corvo set down the bottle of wine once Emily’s glass was full and reached into his pocket.

“If you’ll just wait a moment,” Corvo muttered, pulling the little bottle from his pocket.

“What is that?” Emily demanded, suspiciously eyeing the bottle in Corvo’s hand. The Serkonan drew a deep breath, deciding how he could play this off.

“The Royal Physician suggested that I give you this tonic,” Corvo lied. “It’s a sleep aid, so that you can rest through the night.” He pulled the cork on the bottle and reached across the table for Emily’s glass. “I’ve been using it for a while now,” he added, “And it works rather well.”

Emily pursed her lips, watching but saying and doing nothing as Corvo took her glass and poured a generous amount of liquid into the wine. Only a small amount would be enough to put an end to the Empress’s life; she wasn’t as resilient against the poison as Corvo was, and wouldn’t survive nearly the amount that he had in the past. The Serkonan thanked the stars that Emily trusted him as much as she did; if anyone else had tried to put something in her food, claiming it was medicine, she would have Corvo cut them down on the spot, even if it was the Royal Physician himself administering it.

“I suppose I can try it,” she grumbled. “Must it go into the wine?”

“Yes,” Corvo replied. “This is why I have a glass each night.” A blatant lie, but Emily was never around to watch Corvo prepare for bed. She was always locked in her quarters by the time Corvo even began to consider sleep.

“Will you have some?”

It was all Corvo could do to keep from freezing in his spot, simply setting Emily’s glass in front of her without looking her in the eye. “Of course,” he replied as smoothly as he could manage, forcing himself to look up into Emily’s face. Her expression was unsure, the light in her eyes cautious with the slightest hint of suspicion. Without breaking eye contact, Corvo poured the rest of the poison into his glass, emptying the bottle and setting it on the table next to the taller bottle of wine.

“You must let it sit,” the Serkonan said. “The medicine gets stronger if you leave it in for a little while. Come, eat.”

The two began to eat in silence, with Emily quietly enjoying the birthday supper presented to her. Corvo ate slowly, the food tasting like ash on his tongue and catching in his throat with almost every swallow. He wanted to reach for his wine, but no, it was laced with poison — if he drank now, the poison would begin to take effect before Emily could drink her own wine, and she would live while Corvo died, failing at his task. So he waited, simply eating in dreadful silence as the moments slipped by. Emily seemed to be enjoying herself; for even though she wasn’t engaging in conversation, she seemed to be enjoying Corvo’s presence, finding happiness in this private moment with him.

“You can drink now, if you wish,” Corvo said once Emily was almost done with her meal. As she reached for her wine glass, he added, “Drink slowly; if you drink it too fast, it will make you feel ill.”

“Is that so?” Emily questioned, raising the glass to her lips and taking a sip. Corvo felt his heart skip a beat, his breath catching in his throat; he wanted to scream, to grab the glass from Emily’s hand and fling it across the room, to keep her from drinking the deadly brew, but no. This had to be done. This was for the Empire, and for her. Emily couldn’t live in fear, and her Empire couldn’t last much longer under her wrath. Corvo’s gut twisted into a knot, illness settling in his stomach.

Corvo wordlessly nodded, watching as Emily swallowed her sip of wine and set the glass down again. “It’s a bit sweet,” the Empress remarked, returning to her salmon. “I thought this wine was drier?”

“The medicine changes its taste slightly,” Corvo muttered, staring down at his plate. He didn’t want to eat, but he forced himself to spear a mouthful of something — anything — with his fork and shove it into his mouth. He chewed until what was in his mouth was nothing but tasteless paste before swallowing, refusing to look up.

Emily drank some more, taking a sip with every few bites of food. She’d finished half the glass of wine when Corvo looked up and noticed that her pale face looked a bit paler, her hands shaking as she lifted her fork to her mouth. The poison was kicking in, Corvo knew it. Soon she would be dizzy, and then —

“I feel a bit ill,” Emily said, letting her fork drop back on her plate. She began to stand, slowly lifting herself from her chair. Corvo could see that it took a great deal of effort for her to keep herself steady. “I think… I think I’m going to go ahead to bed…”

Corvo immediately stood, walking over to Emily’s side. “Here,” he murmured, taking her arm in his hand and leading her over to her bed. “I’ll —” His voice caught in his throat, and he tried to swallow. His mouth tasted like cotton. “I’ll have the servants come and clean up the food.”

Emily opened her mouth to reply, but not a single sound passed over her lips before she stumbled and fell, Corvo barely catching her before she collapsed onto the marble floor. The Empress cried out, then groaned; the sound ripped through Corvo like a blade, his arms shaking as he carried her to her bed and gently set her down. This was it; the poison was taking its toll.

“Corvo?” Emily’s hands fumbled for the front of Corvo’s coat as he set her down, her fingers curling into the thick, dark fabric. Her voice wavered, going shrill with growing fear. “Corvo?! I can’t — Everything is —!” Her grip on Corvo’s coat was like iron, however her hands trembled violently — whether from fear, or from the poison, or both, Corvo couldn’t say.

“Hush,” Corvo murmured, sitting down on the bed beside Emily and holding her in his arms. The woman looked up at him with wide, frightened dark brown eyes, her pupils blown wide. The Serkonan immediately recalled Jessamine on the day she died, the same look of desperation and terror on her face as her life slipped from her, her lips moving as she begged Corvo — Find Emily. Protect her!

A hot, wet pressure began to build behind Corvo’s eyes. He held Emily closer, feeling something trickle down his cheek. “It’s going to be alright, Emily,” he whispered in a weak, hoarse voice as the woman in his arms began to whimper, in pain and terrified, closing his eyes and turning his face upwards. “I promise.”

The Empress began to cough, the sound wet and invoking pain in Corvo himself. He could almost feel the ache in his chest and throat, the same pain Emily herself no doubt was feeling, as the coughs became stronger and more violent, wracking her slender frame with great force. Emily pressed her face into Corvo’s chest, her grip on his coat becoming weaker and weaker with each passing moment. She began to choke out Corvo’s name; she couldn’t say anything else, but Corvo knew in his heart what she wanted to say. Why? Why would you betray me like this? Why did you lie?

Emily’s hands dropped from Corvo’s chest, and Corvo immediately regretted his instinctive glance downward; the woman’s pale face had turned purple, her lips as blue as the Void, and her hands had gone up to her throat, clawing wildly there. She was trying to vomit, that much Corvo could tell – the death Tyvian poison brought on was swift, but far from painless. Corvo saw flecks of red appear on her lips and looked away again, unable to bear the sight.

The coughing and struggling eventually subsided into rasping as Emily struggled for breath, going limp in Corvo’s arms. Corvo’s jaw clenched as he fought back an anguished cry as Emily’s breathing finally stopped entirely, her wheezing coming to a sudden halt. The Serkonan felt his tears pouring down his cheeks now, hot against his cold face, dripping down onto his clothes and onto the pale fabric of Emily’s nightgown. It seemed to be ages before he could bring himself to untangle her corpse from his arms and gently lay her to rest on the bed, retreating back to the table and sitting down where he had taken his supper earlier.

The tears stopped eventually and Corvo simply sat and stared, gazing off into the Void as the clock on Emily’s dresser ticked away the seconds that crawled by. Each moment felt like an age, the Serkonan’s entire being heavy with grief at what he’d done. He was beyond crying now, beyond his urges to scream and claw at himself, to tear at his skin and rip the agony from his soul. All he could bear to do was sit, his mind both wild with thoughts that slipped by without making themselves fully known and, somehow, painfully blank.

The Kaldwins were all Corvo lived for. When he was eighteen he was brought to protect the then-twelve-year-old Jessamine Kaldwin, and when Emily was born, she, too, became his charge. His only purpose was to protect them. Corvo had failed at protecting Jessamine, the woman he loved dying in his arms as she bled onto the marble of the pavilion, and now Emily was gone, her corpse lying on the bed to be discovered by the guards. Perhaps this was a mistake — perhaps a tyrannical ruler was better than none at all — but Corvo found that he didn’t particularly care anymore. He work he had done all of his life was over. Finished. Jessamine was dead, Emily was dead, and Corvo may as well have died with them.

Eventually, Corvo’s gaze shifted over to the glasses of wine on the table. Emily’s glass was half empty, but Corvo’s glass was untouched. His wine, too, was poisoned, sitting there in the crystal glass with an almost sinister air about it. Without thinking, without considering what he was doing, the Lord Protector reached over and picked up the glass, lifting it to his lips and downing as much as he could. Then he set the glass back down on the table and stared back off into space, waiting for death to claim him like it had Emily.

It came swiftly for Corvo, the effects hitting him with full force; the old man doubled over in agony, knocking over the wine glass on the table as he fell to the floor, gasping for air. His stomach twisted and churned as if someone had stabbed him and twisted the blade, his skin feeling too hot and too cold at the same time. His vision blurred and went black, and when he began to cough violently, the sounds he made sounded far away, as if someone else was coughing and Corvo was standing several yards away. Tears sprang once more from Corvo’s eyes, dripping down his face and onto the marble floor below. The poison ripped through him like fire, burning through every fiber of his being.

Emily. Corvo lifted his head, wheezing and coughing, his lips sticky and wet and a metallic taste coating the inside of his mouth. Emily was still lying on the bed as if she were asleep — oh, Outsider, she’s only asleep, let her only be asleep — and Corvo found himself trying to drag himself in her direction, reaching for her. Emily, the girl he’d protected all her life, his daughter, not only by blood but by love, if only he can hold her one more time, stroke her hair, see her smile, hear her laugh… If only he’d done better for her, then maybe it didn’t have to end like this —

Corvo slumped against the floor, struggling to inhale. Each breath brought a stabbing pain into his lungs and it was all Corvo could do to keep his eyes open —

He could hear voices. Jessamine, welcoming him home from his journeys to the farther reaches of the Isles. Emily, small child, crying with joy, Corvo, you’re back! All of the laughter of the past shared with Emily, the sweet nothings whispered in the darkness of night with Jessamine, her hair smelling of sweet perfume and wine on her lips.

It’s a fair wind that brings you home to me.

Corvo’s eyes slipped shut, warmth washing over him as his trembling body slowly stilled. He could smell sea salt, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth turning sweet, like Serkonan wine —

Corvo… Let me whisper something in your ear… I love you!

#mataalturtle #corvo attano #dishonored #emily kaldwin #pen of dunwall #submission

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