#kaldwinqueen

[onewhoturns]

pt 1 - A Request

Okay guys, here’s part one of this RP with @kaldwinqueen. It’s almost 90 pages now, and still going, and I’m enjoying it immensely so I figured I’d share. You can also find it over on AO3 if you want to leave some love. I wrote Emily, @kaldwinqueen wrote the Outsider. [If you’re having formatting issues, click through to keep reading and it should fix.]

There was something heavy in the air tonight and it wasn't just the daunting knowledge of his impending demise weighing on his shoulders. Rarely did The Outsider consider what the world around him felt like. He did not think to feel, only perceive. He did not think to see, for he already understood. Even if he thought to see, he would view through muddied waters, cracked glass, fragments of his humanity. But the idea of the end put a new perspective on things.

Emily's study was different. The coup had changed it. Not that it wasn't clean and tidy, but the coup had changed the whole of Dunwall Tower. Something was different, even if everything had been arranged to how it had been before. The presence of witchcraft lingered and the Void scratched at the surface here, where it had been prominent only months before. It was like a wound in the fabric of reality that was only just now healing, sewing sinews of what once was back together to create a patchy tapestry that he knew he wouldn't be alive to witness in all its tattered glory.

He dragged his finger along one of the two glasses he'd brought out from beneath the desk, shimmering and intricate. It was a brandy he'd chosen. Not that he could really taste the stuff. A Tyvian vintage. He knew Emily's schedule like the back of his hand. And it was right around this time that she'd sit down at her desk and grumble to herself over piles of paperwork. But he hoped she could entertain him for just one more night.

It was the same every day. Constantly papers, and ring kisses, and being told how not to speak to people and how not to offend anyone and - oh don’t even mention all the bloody signatures. Primarily construction, rebuilding all that the coup had destroyed, but there were also budgets and schedules and approvals of delegations to the other Isles…

Emily straightened her back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Calm. The day was nearly over. Now she was free of the constant buzz of surrounding advisors and attendants and... She breathed out. Free of the crowds. On her own. Just another night of the joy of being an empress.

That thought brought a small wry smile to her lips. What a joy it was, truly.

Regardless: now, at least, she would be alone. And she could take off these damned gloves.

Into her suite, door closed, gloves off -- it was a ritual she’d begun to cherish the longer she had to hide her Mark. It itched to be free. She traced the pattern idly with her free hand as she turned to her desk-

“Fucking hells-” She cut herself short, a hand raised to her her chest in surprise. God of the Void. It was - well, the god of the Void. ...Why? Her eyes shot to him, immediately suspicious. She found it hard to speak at first. He always did that to her - or maybe it was just the aftereffect of the Void, stealing her focus and making her mind wander to mystical and entirely incomprehensible planes. It left her speechless.

She shook her head, trying to clear the call of the Void, and leveled her stare on the black-eyed god, voice steady, if a little on edge. “Why are you here?”

Against the warmth of the flickering shades cast outwards from the fireplace and the candle lit on the windowsill, and the shimmer of little crystal glasses, he contrasted greatly. His form always tugged at the shadows he sat against. They licked at his boots and accentuated his figure, aiding in the air of mystery that typically followed him wherever he went. But here it was just odd.

Here was a boy -- no, of course not; here was a god, sitting against her desk with a bottle of brandy and two cups at the ready. His expression was no different than the one he wore between those brief escapades trudging through Serkonan back alleys, running into the pale lavender glow of whale lamps lining wooden shrines. But he could not see himself. His reflection was a blur to him, he could not determine the way he appeared to her. So in that way, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

And perhaps just the slightest bit of nervousness as well.

"My my, dear Emily Kaldwin, it's a surprise to hear such foul language from an empress. I wonder what the members of the court would think, how they'd react if you made such a slip in their presence. Would they frown upon you? For being human? Or would they laugh and scoff in that posh way so characteristic of upper nobility?" He leaned back on his hand, dark brows furrowing thoughtfully.

Seeing the Void god in her own quarters was astounding to say the least. She opened her mouth once, as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind, and she closed it soon after, forehead creasing in befuddlement. The last time she’d seen him anywhere other than the Void he’d given her the way-too-powerful-to-bestow-upon-a-25-year-old tool that allowed her to move between times.

Not that the other powers of her Mark were any more appropriate. She glanced at her hand as it itched again, and found it faintly glowing. It irritated her. His patronizing tone didn’t help.

Half of her felt the need to roll her eyes at his statements. Cryptic bastard. Then again… She straightened her spine, raised her chin, put on her Empress face. “You’ll excuse me if I’m a bit…” She debated the right word. “...Crude.” Her lips pursed, eyes sharp as they fell on the god again, and her words were the slightest bit sardonic. “I only ever seem to see you when you need me to dispose of someone.”

Her eyes flicked over his form, looking for any kind of clue, but she found nothing unusual. If one considered the flecks of Void echoes and smoke to be the “usual.” What she did find odd were the glasses set before him. Two of them. Her head cocked to the side almost imperceptibly. Was he expecting another guest, or was this some kind of elaborate introduction to whatever her next mission might be? Surely he wasn’t just… offering her a drink? No, that would be… Just the thought of it made the corner of her lips twitch. Ridiculous. Truly ridiculous. The Outsider himself sitting down for a drink in the private quarters of the Empress of the Isles. The most blasphemous of events, truly.

The Outsider’s eyes glanced over her figure, amusement flickering over his features for a moment. He even almost chuckled, though the sound wouldn't have escaped him, for he felt no need to breathe. It would have been odd and rigid, stiffly opening his mouth with the corner of his lips curving upwards and leaving him with a silently stupid look on his face, as though he'd braced himself for a sneeze that just didn't quite get the message and left him hanging there, waiting. So he stared at her instead, unblinking, almost deadpan as he poured them both a considerable amount of golden liquor.

"Dispose wouldn't be quite the terminology I'd use. Perhaps... proposition. Which, in that case, you would not be wrong in assuming that I have come with yet another proposition in mind. Though this one is different, admittedly, requiring far less skill, far less perception, agility -- all of the things that ready you for combat and keep you steadfast on your feet." His gaze turned downwards and his fingertips traveled along the length of the desk but he did not feel the texture. His motions were slow, smooth and oddly sensual.

It was something he craved. The sensations lingered, memories swimming aimlessly through his mind. He knew what it should have felt like: rough on the bottom, smooth along the top where it had been so carefully polished to Tower standard. But he did not experience it, not through his own right. He felt something stir within him, as he always did when he pondered over that particular loss. Anger. He'd come to recognize it as a bitter frustration, he could not change the past but the past had changed him. Irreparably so. He turned his gaze back up to her, but hidden in his features was just the faintest traces of trepidation.

Emily’s eyes flicked from the Outsider, to the glasses, and back to the Outsider. His black stare was intense. She’d be lying if she tried to claim his gaze was comforting. But she didn’t exactly dislike it, either, oddly enough. It reminded her of the smoke that would curl around her when she and Wyman shared a hookah. Something dark and mysterious - forbidden - and disturbingly sensuous. She felt shivers down her spine, and covered them by taking a few counter-intuitive steps toward the Void god.

Reflexively, an eyebrow raised at his chosen verbiage. “You’ve come to proposition me?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, her lips closing soon thereafter, breaking eye contact as she internally chided herself. Her fingers twitched, eager to reach for a glass and immediately forget she’d ever mentioned that phrase in context. But she hadn’t been offered a drink and she certainly wasn’t going to reach for it like some common sot. She would hold her peace, no matter if her ears were starting to burn. No - back straight, chin up, there were no mistakes.

So instead of taking the glass, she watched his hands. He seemed to take an unusual amount of interest in the polished wooden surface of her desk, fingers skimming and caressing it. The more she watched his hands, the more she thought his motions obscene. She swallowed self-consciously and returned her eyes to his just in time to catch his glance as he looked up once more. There was something off about the way he looked at her. It was so hard to tell with those endless black eyes, but something was different and she was sure of it. Her brow furrowed briefly in confusion and determined curiosity, before she blinked it away. No. It wouldn’t do to pry into the lives of gods. That couldn’t end well for anyone. Still… she couldn’t help the touch of curiosity that still lingered at the edges of her mind.

And still more she wondered: why was he here?

There were several beats of silence but his voice wasn't what broke it. He slid the glass across the desk in front of her, as to draw her attention to it. He never looked away from her though, a strange sensation bubbling in his chest. But something was better than nothing, and when you had only days to live, risks were to be taken.

For the first time in a long while, he was conscious of the way he moved, putting effort into his motions, and spending a little less time thinking about Emily's, even if he was intensely aware of her presence. Her dark almond eyes, her loose strands of hair framing her boldly structured face... her womanhood. He stiffened and forced himself not think about that.

Forced himself to speak.

"The Void is greedy, it laps up anything that comes within its grasps, hungrily devouring the cosmos one star at a time, until one day, every light in the sky will have been ravaged and consumed." He'd always been blissfully ignorant of his sensuality, the way he had with words, the way he phrased things, though methodical, often suggestive.

"... But most of all, it is starving for representation. It craves a figurehead to speak for it, to shower people in its presence and invade reality with slick slippery tendrils coalescing... curling around each and every vestige it can creep its way into... I satiate that desire, for now. Very soon it will search for something else... once I have been properly displaced." He spoke with a bit of caution, skirting around his words, cagey, cryptic as always.

"The Void did not take from what I did not experience. It did not rob me of my life, and I cannot blame it for what it did not do. I cannot blame anyone for perpetuating the course of fate... There were things I did not have the privilege of understanding. Though hardships aplenty, my life before... as I can recall it... was difficult. Cold, numbingly so. The people around me watched in disdain as I withered away on street corners. But what I saw was love, as abundant as the soil beneath us, but priceless in value. I do not desire much. What I proposition... is a taste." His eyes flickered down to her lips before he brought the glass up to his own, sipping the contents, his hands shaking very faintly.

Emily’s fingertips tingled in the heavy silence before he spoke, shaken by the tension, but she was far too aware of her own movements to allow even something as simple as rubbing thumb and forefinger together. He was staring at her - no, into her - those eyes seeming to invade every inch of her body. She was grateful when he slid the glass to her, taking it perhaps a little too quickly and sipping immediately. Sweet. Just the slightest burn on the back of her throat. Deceptively delectable, but she knew too much was a recipe for disaster. As she sipped she watched him carefully, waiting for him to explain himself.

He only seemed to have a brief moment of partial relaxation before his body went rigid, and she found that instant somehow profoundly sad and beautiful. Just a moment of rest before he was swept up in these cosmic forces once more, returned to the place of a god again. For just a moment he’d practically been human. But then he spoke, his voice weaving tapestries both rich and ominous, words dripping over her and sinking into her very bones, and she was left in awe. As his warnings of the universe’s inevitable collapse flowed over her skin she felt them, tight and hot, constricting her chest with an eerie dread.

How did he keep his tone so steady, his attitude so circumspect, even as his words lit on her skin like sparks? He ignited something in her, and the evenness with which he dealt that condition bothered her greatly. She found it hard to keep track of his intentions, too focused on words that crept into her ears, drawing images inside her eyelids, every blink putting her someplace else. And she knew this was important, too. She could tell from his approach, the way his lips formed the words so carefully, choosing each so purposefully - and yet this too was her undoing.

It took a moment for his words to truly sink in, past all the talk of craving and slickness and satiation. Very soon it will search for something else... She felt suddenly jarred, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand to stop their sudden tremor. He was leaving? Was he - he couldn’t - the Outsider surely wasn’t dying . Her head spun as he went on, breath becoming shallow, trying to keep track of his tale even as the words danced and melded into one another in her head, twisting their meanings into some sensational lewd melodrama.

Emily’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, focusing her breathing, focusing her mind, calming herself so she might hear the Outsider’s words. Truly, his story was heartbreaking. He’d told her some of it, before - in a way - but these details… She stared at the golden liquid in her glass, swallowing hard, her chest aching with sympathy. Part of her yearned to fight - he gave up so easily, so resigned to this fate - but she knew she could never truly understand the Void and all of its whims and intricacies. Still, there was a fire in her. Even as her breath trembled, something inside her raged and swore and promised to rain down fury on whoever it was that would do such a thing. Even if it was the Void itself.

She blinked rapidly, unsure if the tears she held back were tears of anger, grief, or desperation. Maybe none of those things. Maybe all of them. But they wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t allow them to fall. She pursed her lips determinedly. A piece of her viewed him as hers in some way. Her connection to the Void, perhaps. The one who showed her things she had never imagined, and gave her powers she never should have wanted. And now someone threatened her -- her… her Outsider. How dare they. She’d had her world yanked away from her once already, she wouldn’t let it happen again.

She felt that fire growing in her heart -- useless, she knew, and yet eternally hopeful. When she finally caught his eyes, hers blazing with this strange desperate fear, she caught just his last words. ...A taste...

“I-” Her voice was hoarse, overwhelmed by this flood of information, and she took another quick gulp of the drink in her glass, flinching a bit even as she tried to ignore the burn, and licking her parched lips. “I don’t-” she looked down at the drink in her hand. “I’m not sure I understand.”

He watched her unwind but found that the way his words touched her were not as satisfying as it once was. The way he could unravel her, inch by inch, seam by seam, it was physically visible now, the influence he had. And he knew that much, as he peered in on her day to day life, as nosy and intrusive as he typically was. He knew lots of things, he knew absolutely nothing at all.

He stood suddenly, upright, not floating nor dissipating and reforming, but walking, stepping forward evenly, his eyes penetrating the depths of her being, searching, seeking for something even he could not determine. A part of him yearned for something he knew only she had. He supposed that part of him was hidden deep beneath layers of stone as black as charred obsidian, the human part of him that howled in despair and relief simultaneously at the idea of dying.

He fell into wispy fractures and appeared behind her only mere moments later and something white chimed in his hand. It was a comb, made from the bones of an ancient leviathan. It was intricately carved with careful attentiveness and a strict attention to detail. It hummed with the song of the Void like most of the "heretical" artifacts.

"... May I, Emily?" His voice was hardly above a whisper and held hidden beneath it a quiet desperation. Her hair was long and fell down her shoulders in waves of dark coffee hues, but only at night did she release it from its tight placement. He would watch her then, taking pins and ties and setting them on her vanity before retiring to a bed far too large for just one person.

How lonely she must have felt each passing night, tossing and turning on a massive mattress. He couldn't help but wonder what it might feel like to occupy the space beside her and watch her drift into unconsciousness. But he nearly immediately disregarded the thought, placing a single hand on her shoulder, bracing himself for any possible reaction. He knew she was a firebrand, it was only in her nature to put up a defiant front; passion ran through her veins.

But he also knew who he was, and how much the Empire loathed him. He often wondered if Emily loathed him in that way. If she felt a hatred for him that was fueled by blind prejudice, and if so, he wondered if it were as intense as the hatred she felt for Delilah, or for the man who stole her mother away that awful day in the Month of Harvest.

Suddenly it mattered. Everyone else in the Isles could hate him, despise him, curse him to the very depths of the Void. But Emily Kaldwin could not. He couldn't stand the concept. He couldn't accept that.

When he’d taken his first steps forward, she’d tensed, breath gone from her lungs in an instant. It reminded her of the Void all over again, and she did as she had done there: kept her chin up, shoulders back, confident even as blood roared in her ears. When he disappeared she froze, and her head snapped to the side as she caught his reappearance in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t turn toward him, even as she willed her limbs to do so. Her feet were frozen to the floor. Her body thrummed -- whether resonating with the energy of the Void or simply trying to contain her suddenly frantic pulse, she wasn’t sure.

His soft request sent goosebumps racing across her skin. Her eyelids felt heavy and it took a concentrated effort to keep them open, so tempting was the urge to close them and enjoy whatever images now danced at the edges of her consciousness. She was a live wire, all sparks and crackling current, and surely if he touched her he would feel it too -- her pent up energy would burn through him, surely, it felt so tangible and so dangerous.

And yet, it didn’t. His hand on her shoulder caused no flash of light, no crack of pain though her - just the small click of her mouth opening in surprise, a gasp that was strangled in her throat, back arching ever so slightly, unsure if she wanted to be closer or farther from him. The Mark on her hand, still glowing softly, caused her no pain but she felt as though it whispered things to her. Dark things. As though it had reached into the furthest recesses of her mind and now let those thoughts flow in a hot stream through her veins, urging her on.

She had to keep her eyes open. If she let herself indulge these thoughts - these images - she would have no control whatsoever. No. She wouldn’t sate that hunger. Not here, with him. She must keep her composure. …And still, a practically morbid curiosity ached in her, and she found herself setting the glass aside to reach with one hand to undo the pins holding her hair in place.

Everything he had done in the past twenty minutes had been extremely out of the ordinary. Every move he'd made, down to the monologues slipping from his lips like strung silk. But it was imperative that she knew. That someone knew before he faded into nothing. He had accepted his fated demise, but he could not accept that everyone would remember him as one of two things: a heretical temptation, or a perverse thing to worship.

He couldn't accept that all the fractured remnants of his humanity would die with him, for what was a man without a legacy? And what was a legacy if no one witnessed it?

This would be his legacy, here in this office, booze burning at the back of his throat, a gentle hand reaching up to collapse against Emily's like soft flower petals, preventing her from continuing on her own. Instead he guided her, unpinning her hair and watching it drop in waves, eyes widening just faintly at the sight.

He was curious, but there was another sensation burning within him that left that still human part of him seething.

He eyed the faintest traces of skin behind the wall of soft strands, reaching up to run his fingers, chilled but not to an uncomfortable degree, through thick brunette locks, knuckles brushing against the back of her neck. He took the comb, nestling it downwards from the top, slowly raking it through, watching like a child admiring a small bird on the windowsill.

"The whole Empire would bend to your will now. Not out of fear, but a deep respect for everything you've experienced. The child empress, a girl no longer, but a woman who fought for the right of her people, without leaving a trail of blood and scraps of sinew behind her. And now she stands here, speechless, dumbfounded. It's almost amusing." His voice took a tone that it had only ever taken once before.

With a little boy whose nose was fractured and gushing crimson ichor, whose bones were fragile and hands trembling in the icy cold. Back then he had spoken to a little dove with broken wings, whose time had ended before it began. But now he was that dove, limping across the pavement, resting his head for one final sleep, and he spoke to her now, almost pleading, but unnervingly calm.

A hum escaped him. Not slow enough to be a lullaby but not quite fast enough to meet the beat of a waltz. It was eerie, layered in whispers of eternity.

His bare fingers brushing hers sent a skittering thrill through her body that hadn’t been there on her clothed shoulder. Her Marked hand throbbed briefly, as though called to this being that even now stood so patiently at her back. Emily felt as though she were in a dream. It was surreal and all too eerie, the play of his fingers through her hair. She expected breath on her neck and felt none, the fact making him seem more of a ghost than ever. Still, as he explored this new sensation, she was touched by how innocent this small request had been.

Her hands dropped, one to the desk and one to her side, nervously playing with the hem of her sleeve unconsciously. His attentions were calming, nothing like what she’d expected of this odd entity. She very nearly relaxed, but his fingers brushing the nape of her neck made her suck in a quick breath, hand tightening on the edge of the desk. Silently scolding herself, she chewed her lip, her muscles tense even as she ordered them to submit. Her body didn’t seem to want to obey her mind, and that made her uneasy.

The comb stroking steadily through her hair immediately reminded her of when she was much younger. These days, she only ever had tower staff help her with her hair for special occasions, much preferring to be self-reliant and do such tasks on her own. But when she was younger, with her mother… And when her mother had died - been killed - there were days as a young empress when a caretaker would soothe her troubled sleep with a horsehair brush and soft cooing lullabies. That didn’t happen anymore. On those nights when her sleep was troubled there was no one to come in and stroke her hair, rub her back, envelop her in comforting arms… And she, of course, refused to ask.

As his movements continued, her body warred with her calming soul - even as her eyes drifted closed again - until finally her muscles yielded, her chin tipping to her chest, her head leaning in to his strokes. Her hand on the desk flexed unconsciously, and as his words slid over her she listened with serene but rapt attention. He praised her even as he marveled at her weakness, and the sentiment left her uneasy, for reasons she couldn’t quite place. She wanted to refute him, but his words were true enough. She was, indeed, speechless.

But there was something more in him, something she couldn’t quite parse from his words and tone. What else is it you want? Because there was surely something else. There was something in his voice - something hollow, empty - that yearned for some unknowable something that she couldn’t envision. A small crease appeared in her brow as she tried to unravel his speech, dissecting the lilt of tones, but as his hum reverberated through him, through the comb, straight into her, she found herself distracted again. Shivering. She could hear the Void on him. More so than in speech, the timbre of his hum echoed with refracted shadows, shards of stone and the fog of aeons. It called to her, raising her pulse, filling her lungs with the idea of ozone and slate, and she found herself turning her head toward him. Not enough to dislodge his steady strokes, but just enough that she might see him from the corner of her eye.

His expression wasn't as steady as his words. His brows were curved down and furrowed together, not in anger, not even in concentration, for his gaze while planted mostly on Emily seemed to drift a bit. As if he were viewing the whole universe along the tender strands he combed through. He could recall nights not long ago, where he'd watched her from the recesses of the Void, watched her stir from her slumber gasping for breath, laying in bed staring distantly at the ceiling, lost in thought as the whole world tumbled around her. Those silent moments, even in their brevity, made his being ache. Not only with the usual emptiness that riddled him but also with a firm longing to comfort her, to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. He wondered how she might react if he did.

But ultimately he decided that was unimportant now. She had a whole life ahead of her. Full of suffering, the grandest of enjoyments, love and hate and all of those tedious little things that made a person human. But he? He was a god. And a god was far less than a man. He was immortal and yet his time was running out.

He slowly set the comb onto the desk, his movements careful but lacking in the cold, hollow method that they usually had. Each step he took was centered on her, his attention was entirely and completely hers as of right now.

Once he'd finished he did not move. "There are some things that even after all of these long years of watching and waiting in the shadows, even after witnessing the cruelest of actions and the most sublime generosities, I still do not understand. The minuscule details that are so crucial to living escape me. And it is simply because I never lived long enough to come to understand them for what they are. I know of men of the highest caliber that shudder at a woman's touch, I have seen the High Overseer himself make haste to his hidden chambers only to share a night with a woman he hardly knows. Risking his career, his reputation, all for the sweet blissful release. Betraying everything he's ever been taught just for a night. And I've pondered if perhaps it's the self destructive nature of man that leads them into such intimate situations. But I've come to the conclusion that it isn't something I am worthy of knowing." He ran the back of his hand down her arm slowly, still standing behind her, his words hitting the back of her neck like a chilled breeze.

"It's a level of intimacy that I could never experience even now, one that I could never ask you to mimic. It would be an outlandish proposition, so it is not mine. But what I wish for are impossible things. Impossible, hysterical little things that you may even find yourself scoffing at. I yearn to feel the sun, beaming down against my face from between the cracks in the drapes that line the windows, I yearn to feel a pulse when I raise my hand to my chest, or to another's-" He appeared in front of her, eyes searching over her features desperately.

His tone fluctuated, sought something, it was clear now what he was feeling; it was fear. He was scared.

His hand settled just below her neck and he slowly shook his head, "I yearn to grasp at those tiny details I never understood, for the more that I see the more that I hunger, the insatiable desire entangling me, if I could breathe it would have choked me by now. It's a bittersweet asphyxiation, reminding me that I am still something, which is better than the alternative, is what I've come to believe," he rambled on, but that calm facade he shrouded himself in had shattered completely.

Emily watched his hands gently setting the comb aside, and her own fingers twitched, seized by the sudden urge to reach for his, to still his hand, feel his skin against hers. But twitch was all they did, staying where she grasped the side of the desk perhaps a bit too tightly, grounding herself. Her lips parted as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind. And then his hand had withdrawn, and the moment had passed.

She listened to his words, still staring at the discarded comb. He’d seen everything, she realized. She’d known it already, but the way he spoke now -- he hadn’t just witnessed everything. He’d seen everything. Watched and examined and observed all the base nature of man. As he went on, she felt a blush rising in her chest. She felt silly for it, but her breath was hot from her parted mouth and she soon felt the need to moisten dry lips, the motion only serving to remind her of the very things that made her blush to begin with.

She wasn’t ashamed of her sexuality, by no means, but that wasn’t what had her skin flush and tingling abashedly. No, not the deeds she’d done. She didn’t regret a single stolen kiss or night spent with a lover. No, she blushed as she realized that, if he’d borne witness to these events, he very well may have seen her wanton acts as well. It wasn’t just sinful overseers tempted into bed by the promise of a woman’s touch.

He had her mind wandering, and feeling his hand trail down her sleeve she suddenly wished that no sleeve parted them. She wished to see his eyes when he witnessed the goosebumps erupt on her skin at his slightest touch, as they did now. Her shoulders shifted, back once more arching at the tingling feeling on her neck, nails digging into the palms of her hands. He claimed he’d never ask her to indulge any of these small intimacies… Was he aware of how he tempted her with the thought? Her own curiosity imagining how he might -- how he might look beneath her. How his skin might feel on hers. How he might taste. She blinked, trying to clear these idle fantasies from her mind. Her errant mind…

Her guilt only deepened as he spoke of his own wishes, so sweet and innocent and pure, and she was the one - him, the Outsider himself, yet she was the one - imagining grander sins.

When he appeared before her, her face was warm, eyes bright, lips parted. She blinked in surprise, but didn’t try to hide. He knew her for what she was, for better or worse. And she was flawed. His touch was cool, but not cold, even against her flaming skin, and it made her throat jump and catch, swallowing hard in response. Her attention shifted between his eyes and his lips, watching each word form with care. She needed to get a hold of herself. She wanted to get a hold of him.

She forced those feelings away, though they never went far, and brought her touch to his, grasping his hand between her own and looking down at where their skin met, even as she swayed toward him, drawn in by some gravity only he possessed. Questions exploded in her mind - When would it happen? How would it happen? Who would do it? How long did he have? How did he know? Was there a way to stop it? - but above all of those things; “What can I do?”

He grinned, genuinely, lips curled into a soft, sad little smile. Emily Kaldwin always sought out an enemy to defeat. She searched desperately for the origins of her problems and most of the time there was one person, or multiple even, who were the cause of said issues. But he supposed it ran in her blood, like the Serkonan hues of her skin, the flecks of gold in her eyes, her collarbones and long neck and dips and curvatures of her figure, all genetic.

He thought back to the bad old days, the days where men bled from the eyes and rats gnawed on bodies yet to be sent off to a landfill in the flooded district by carts on electric rails. The determination in Corvo's eyes, the raw, primal way he hunted down those who'd wronged him. Sometimes shedding blood, others times avoiding it. Perhaps it was genetic, an Attano thing, to catch the Outsider's wandering gaze.

His breath had a scent, not unlike the sea, but there were hints of wildflowers, vanilla candle wax. Altogether it almost smelled sweet. Like a toffee, or a hard candy of some sort. His eyes found her hand in his and it brought him some odd sense of comfort. Everything was most certainly not going to be okay, in fact, it likely wouldn't be much of anything at all. He could imagine a vast nothingness, the escape of death. No more pain, no more fear, confusion, all of the Void's negativity and every small remark muttered under the breath of a city guard on patrol.

He finally turned his gaze up to hers again, "There is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Everything has been set into motion. The cogs are turning, the machine is on. What I ask is... undoubtedly the most selfish request I've made of you yet, and I have made plenty. Especially where you're concerned." He reached up and brushed a bit of hair from her face. "I ask that... I..." He struggled to find a way to phrase it, finding that the words were caught in his throat, they wouldn't escape, swimming aimlessly without any clear direction. He leaned forward, staring down at her lips, concentrated, cautious. "I ask..." he lingered, tilting his head to the side just slightly, lids lowering, "...for a moment's... time..."

His lips were cold, like the majority of him, inexperienced, nervous, apprehensive. At heart he was still a boy who knew of sexuality, but never had the chance to experiment with his own, who'd seen people doing awfully sinful acts but had only briefly been accustomed to his own touch, and that was only very rarely when he felt safe and alone enough to put himself in such a vulnerable position. So here was a god, less than a man, aged by the Void with all of the world's wisdom as nervous and inexperienced as a schoolboy, sharing a kiss with the Empress of Isles. No. With Emily Kaldwin. He could go accepting that as his legacy.

The Outsider’s smile was something she never thought she’d see. It was bizarre and intriguing and it’s sadness sent an aching pang through her chest. A sense of dread crept upon her as he spoke, her head shaking minutely, sensing his conclusions even before they dropped from his lips. No. He couldn’t say there was no way to stop this. She’d done impossible things before. She could do this, if he’d just let her. The anger - the futile drive - flared in her briefly, but was quickly extinguished. She held tighter onto his hand, pleading silently that he could give her something to do, that he could lie to her, tell her that she had a chance to stop this, but she knew it wasn’t so.

Frustration and despair warred in her hollow chest, even as guilt nagged at her, reminding her that he’d come here because he trusted her. Him - a god. He was entrusting this last futile gesture to a young woman twice deposed, who’d twice now reclaimed her throne. And as he lost his… he came to her. She supposed there was some poetic symmetry to it: a relationship that began with a death, to end with one.

Her eyes closed, pained, as he brushed the hair back from her face, and when they opened they burned with a desperate sadness. Her lips parted as he leaned toward her, eyes closing as though she might shield herself from the inevitable loss tomorrow would bring. She inhaled with a shudder as his lips rested a hair’s breadth from hers, tasting the odd mix of man and Void she’d never quite be able to describe.

Her lips were gentle against his, initially thinking she’d let him set the pace before realizing his uncertainty. So instead she led, one hand still holding his while the other cupped his face, drawing him to her, breath escaping between their lips before she pressed against him once more, unconsciously taking a step toward him as she coaxed his lips open with hers.

If the air off his skin was indescribable, there was no possible attempt to be made for the taste of his mouth.

She tried to form coherent thoughts, but her body could only feel him, pressing into him desperately even as she tried to hold herself back. She wanted to be gentle, but it wasn’t just him that was driving her mad -- the Void was intoxicating, and it filled her. She overflowed with some supernatural hunger, needing more of him, feeling the smoke of the Void filling her lungs. More. Her hands trembled, feeling a rush of stone in her blood, her ears echoing with whale song. Was this why witches claimed to lay with the Outsider? The desire to feel this unrestrained power devouring them?

It was so much -- too much. It swept her up in crashing waves and took all she had to pull back, stumbling, her knuckles white where she still held his hand. “Sorry-” she gasped, the hand that had cupped his cheek now grabbing the edge of the desk in surprise, knees weak. If she’d seen her own reflection she may have been horrified, black beginning a thin map of the veins in her neck, a small wisp of smoke dripping from her lips. Her pupils had nearly eclipsed her irises, blinding her until she could blink them back to their regular state. Truly, the Void devoured. “I’m- I’m so sorry.” Her voice was hoarse, broken. She trembled before him as her body readjusted, shocked.

It wasn't good in the traditional sense of the word. It was different, it was the faintest lingering fragmented idea of what he thought a kiss should be. The closeness alone was enough to satiate his desires. His lips entangling with hers, hands settling themselves onto her hips and pulling her closer, pulling her into his being. He could feel the Void swarming around them, wrapping them both in its decaying embrace. He felt like for the briefest of moments they were one, a single entity nestled on a rock hurtling through space. Only him and Emily. Only their lips, their hands, their souls.

He hadn't even noticed the heat, the passion, the drive that Emily's humanity pushed forth. He was focused on the sensations he could feel, rather than the movements or the reality of the moment. He focused on the way she tasted for instance, lips sweetened with the Tyvian brandy, and the warmth that resonated from her quickening breaths. The warmth of her against him, even with the clothing that separated them.

It wasn't enough for him, he realized. He was an insatiable being, never would it be enough, no amount of kissing, frottage or sex would ever be enough to satiate his hunger. He wasn't starving for her sex he realized, he wanted her companionship. He was selfish, he wanted her. He ached to experience these little pieces of life that most took for granted with her.

He stared at her, hair disheveled, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. His hand gripped the edge of the desk and the shadows around him waned, for just a few seconds his eyes, his real eyes shone through the inky black. Pale green peering back at her before the Void swallowed them and left him back where he started. "...Thank you," he murmured quietly.

She blinked, still disoriented, brow furrowing as she looked with confusion into his eyes. She could’ve sworn - for just a second - but then they were blackest black again. She must’ve imagined it. She turned to lean her hips against the desk, wanting to just collapse into her bed, but a part of her worried about that course of action. She didn’t want him to join her. He terrified her, she realized. No not him, not the Outsider, but that thing that lived in him. That he lived in? That thing that made him who he was. The Void. Raw power that consumed even as it was consumed. A vicious thing. She knew better than to invite something like that into her bed.

When she licked her lips she was relieved to taste more than the impossible essence of the Void, still tasting that odd hint of sweetness that had been unique to the Outsider himself. It did a lot to ease her rattled mind.

She looked back to him, arms wrapping around herself without even realizing it, a wary sad curiosity slowly reigniting in her gaze. “...So what now?” Why did she ask? Surely, the answer would only hurt her.

He did regret it now. Coming here, doing that, leaving her with the horrific memory and the lingering sensation of the Void enveloping her. That feeling of being torn apart piece by piece by raw, unfiltered power. The universe had attacked her for a split second, and he had let it. He turned on his heel and recollected himself, eyes downcast in shame.

But he tried to remain stoic, he tried to pretend as though it hadn't happened. He would hold it together, if not for himself than for her sake.

"... I'll leave you here. And perhaps you'll forget tonight, you'll forget the sound of my voice. Perhaps you'll grow old and you'll recall nothing. Or maybe you will remember every minuscule detail. Either way, I don't have much longer." He was already waning, his presence faltering, shadows fading off as they stretched towards him.

His words stung, and she found herself roused just to prove him wrong. Spite stirred her limbs, shedding the weight of hopelessness that had descended on her. She lifted her chin, straightening, embodying the strength she stood for as Empress. Her eyes, free of the Void’s inky corruption, leveled on him. “I won’t forget.”

She would hunt down whoever was going to do this to him. She would kill them before they got the chance.

Even as the idea entered her head she sourly had to dismiss it. Her people needed her. Her days of chasing after traitors and assassins were behind her now. She sat the throne, and ruled the Empire -- alone. And so did he, in a way. Yet he was so ready to have it all taken from him?

She curiously took note of the undulating shadows that seemed to be calling him home, even as she brought her eyes to his. She gave him a steady, regal nod. “Good luck.”

Somehow he had been expecting more from her, and also less at the same time. More so, he had hoped for more from her. Nothing explicit of course, but perhaps the rest of the evening. He knew though, that it was impossible. He glanced at the comb of bone on the desk and listened to it call out to him. The buzzing had been a nuisance at first but now it was mere background noise to him.

The Void was calling to him. It wanted him back, it urged him, shadows licking at his boots and hands almost affectionately. He had no choice but to accept his fate, even if now more than ever he desperately desired a completely different one. "...You're as gracious as ever." He spoke in hardly above a whisper and yet it still sounded as if his voice had cracked.

"You're truly the most fascinating woman in the Isles, Emily. It was an honor to give you my Mark." He dispersed, his being fractured, shadows engulfing one another until he was gone completely, leaving the room emptier than it had ever been before.

Read pt 2 here.

[iron-moon]

Touched by the Void

(inspired by The Void Devours written by @onewhoturns and @kaldwinqueen)               

[onewhoturns]

pt 8 - Harbinger

I know, it’s been a while since the last chapter went up. Well, in case you forgot: here’s chapter 7. Or start from the beginning on AO3. Or part 1 on tumblr. As always, credit to @kaldwinqueen for writing the Outsider; I wrote for Emily & Corvo.

Here’s a big ol’ plot bomb for you, feel free to leave a comment here or on AO3 letting me know your thoughts. Hopefully you have many.

They ate efficiently in the room darkened by heavy curtains drawn closed with the sobriety of their intended conversation. After all three had had some sort of sustenance, and Corvo had gotten a good look at the unfinished report, it came to discussion time.

“There was another death at the Academy. A student.” The Royal Protector’s voice was low, somber. He was staring at the table where he curled a napkin into a tight spiral. There was an ominous tone to his words. “They were in possession of a replica of the Heart.”

Emily’s own heart lept to her throat, and she very nearly choked on the water she’d been drinking. A moment of spluttering and then she managed to speak, her voice high and tight. “There’s a replica of the Heart?”

“Not anymore there isn’t.” Corvo grimaced, still not taking his eyes from the fabric on the table.

Emily flexed her hands nervously as she tried to calm herself. No, of course not. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be the same. Silly of her, to let that flash of hope perch even briefly in her chest. She’d had her closure months earlier, saying goodbye to that last scrap of her mother. It was a gift she never could’ve imagined, that chance to make her peace, and yet as soon as the idea was even hinted at that she might speak with her mother again — Emily had lunged for it. And she wasn’t happy about that.

No, the Heart her father spoke of would’ve been something else entirely. It may not have held a spirit at all. Just the cogs and wires that could simulate a beat. ...A disgusting, morbid thing.

She still felt ill at ease. Mostly put off by her own visceral reaction to the thought.

“...And there are storms coming.”

The way he said it, she was sure he couldn’t mean the standard rain or thunderstorms. Her silence prompted elaboration.

“Sweeping in from Pandyssia. And reports from the Eastern Coast claim it’s… off. Unnatural. Though I suppose all reports of the ‘unnatural’ from Whitecliff should be taken with a grain of salt…”

Oliver listened intently, but he always did. His features twisted in concern, eyes flickering between them. He was contemplating, his gaze shifting around the room as if desperately searching for an answer in the air before him. Had he been in the Void, perhaps it would have worked exactly like that. Perhaps he wouldn't need to put all of the pieces of the puzzle onto a table and assemble them shard by shard. What was worse was that they were missing edges and corners, the ensemble was incomplete, they didn't have the full story.

Hearing about the heart again made his chest tighten and he recognized that feeling as guilt. He could remember haunting Pierro Joplin's dreams, influencing him to sew together flesh and sinew, mold it with metal and wire until it was part mechanism and part living, merging into one abominable amalgamation of love and torturous confusion. He remembered the day the empress' voice carried through walls of thumping skin, when she spoke to him with such kindness and warmth as if coddling a child. Even then, at his worst, he could feel her warmth through layers of ice that coated the whisper of humanity he still had.

He wanted to tell Emily so many things. He wanted to rake his fingers through her hair and reveal to her all of the secrets in the world. But he had a job to do. And hopefully, a whole life ahead of him.

He stood suddenly, from his seat at the fireplace, pulling the map of Isles off of the wall and prying it out of the frame hurriedly. His movements were sporadic because for once he wasn't planning them or compensating, not three steps ahead of himself. Not paced or stiff-backed. He laid it out on Emily's desk, knocking several items to the floor but not seeming to care.

"The Void is, in its most rudimentary form, an immense mass of raw, undirected, cataclysmic power," he explained, his voice lower, losing the sharp edges, the sultry undertones. "Without a representative, there is no means of translating that energy into the world. There is no connection, no common ground in which it can safely tamper with society and the direction that fate takes. Which would be acceptable if not for the gaping cracks in the world where oblivion seeps into reality, dripping down the walls like muddy rainwater on a stormy night. The Void is-" He was drawing on the map, taking the files that Corvo had set down and beginning to mark locations down hastily.

"The Void is a storm. The Void is a fearsome entity clawing its way into the realm of the living without realizing that there is no balance between these two domains. The Void is alone and some might even say that it is angry, hungrily devouring any life that it can take and snuffing out candles in the night — blotting out the moon and the stars, the clouds in the sky and leaving nothing but nothing in its wake, it is-" He furrowed his brows, eyes widening, locks of hair falling into his face as the picture became clearer.

"...starving," he whispered, staring down at all of the incidents. "...Did you know," he slowly stood straight and his brows furrowed, "six out of ten students that attend the Academy of Natural Philosophy are deeply intrigued by the nature and composition of the Void?" He glanced up at the two of them, swallowing softly, all too aware of the cluster of marks.

Still, he felt the other even when he wasn't looking, even though it wasn't marked on the map. The notch in the hills where the mines were rich with silver and the grounds were tainted with the blood of the innocent. He tried not to look there, though. He'd put his past behind him.

Emily was rather taken aback by the surge of motion, and as he moved and spoke she felt a thrumming in her very bones — a creeping dread, a chill that seemed to approach from the east, racing faster than the storm. Cataclysmic power. She’d been in the Void, and there she’d experienced its electric tension, this feeling that it was always ready to strike even when things seemed slow or frozen. There was an energy that hung in the air and inhabited every slab of stone, silent screams condensed to an eerie hum. The dreams had only added to her wariness of the place — the thing. No, not wariness: terror. The purest form of fear she had ever experienced.

“Are you implying that this storm has been… summoned? Called here by students?” Corvo’s brow was furrowed, and Emily shared his confusion, though she found it hard to concentrate on his words.

Her mind buzzed angrily, a series of questions and anxieties, and as she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, calm herself, she could’ve sworn she saw the storm itself for a brief moment. She didn’t jump, muscles tensing and holding her body still despite her surprise, but her eyes had opened again in an instant. She wanted to reach for him - slip off her gloves and weave fingers with his, chase off these chilling thoughts - but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Ignoring her father’s question she flexed gloved hands and asked, “What can we do? How can we prepare?”

“There has to be a person causing this, or a group — a cult? Another group like the Eyeless? If we find them, maybe we can stop this.” Corvo spoke logically, but she knew there was no logic to the Void.

Oliver went to answer Corvo's question but his eyes darted to Emily's form, the way she shuddered and looked away, clearly uncomfortable, clearly conflicting with herself. He furrowed his brows at the sight and quickly composed himself. Becoming unhinged was not an option, he knew Emily was a very empathetic person, whether she realized it or not. The last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her stresses.

He stepped forward away from the desk, sitting beside her once more at the small table that'd been brought in for their breakfast. His hand found hers, settling over it carefully. It was a subtle gesture, but the least he could do was let her know he was there. "No the students aren't summoning it... Not knowingly. The last remaining cults teeter off the edges of society, loose and hopeless. The Eyeless were the most prominent - the most funded - without them in power anymore, the other cults are dwindling in numbers. Natural philosophers will travel far and wide, to the outermost reaches of the empire and beyond to retrieve information that might better their understanding of the world and its workings. They seek knowledge, not power. Conquering the Void is not their aim, instead it is rather to comprehend something incomprehensible."

Oliver sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a moment to think before speaking again. "So they surround themselves with artifacts and trinkets they find scattered around the Isles, my Mark carved into their ancient surfaces. Names have power and I believe the two of you understand that far more than the vast majority. In this case, the saying is quite literal. My runes and bonecharms provide the Void with tiny cracks in the slab from which it may spill out into reality. Typically, I could control that. I was its mediator, the one who directed the power, the one who determined who would act as the windows between worlds as to keep it at bay. But now the Void is empty, desolate, with no consciousness to be at one place at one time, no representative to speak for its vast, benign plains."

His hand eased some of her tension, but not nearly as much as she’d like. Emily closed her eyes, wanting to wrap herself around him as she had that horrible night — but this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the Void in her mind, these were the facts of the world. She shook her head, blinking her eyes back open even as the ice in her bones spread. Six in ten. Curiosity that welcomed the Void, tried to explore it — it wasn’t something they could just stop. The Abbey had been trying for centuries, and what good had it done them? Her head cocked to the side for a moment, though her hope was slim. “What about the music boxes?” It wouldn’t stop the storm - she doubted anything could - but maybe if they applied strategic placement they could prevent a death or two. Weaken the ties artifacts held to the Void. But no, that would cause an uproar. Her reign had been particularly generous with the Academy, particularly fond of invention and study, perhaps a bit too lenient on heresy in the halls of scholarship; an invasion like that would anger a lot of people. Important people.

Drawing away from his comforting grasp, she found her head in her hands, incredibly weary. She wouldn’t ask for comfort, as much as she wanted it. She was drawing into herself again. She had to endure this, she had to be strong — the figurehead of the Empire. Her face went smooth, stony, chin rising as her hands folded neatly in front of her. No time for self-pity. No time for moping. It was time for planning and action.

He thought again, piecing things together in his mind, struggling to pull apart the information he had to work with and assemble some kind of answer. But he knew far too well how difficult it was to explain something as ambiguous as the Void. "Music boxes wouldn't work the way you'd like them to. They might distort the Void, but really, all they can do is fracture the intimate bond between a Marked and the energy that leaks through the Void and into them. They do not banish the Void completely, that would be impossible. What the Void seeks is equilibrium: as above, so below. It needs a counterbalance. Otherwise it would just swallow the world completely."

Oliver stopped when he caught sight of her movements, not continuing. His eyes flickered over her form and though he was obviously concerned, there was something else gleaming in his gaze. A mixture of things - admiration, yearning, desire - brows knitted together against his forehead. She was so resilient, even when the odds were against her she held her chin high, she spoke with voice unwavering, a tongue so sharp it could cut through diamonds. It was baffling, how someone so incredibly strong inside and out could be reduced to breathy moans and hushed desperation.

He was so lost in thought that the moment itself escaped him. He memorized her features, her jawline, her neck still faintly discolored by the force of his lips, her almond eyes and carefully shaped brows, the raise of her cheek bones, the bow of her lips. Everything in the wavering light of candles and a dying fireplace. Gorgeous. She was the most graceful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, like a roaming feline on the golden plains of the Pandyssian continent. She never fit in amongst nobles, her features too bold, her movements too methodical; she was a gem amongst rubble.

Emily stared at steady hands as she listened, distantly wondering if she might turn to stone herself if she stayed still enough. Would it be a relief, to be stone as Corvo had been? He never talked about his time trapped as Delilah’s statue. She’d never felt brazen enough to ask. She knew it hurt him to speak of those days - of his failure as Royal Protector - and it wasn’t necessary for her to see the pain twist his features for her sake.

She focused on her breath, counting as she breathed in and out, letting his words enter a calm mind. Balance. That made sense. The Void needed a touch of their world as much as their world needed a touch of the Void. All things in equilibrium. It lacked a counterbalance.

…So they needed to provide one.

She wasn’t happy about the prospect, but could had to wonder of Corvo’s feelings on the matter. She glanced to her father to find-

He stared at the man beside her, mouth in a tight scowl. But not in concern. He looked angry. Or just… thoroughly irked. Glaring furiously. She turned as well, even as Corvo cleared his throat vigorously, only to find a pair of pale green eyes dazedly staring at her... neck?

She felt a slight blush creeping from her chest, and adjusted the fabric against her skin, pursing her own lips as she quickly looked away. And they’d been doing so well.

Corvo cleared his throat again, louder, and she shot her own glare at him.

“Father, I thought we already discussed this-” Her tone was warning, but it didn’t do much good.

“Let the man defend himself, Emily, he’s not your pet — stop treating him like one.”

She felt affronted. How dare he. Her mouth opened to say something, but she felt at a loss for words. Corvo hadn’t even spared her a glance, his eyes still trained on Oliver. Words raced through her head, perching on her tongue, ready to call her father out for the way he was treating Oliver — the way he was treating her.

The clearing of a throat didn't reach his ears the first time. He wasn't focused on her neck itself so much as the entirety of her. He wanted to capture her where she stood. While he still had the privilege of doing so. It was only when she spoke up against her father that he snapped out of his reverie. His eyes shot towards Corvo, the look in his eyes almost venomous.

He spoke before she could, "I favored you Corvo Attano, when the streets ran with muddied waters and scattered limbs gnawed by plague rats. I gifted you with the ability to change the tides of fate and save Emily Kaldwin from perverse nobility and asked for nothing in return. I respected the rules you set in place, I acted accordingly from the moment I stepped foot into the tower and had I not met Emily by pure chance and chance alone, I would not have sought her out before you granted me permission. Now I am not asking, I am demanding that you, and please pardon my language, get the fuck off my back. I am not younger than you, I am not your subordinate, you may be Royal Protector, but I am four thousand years old, and excuse me for being so bold but I think I am a damn fine candidate to court your daughter so long as she, an adult might I add, is consenting," he snapped, brows furrowed dangerously, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were turning white.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have held his tongue. But now he knew what had to be done. He knew exactly what was necessary to stop all of this. Which meant ultimately that the life he envisioned would never come to fruition. He wouldn't learn by experience, he wouldn't taste all of the flavors life had to offer him, suffer blissfully through the mundane hardships of the average man. Most importantly, he wouldn't be growing old with Emily, as he had imagined himself doing, regardless of whether or not they were romantic. He just wanted to be at her side, he yearned for her presence. If he bored her and she took another suitor, he would accept that. But what he could not accept was that even after all of these years, Corvo hadn't shown the slightest bit of gratitude, or at the very least, some form of respect.

He didn't want to be treated like a god, revered or given special treatment. But he wanted to be treated like an equal. Frankly, he had no idea what Corvo had against him. Part of him suspected it was the dogma of the Abbey, another part of him felt something indescribable. An emotion that nestled between guilt and sorrow. He knew things, like the locations of hidden treasures, the great adventures of lost heroes, or the lonely life of the Royal Protector who still hadn't taken on another romance after the deep intimacy he shared with Jessamine. Who's only reason to wake up in the morning was the future of his pride and joy, Emily Kaldwin.

Emily’s brows shot up and she turned undeniably surprised eyes on Oliver as he spoke. She… hadn’t been expecting that. In the least. She found a small smile coming - unbidden - at his choice of language, and she bit her lips to keep them closed, though the lift in them was still evident. As he went on, she found herself oddly proud of him. Some smug part of her was reminded of her own sentiments; he didn’t need Corvo’s permission, he needed hers. There was a long tense pause. She found herself gazing at him in wonder for a moment before glancing to Corvo for his response.

He had a wry smile on his lips, eyes alight, and when he spoke it was to Emily, though his eyes only flicked away from Oliver briefly, his voice no gruffer than usual. “As I said… Let him defend himself.” He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked affirmed, as though he’d been waiting for such a response — though there was certainly a touch of amusement in his expression, even if no one but Emily would be able to spot it.

She wondered if he had wanted such a reaction — not necessarily an outburst, but perhaps just some push back. A curious part of her wondered if it was some kind of test. After all: Emily herself was often quite adamant. Maybe he wanted Oliver to prove he could stand up in the face of someone as intimidating as the Royal Protector. She had, admittedly, been a bit blindsided by his assertiveness. ...Maybe she had been a bit… over-protective.

Corvo finally looked to her pointedly, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t respond to Oliver. And it seemed he didn’t plan to.

Her eyelids twitched a moment as she resisted rolling her eyes, running her tongue over the back of her teeth to keep her childish exasperation from voicing itself. “...Well.” Her voice held just a touch of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind, my time is limited. Can we return to the matter at hand?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead looking down at her hands, her voice with a forced casual lilt. “If possible, I’d prefer not to sentence some poor human to thousands of years of torture and torment. Aside from the cruelty of it, there’s also no way to guarantee they’ll be… well… not Delilah. Do we have alternatives?”

Admittedly, he hadn't seen that coming. His emotions clouded his foresight and judgment, especially when Emily was involved. He sat back and let out a small sigh, eyes flickering to her when she finally spoke and broke the awful, somewhat awkward silence that'd fallen between them.

He felt like a weight had been lifted. Though not nearly as heavy as the burden of most likely having to return to the Void, it was at the very least comforting, He was grateful — for both of them, for Billie Lurk, and even Daud, the whispered name still lingering in his ear, against the length of his neck. The breath had been cold, it smelled like wet stone after a rain in the Month of Harvest.

In these few days, if he'd learned anything, it was to respect himself. Though perhaps he was a less suitable candidate for courting now that he was probably sentenced to another several thousand years in a vast, boundless oblivion. The thought made his stomach turn, made his fingertips ache and twitch just faintly. His mouth was dry, his throat was tight. He visibly tensed as though his father's hand were there, lingering and threatening to fall against his cheek until he saw red. He pushed past that, though.

Months ago, he would have rather slit his own throat than step foot in the Void ever again, the mere thought alone sent him into a trembling stupor. But now? Knowing that he had to, knowing it was a necessity, well aware that there wasn't much time left, there was no other choice.

"... The solution is perfectly clear Emily. There were eight that I marked, connected to the Void by the tether I tied to them. Touched by another world. One of them could take my place, but this is my choice. I am choosing not to subject another to the cruelties of that existence, it's simple... I'll return. The balance will be restored, the Abbey will have its whipping boy, the cogs of the universe will turn as though brand new, perhaps even better than before... And you will be the best empress the Isles have ever seen." He spoke evenly, despite the tension building, despite his eyes that flickered away from the conversation or the way he twiddled his thumbs beneath the table.

Emily stared at him, her brow furrowing slightly, looking mildly confused. She blinked.

“No.”

It wasn’t said vehemently, or passionately, just spoken as though correcting someone who’d just claimed the sky was yellow. And she was correcting him. Because what he said was obviously not true. He said eight. Her, Corvo, Daud, Delilah, and… four others. Which meant at least one of those four could easily still be out there.

Perhaps following the path of the storm? It would hit Dunwall, of course - and they would really have to come up with some tower defenses, if they were in need of them - but maybe there were other cities it was hitting especially hard. She could choose a few trusted agents to search — maybe Billie could help, with her… odd gifts. Send out agents, find the other four Marked - however many remained - and choose a sacrifice. She didn’t like the idea of sacrificing anyone, but if she had to do so it certainly wasn’t going to be anyone in this room.

She turned to Corvo, ready to issue the order, and found him looking at Oliver with narrowed eyes, face inscrutable. All traces of amusement were gone from his face, but so were all hints of anger. He couldn’t truly be considering this an option, could he? It wasn’t. It wasn’t an option; it was ridiculous. Oliver may have thought he knew everything, but he was a pessimist — a self-hating tortured soul with a martyr complex. A masochist. She’d find another way, and he couldn’t dissuade her. She was the Empress of the Isles. And if she needed to lock him up to keep him from his stupid suicidal savior plans, she would. Keep him safe. For as long as it took to find someone else.

Or until the world ends.

The thought was dismissed immediately. No. The world wasn’t going to end. This was a complex problem but it had a simple solution. They just needed to get started as soon as possible.

“We need agents to start searching for the other four Marked-”

“Three.”

She faltered. “Three?”

Corvo hadn’t looked away from Oliver. “The other three Marked. One of the four is dead already.”

He was disconcertingly certain of that fact.

“...Three, then. Find who we can. Choose a sacrifice. Start looking for other places of odd occurrences.” She turned to Oliver. “Who else did you Mark?” Her voice remained level — calm, self-assured. But in a corner of her mind she was already planning to make him promise. To promise her not to do it himself. To give it time. If he- ...If he felt about her, the way he claimed to - and she was very nearly positive he did - he would promise her. They may not have much time, but they had time. The storm wasn’t the end, just a harbinger. They had time.

Oliver quietly decided to himself that they most definitely did not have as much time as Emily most likely thought they did. The storm was the end. He could make no promises.

But he could entertain her. He could play her game, as it was more convenient than having her order him into a prison from which he'd have to escape. He knew how much she valued those close to her, as well as the lengths she'd go to keep them safe.

His eyes, pale green hues, shifted towards Corvo and an almost knowing expression painted his features. His voice was quieter, and took on a certain tone. It could have been defeat, or perhaps it was acceptance. He knew his fate. Emily had given him the literal time of his life. He owed her this much, to give her these final days in return. To express how deeply he felt for the Empress of the Isles, Emily Kaldwin. He was amused if anything, by how the most intriguing hero in all of the Isles could be so fundamentally flawed. Humans: such intricate little things.

"...Two," he clarified, glancing between them. He did not open his lips to talk of the lonely rat boy that spent his days wandering the streets of Gristol. Begging, knees knobby from the weight of himself against the pavement and clothing worn and tattered, falling apart where he stood while noble folk looked to him and tilted their chins skyward, scoffing in distaste. It was a story he didn't think they'd want him to recall, though he had many of those he kept locked away within him, relished memories of the past that he clung to even in this pitifully limited form he now took.

Instead, he settled with a moment of silence, reverence for the small child that he related to. He, a cold, calloused monstrosity of the Void, had been touched deeply by the scavenging little street urchin whose shoes hardly fit and creaked as he stepped. "...There is one who remains in Serkonos. A member of the Oracular Order. Her name is Sianna Devries and she hides a dirty secret from her sisters, shrouded by a cloak comprised of the Void itself, distant and weary. She ages now, faster than before, she notices that her bones aren't what they used to be, that her skin has begun to loosen along the shrinking muscles and tendons. She is your best bet at winning this race," he explained, leaning forward and setting his chin on clasped hands.

He was lying to her and it was genuinely painful, a deep aching at the center of his chest. But in her state of delusion she would likely grasp at any straw, or the very thought of that straw existing. He needed to get to Shindaerey Peak, he needed to seal the crack in the slab; he couldn't do that behind her bars. Finding his remaining Marked ones would be near impossible within the amount of time they had left, which was a little more than a week, week and a half at best. He wasn't even certain they were still alive.

Two. Just two. And from that, a single name. Her hope had dwindled to a small thread, but it rushed ever stronger for it: a river that could pass through the eye of a needle. She couldn’t give up now. She clung to this last scrap of information, mind already making plans. Pulling a blank piece of paper toward her, she scrabbled for a writing utensil and immediately began marking things down. “Then you’re off to Serkonos to find her.”

They’d need to take the fastest ships they had, as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, probably, just for the sake of acquiring a crew. She knew Corvo had some sailors on his payroll, though perhaps not enough to fully staff a ship, but this was a mission about speed. A small ship would do, if it was quick. She needed to make him promise as soon as possible. Even then… “Corvo, you’ll go with him.”

Corvo looked to her, blinking that intense concentration from his eyes as he took in what his daughter said. “Emily, I can’t leave you here alone-”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped, before clamping teeth down on her lip and leveling her voice. “You’ll be quick - get in there, make the sacrifice, get back here as soon as possible - and everything will be fine.” She finished her quick notes and stilled her hand. One deep breath. Calm. Level. Don’t make this desperate. She glanced to her Royal Protector. “I’ve managed without you before, Father. I think I can survive a week or two.” She said it assuredly, but doubt did color the edges of her mind, no matter how much she refused to acknowledge it. Regardless: she’d live. She might suffer... but she’d live.

Corvo’s reluctance was undisguised, but the fire of her determination was visible enough that he seemed to bite his tongue. He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to Oliver before returning to Emily. Eyes held hers for a heavy moment before he nodded, and uncrossed his arms, taking the few steps to lift Emily’s notes from the table. “I’ll go make the arrangements.”

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, and he looked to her with a sharply focused gaze, that softened at the warmth in her eyes. “Thank you.” I love you. They may not have said it as often as they could, especially not in the company of others, but they both knew it. She saw his jaw tense, and she could tell he was holding himself back.

And then she could feel the moment he thought ‘fuck it’ and just slung his free hand around her and leaned down to press a kiss firmly to the top of her head. Her face automatically scrunched the way it had when he’d done such things when she was younger, but the smile still spread over her lips. His voice was low and the rumble comforting as he added, “We have to talk later, Emily. Alone.” She didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was shooting a look at Oliver, though she could only assume the intention of that look. A warning? A knowing glance? Her eyes were fixed on her own hands, the small smile still lingering as she wondered.

Oliver did not move from his spot at the table. He had just signed his life away, officially. All of the aspirations he had, the hopes for the future, to make the Empire better, greater than it ever had been before, vanished before him. Turned to dust, floating aimlessly off in the distance as though they were nothing but a dream he had many nights ago. He knew once he met with the Void again, all of this would feel that way. A bittersweet memory to look back on, that last glimmering sliver of humanity he would cling to until the icy fixtures of oblivion devoured the last remaining hope tucked away within him. He would remember her.

Her scent, her skin, her lips and those piercing dark eyes of hers. The way her lashes fluttered against his neck so pleasantly, the darkness his kisses left behind along the expanse of chest. Her voice, hands prepped for the ensemble of noblemen and public figures she met with routinely. She wore many masks but he was one of few to look upon her face and see a grin. That, he hoped, would be enough to bare another few thousand years in the Void, or however long he'd need to be there.

Watching the two of them made him feel just the slightest bit better about the situation, eyes flickering between them with a small grin tugging at his lips. In some odd way he was proud of Corvo, of what he'd accomplished and the tribulations he had to overcome. Everything for the sake of the empire, everything for the sake of his daughter. He'd endured so much and even at his ripe old age he still managed to watch over her, a crow on her shoulder, better than any well learned, up and coming guardsmen ever could. He truly was a marvel.

When he caught Corvo's gaze however, he felt his stomach drop. He knew that the Royal Protector was onto him. Emily had a wild imagination, at her most desperate she could be blinded by hope. But Corvo? Corvo was a realist, he was gifted with the ability to see things for what they were. Oliver knew he'd been seen through, but he did not wear an expression of fear, regret, or even remorse.

He looked defeated but peaceful, giving a single, slow nod to the elder and turning to focus on the flames that licked at the bricks of the fireplace, studying the way they danced along the wood below. How fragile it was, a bucket of water would reduce it to nothing but embers and smoke.

Perhaps he would have to speak with Corvo too, alone.

Another squeeze around her shoulders and Corvo excused himself, off to ready a vessel and crew, prepare for a voyage the next day. As the door closed, Emily turned her attention to Oliver.

“You have to promise me.” Her eyes burned into him, fiercely willful, and she grabbed for his hands, holding them in hers. She could feel the newly-formed callouses from his training, so different - so much more human - than how they’d felt in the Void. If he could just stay human. “You have to promise that you won’t follow through on this- this martyrdom fantasy.” She spoke the words with scorn thickly covering her anxiety.

Heart pounding angrily in her chest, she summoned every bit of authority she could manage. Her eyes were bright, perhaps eerily so, a mix of determination and desperation. Her words were firm. “I forbid you from sacrificing yourself.” You’ve already suffered enough. She would make Corvo promise, too. Corvo would wield the blade. Oliver was there to locate and confirm the identity of their target, maybe perform any ritualistic bits and pieces that might be necessary, but nothing more. He would not touch the weapon. She wouldn’t let him. He was self-destructive, and she needed to protect him from himself.

It was her eyes that broke him. Not the firmness in her voice, the demanding tone it took. It was the look she gave him, desperate but certain, confident and trembling. Even if he was a bit offended by his actions being reduced down to some "martyrdom fantasy," he understood her. He knew she only wanted to protect the few people she held dearest to her. He respected that. But he could not put aside the Empire because of some inexplicable attraction he had to her. More than the Empire: he could not betray every living soul in this waking world for the selfish desires he had in mind.

He was hesitant, gaze flickering over her features, hand slowly reaching up to meet her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips as he silently thought of his next words. He wore a steady expression, but it always faltered just a bit in her presence. He didn't respond to her, didn't even open his mouth to speak.

Frankly, he didn't want to have to leave her on a broken promise. So he was at a crossroads, on one hand he could tell her he wouldn't do what she very damn well knew he would and he could play into her hands and entertain her fantasy, or he could risk being locked away and watch the world crumble around him as they desperately struggled to find the last remaining Marked ones in the very little time they had left.

His silence was off-putting, and the longer he didn’t speak the further her heart moved up her throat. She could sense the blade hanging over them — a twin-bladed guillotine poised to fall. Eyes darted between his, and she could feel her walls crumbling even as she tried to keep calm. “Please.” Her voice was low, quiet, almost with the tone of a warning. She wouldn’t lose him. She couldn’t. It was silly, frivolous, trivial — these feelings that shouldn’t be there but were.

Her grip tightened and she looked down at their hands, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. “Please.” Desperation colored her whispered words and creased her brow. She clenched her jaw, finally opening her eyes again to stare into his. She held his gaze as she slipped from her chair, falling to her knees at his feet, shaking her head. You can’t put me through this. Don’t put me through this. Her chest ached, and her throat was sore as all her energy went toward keeping her composure. The breath she drew was shaky, and her mouth opened to speak. “I-” She quickly shut it as she felt her voice waver, and she ducked her face, pressing her forehead to their interlocked hands. She could feel the tremor of her skin, but stood no chance of stilling her hands.

He wouldn’t promise her. But she needed him to tell her — to tell her it would be okay. She felt pathetic. But she was too selfish, too needy, to hate herself for it.

He wouldn’t swear to her. But maybe she could buy them some time. “Just-” Her words caught in her throat, and when they returned they were hoarse. “Just come back alive.” She wouldn’t ask him to swear not to do it. But to give it a chance, to put it off, to at least attempt another solution. She knelt at his feet like it was his empire: supplicant. Begging. Her voice was just above a whisper. “Please, Lir — just come back alive.”

Seeing her unhinged like this was disconcerting. Untangling her, reducing her to her rawest, most vulnerable point was fun in the right context, but now? Where she sat on her knees with her heart open to him, eyes full of desperation, he couldn't deny her that trivial luxury. A falsehood, a promise made to be broken. They were both most certainly aware of that.

But he caved in, his chest aching in guilt and sympathy and remorse, every negative aspect of getting close to someone all bundled up and knotting at the core of him like a stab from the inside out. He took a deep breath that trembled on his lips. His eyes flickered over her and in the lighting of the flames only feet away they took on an almost golden hue. "...I won’t leave you, Emily. I will return with my life. I will return for you." He spoke carefully, brows upturned, hands tightening around hers.

"But there is a chance, Emily, that none of this will work. That the whole world will come crumbling down around us even if I do manage to find her. If that's the case, this will be our last night. And I want you to know that I couldn't think of a better person to spend my last peaceful night with than the Empress herself..." He smiled bittersweetly, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth nervously.

He didn't know if it was the pressure of the situation or just her in general that spiked his anxiety, but now she wasn't the only one with quivering hands.

He could be lying to her. If he was being sensible he was — she was being horribly selfish, destructively so, but she wanted so desperately to believe him. To clutch at the smallest possible spark of hope and fan it into a roaring flame. She felt sick. Angry at herself, and angry at the world, and so so angry at the Void for putting her in this situation to begin with. This was why she didn’t get attached. Too much of her needed him. It was too dangerous. It was affecting her decision-making, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it back. She was aching, her chest feeling hollow, anxiety bubbling up into her throat, and the guilt ate at her but she forced it away with sheer reckless hope. Her mind wouldn’t even consider the alternative. No - it couldn’t comprehend an alternative; no words, no images formed. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it.

...How could she possibly function for the rest of the day with this looming over her? Their last night? How was this fair? Her life had been completely overturned in less than a month. A whirlwind that had ripped through her and uprooted everything. Why was she feeling so damned much?

She had never been a pious person — to the Abbey, to the Outsider; she’d recited strictures to the satisfaction of her tutors, she’d plucked runes from altars but never knelt at them. But here, now, as the rage and sadness and loss and- ...and love devastated her, she averted her eyes and touched her lips to his hands like they were holy. She worshipped him for the briefest moment; not for being a god, but for being human.

Her eyes didn’t meet his as they struggled through the pain that throbbed in her. She strangled it. Destroyed it. Built up a levee of resolve and determined force that would endure. The small soft moment passed. She dropped his hands. Rising to her feet, raising her chin, there was fervent intensity in her set jaw and fierce gaze. She glanced down at him, every inch regal, and brought a hand to his cheek.

When she kissed him, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t yearning, it wasn’t hopeful, it wasn’t pleading. It was possessive. Protective. She wasn’t letting him go, and no one - nothing - could make her.

[onewhoturns]

Suffering was just another synonym for existing.

Angsty emo whale boy

[onewhoturns]

pt 4 - Weakness

Another short section, but an important one. Credit to @kaldwinqueen for the Outsider. Part four of The Void Devours, feel free to leave it some love over on AO3. To start from the beginning on Tumblr. 

Oliver's morning was filled with its usual occurrences, despite the night being so incredibly unusual. He sat at his desk after a fair amount of bickering with Billie and an entire bowl of porridge, plus some fruit and a few nuts. She had confronted him head on, but she typically did, barking at him about how he hadn't shown up, how the guards had gone searching for him, dragging her around the halls sniffing around for him like bloodhounds.

She stopped though, when she realized that something was off about him. Even after he'd eaten he wore an expression that she'd never seen on him before, eyes averted, lips dropped, not in a frown but in defeat. So she stopped prying and prodding because Billie Lurk knew far too well how annoying it could be to have someone shoving their nose where they didn't belong. That didn't mean she wasn't concerned, though -- or that she wouldn't be asking about it more later.

He appreciated her ability to read the mood; he appreciated her in every aspect. She was a wonder of a woman.

By the time he'd finished writing his letters there was an entire stack beside him. He'd received news back from the man in Karnaca, thanking him for his help, assuring him that the money would only be used for the good of the people, the rest would be donated to the Addermire Institute, where natural philosophers were now flocking after the incident with the Crown Killer had cleared up. He knew that things would get better there. It would take time, as all things did, but it brightened his mood a bit to know that his efforts weren't in vain.

He began sealing envelopes off with hot wax, using his own cufflink symbol. It was a diamond with small divots and a rather intricate inner design. He liked it, even if he never really understood why they were apart of the ensemble the Void had left him with.

It hadn’t been the simplest of negotiations, but it had be thorough. Emily had assured her father that nothing untoward had happened between herself and who Corvo was now calling Oliver (so she would as well, if she could remember it). It didn’t quite feel right on him, but she would learn to compromise. She explained that she’d made a conscious choice of her own free will, that he’d offered her plenty of chances to say no. He hadn’t coerced her, hadn’t tricked her; it had been a small consensual kiss. The aftermath was unexpected. She doubted the Outsider had had any clue what he’d been doing as it happened.

Corvo was calmed by her patient straightforward explanation. He shook his head with an exasperated sigh, dryly mentioning the unnecessary details the man had shared. Emily had winced. His words, she explained… He liked words. He may not be the best at using them plainly. She herself was still getting used to interpreting his prose.

She shamed her father for keeping the Outsider a secret from her. He explained his wariness over the risks the man may have posed, and sheepishly admitted to the recently received negative results from Dr. Hypatia, who seemed to think he was perfectly fine.

Emily noticed the way her father would refer to the Outsider as ‘the kid,’ and she found it disproportionately amusing.

He explained how Oliver (and Billie Lurk) had arrived at Dunwall Tower, and the work he intended to bring Oliver in on -- investigating the recent unexplained deaths around the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

She, in turn, explained the unsettling pull of the Void. Carefully. She had to remind him multiple times that it wasn’t the Outsider’s fault -- or, at least, not intentionally. She was only just starting to forgive him herself, now that she’d finally managed some rest and a brief respite from its endless hunger. Even as she explained she felt it on the edge of her mind. It was coming for her. She didn’t know how long it would take to return, but she knew it was coming. A thin ringing in her ears had begun about half an hour after the Outsider had left her side, and it remained a constant noise in her head, steadily growing louder throughout the day. His presence fended it off, but didn’t destroy it. She wondered if she ever could. Killing the Outsider was one thing. Killing the Void was laughable. They wouldn’t destroy it - they didn’t need to, didn’t want to - but there must be a way to sever her ties.

Finally, after long hours of discussing, explaining, and occasionally arguing, a resolution was reached. They would have tower staff help rearrange things in her bedroom, as inconvenient as it might be. Corvo himself set to arranging sleeping quarters closer to the door inside the safe room, placing a temporary cot in place of the current sofa. They would be close, but not quite rooming together. He wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t sleep in the room with them - it was her choice to interact with the man, and he grudgingly trusted her judgment, knowing she knew how important the man was as an ally - but he expected them to each have their own privacy. If Oliver ever got out of line, Emily knew what to do. She, meanwhile, was fairly sure it wouldn’t be an issue. His words could lash at her all he wanted, but he’d never strike her, never try to physically force her into anything she didn’t want. And if she fell to temptation it was her own damn fault. She didn’t say that to her father, however; he trusted her, but he didn’t need to know details.

The move had been rather simple, though he still didn't particularly feel "accepted" he at least felt just the slightest bit better than he had earlier. He tried to keep his mouth shut as he followed the guards, as he followed Corvo, but like a child his eyes wandered, taking everything in, counting all of the sensations he felt, analyzing every painting, every fiber of the carpet. It was jarring really, to be so educated on the history of most things but so very inexperienced simultaneously. He knew grass, he knew it was green, he knew it was cold on spring mornings and dried to a crisp on summer nights, but it'd been from the memories of others that he knew these things. Dim sensations as he remembered them when he was human. 

His senses were buzzing now, which made him fidget, overwhelmed still. He wasn't sure he'd ever get use to being able to understand things so deeply. He was human but he still felt different, isolated.

An Outsider.

No one would truly understand him.

He glanced up at Corvo, the wisps of salt and pepper hair, hardened Serkonan features, piercing dark eyes. He promised himself he would draw the man later, not as he remembered seeing him in the Void, but as he saw him now. He found he enjoyed poring himself over quill and parchment, sketching the things he could see now, with his own eyes, his own perception. Him.

He avoided speaking much to Emily, found himself averting his gaze, tufts of wavy obsidian falling against his forehead each time he bowed his head. He listened, nodding along to instructions barked out by Corvo -- not that Corvo was yelling but mostly because his gravelly Protector tones were very demanding. But he understood, and he took note of the tone he used, the way he moved. He didn't seem angry anymore, only slightly irritated, inconvenienced and riddled with fatherly concern. Which seemed like progress. He couldn't help but wonder how their conversation went, now that he couldn't look back at the things he wasn't present for.

By the end of the night he was settled, equipped with several jars of ink (he very much enjoyed writing by quill rather than typewriter), many stacks of papers, envelopes, and a few other luxuries. He'd have a ring made for him later, which he wasn't very pleased with but he wasn't one to complain.

He was so very tired of wearing rings, especially those of silver.

There were a few candles lit in the royal safe room, flickers of light casting dancing shadows against the walls as they moved. He sat against the back of the chair, a glass cup at his side that was only half filled with dark, honey colored liquor. He liked the burn at the back of his throat and the sweet, spicy aftertaste. It helped him loosen up, which was something he direly needed after the day's events.

It was a new and heartening experience to actually look forward to sleeping. After a day of steadily growing Void noise, Emily found it a relief when she felt that the Outsider - Oliver - was near. The fading noise settled to a beautiful silence. She could even hear the sea outside. She actually got into bed with a smile on her face. She hadn’t gone to sleep this early in -- well, ever. No, probably since she was a child. But even her ten hours last night hadn’t made up for a week’s worth of missed sleep, and every moment spent with the Void’s maddening hum drilling into her ears was exhausting. It hadn’t been too bad early in the day, but around dinner time it had come back with a vengeance. But then - now - here she was, and she could hear the world around her once more. Her heart was free of ice, her mind free of clinging sludge.

She burrowed into the soft sheets, sighing, nightgown tangling around her thighs as she pulled the blankets from their neatly-tucked corners. Rolling onto her back, she let out another long sigh, letting the day hit her like a train all at once. Her carefully built structures, always holding her up, keeping her energy going, crumbled to dust and she let the exhaustion roll over her, sinking into slumber.

He spent the first hour or so with ink on paper, sketching out little things: the cats in Karnaca's damp, dingy alleyways; hounds in the pub; the beaks of bloodflies. But then he turned the page and he began to start on Emily's structure; the line of her jaw, the bow to her lips -- his attention to every intimate detail was unparalleled. He wished he had paints, a soft frown washing over him as he imagined the flecks of gold in her irises, the hues of pink playing across her tanned cheeks, the furrow of her bold, sharp brows.

He set it to the side when his head began to buzz. He needed to lay back on the brandy but the taste brought a certain bittersweet nostalgia that he inexplicably clung to. He needed air. He stood, perhaps a bit wobbly as he made his way out of the safe room back door, into the cluttered hallway, and finally onto one of the two symmetrical balconies overlooking the main street. The stars above blinked in and out like dots on a black canvas, clouds lingering a little ways off, signaling a coming storm.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the edge, hands gripping the stone loosely as he mumbled the words of a whaler's song under his raspy breath, letting his thoughts drift off, not realizing that he was most definitely just a tad bit out of radius.

Emily’s dreams had taken a turn. Or rather, she’d begun to dream.

It started in her throat, it always did: black claws crawling into her mouth, forcing their way down her throat, pumping her lungs full of smoke until she felt they might burst, ribs aching and cracking. From there it spread like disease, poisoning her blood. She felt the stab in her sternum as Daud’s blade pierced her as it had her mother -- a throwback from her old nightmares, made fresh by the way the blade curved out of her on the other side, wrapping around her, wrenching her open inch by excruciating inch, pulling skin tighter and tighter until it burned and split.

The Void seeped into her dreams with abandon - not just her dreams, but her whole body - reveling in its invasion.

If she'd been awake she would've grit her teeth and borne the pain. In her sleep, she whimpered.

Screams, echoes, shrieks, the screech of metal on metal as it grated on itself -- she felt her ears bleed black tar. And she sank, limbs weighed down like lead. She tried to free them, but her wrists stretched like dough, longer and longer, without her hands moving at all -- useless, just tangling around her, a sea of useless excess flesh that piled up around her, burying her, suffocating her. Her hips and legs became stone, trapping her inside, immobile, before chipping and flaking like shale, falling away like brittle bones as she withered and wasted away, each chip a chunk of flesh. Eyes bled black, trailing down her face, eating away at her skin, slicing fine stinging cuts into her neck, then her shoulders, her chest, until all of her burned and stung and itched like mad, invisible lacerations flaying her skin.

And her throat. Always her throat. She couldn’t breathe, she could never breathe -- now the tears of bile that filled her mouth hardened into small marbles, jarring her teeth, choking her as they slipped down her throat to sit like stones in her belly. No, not stones, eggs. Bloodfly larvae, making a home in her gut, their wings beating at her insides, burrowing out through her skin, making a hive of her body, or tunneling back up her throat again, papery wings tangible in her mouth, her teeth chattering in fear crunching on the exoskeletons and molted shells that seemed to endlessly pour from her lips. She would scream if she could, but she had no breath, and her mouth was full, overflowing with one horror or another, until choking on her own blood was the best possible option.

She woke with a start, hands flying to her arms, her chest, feeling holes where there were none, fingers briefly touching gore, stabbing her own viscera, before she realized it wasn’t real.

It felt so real.

She’d been so sure it was real.

Liquid slid down her cheeks and she wiped it away angrily, before looking back at her hand with shock. But no, it wasn’t black, she must have just imagined it, just clear -- just tears. She preferred tears.

Her vision swam with black fog, and she sat up, backing herself against the headboard until her head rested on the wall itself. She wrapped her shaking arms around legs that tremored violently. More tears.

She'd thought it was over.

She’d been so hopeful, so happy, so sure it had been over. She’d found the solution, she knew-

Emily slammed her head back against the wall behind her, the sharp pain in the real world cutting through the phantom sensations of the Void’s dreams. It made her dizzy, but at least it made her present.

The images from her dreams flashed before her eyes, back to just images, the sensations and then the details already slipping away. That was how it worked, the Void. Removing the memories so she could start it all over again another night. Why come up with new terrors when it could just stab her time and time again with-

No, it was gone. Just a lingering throb in her chest, a phantom pain.

He hadn't noticed it at first, senses dulled with faint intoxication, but his words fell short and his gaze wandered behind him as something stirred at his core. He felt it, a distraught something, his stomach churning faintly. He stepped back through the hall, returning to the safe room, feeling heavier than usual, a dull ache ringing in his temples. Maybe he would lay off of alcohol completely for a long while. 

Dunwall was quiet at night, especially when you were rooming in the tower safe room, where noise didn't get in, or escape. But he heard it, the thud, a soft rustling from the room above -- breathing? He couldn't tell. But he felt wrong. He felt something weighing on his shoulders and the more he stood there wondering what the hells was wrong the heavier it got.

So he figured it was worth it to at least check. He clung to the rail, pushing himself up and even setting his hand on the wall as he felt himself get drowsier. Stairs never felt so difficult until now.

Once he'd finally reached the door, cracked open with a slight breeze brushing through, he peeked into the room. "... Emily?" he called out, not loudly, but within hearing range he hoped. He couldn't see her very well, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of the room.

She felt his approach like a warm blanket for the frostbite left in the wake of the Void: kind enough, but a bit too little too late. She held her breath as he spoke her name, pushing down the angry sobs that burned in her. Her shoulders spasmed violently, unable to stop, but she stayed quiet. Her fingernails - still gloved, always gloved - dug into opposite wrists, holding herself together. She was trembling, and she hated it. She hated all of it. All the turmoil inside her, the fear, the anger, the complete and utter hopeless emptiness that echoed endlessly in every crevice of her being.

The Void was ravenous, and it had devoured her. Again.

And if she fell asleep again? What nameless torture would she be subjected to then?

She ducked her head, tucking her face into the cradle of her arms, teeth clamping down on trembling lips until blood filled her mouth. The sting was good. The pain was good. It gave her something to focus on.

Oliver stared for several moments, trying to gather what exactly had happened, but he was piecing the puzzle together rather quickly, especially considering he'd had about roughly four thousand years to work on his deductive skills. He stepped in and settled on the side of her bed. "... I am at fault," he spoke suddenly, his voice quieter than usual, mostly in his attempt to keep anyone from overhearing... Particularly a certain royal protector.

"I knew not the extent to which the kiss might harm you. Over and over I may say that. Though words are meaningless now, even as I string together a tapestry of apologies, even as I sit here and ponder all of the ways I could have not given in to temptation, how much happier you'd be now, without such a burden on your shoulders. I consider the way the Void felt as it stirred within me, torturing me, every moment was a blur, living in a perpetual state of drowning. Existing, but outside of time, seeing what was and what was not. I can offer you my tapestry, Emily, regardless of whether or not you take it. It would change nothing, it would not reverse what I have done. But instead of an apology I can, in place, make a promise. I will make it better." He nodded and glanced at her. "This won’t happen again, I'll be careful. I'll be considerate, I'll be patient. I promise you that," he said firmly, setting a hand over hers carefully.

She tried to keep her breathing even. Her inhales shook madly and she held them, as long as she could, before letting out trembling breaths. His words did comfort her. They hurt her, in a way, too; blaming herself just as much, and feeling sorry for him as well, only looking for a respite from the very pain she’d just been experiencing.

Emily had needed his promise, though she hadn’t realized it until it was given. She’d still been scared, part of her, that he would run. They didn’t know how to communicate with him. It wouldn’t be out of the question for him to just leave. Not particularly wise, but possible.

His hand on hers made her heart stop for the briefest moment. It was like dipping her hand in fresh sun-warmed water. So much more than his mere presence. It burned a tiny hole through the darkness surrounding her. She needed to keep that light. It was magic. It was ethereal and beautiful, and the relief of it caused a new rush of tears. But she needed more.

With a hard, sharp swallow, Emily cursed propriety, cursed her nerves, and lunged for him. She wrapped her arms around him, dragging herself into his lap, ducking her chin and resting her forehead against his chest, breathing deep, still shaking. Her fingers clenched fists in his clothes, desperately hanging onto him.

It was the best decision she’d ever made. It was as though she’d wrapped herself around a floodlight. Remnants of the Void bubbled off of her and disappeared into the night. She tried to hold it in, but she felt the cry of relief escape even as she fought to choke it back. The most noise she’d ever made during these nights, and it was almost silent. More blood in her mouth as she bit her lip again, holding back sobs. She hated being weak like this. Hated it. But she needed him. She needed him for these moments, when she was broken, to help hold her together. She was splinters and he was glue and if she held them together long enough, tight enough, she’d be whole again.

In that moment he thought of all of the times he could have looked away. All of the times he could have let her suffer. But he didn't. He had always wondered what it was back then, that drew him towards her. It had never been romantic, nor sexual, mostly because those were two complicated things he could never think to understand in his dulled, torturous existence. Perhaps it was familiarity; he understood her situation far too well and that human bit of him that he struggled to maintain reached out desperately to guide her, to lead her away from the exploitation. To preserve her childish innocence. That purity was begrudgingly taken away the moment she watched her mother die, so it couldn't have been that. He closed his eyes and focused on her warmth, trying not to think too much about it.

Thinking about things, what a dangerous pastime.

What he felt in the moment was not the tension from before, it was not primal lust, nor any perverse minded inclination. It was acceptance, it was contentment, satisfaction, among several other things. It was really something, to be needed -- he just hoped he was wanted.

His fingers stroked down the line of her back and rested there. He dragged them up and down in some attempt to soothe her, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down and kissed the top of her head, speaking no words for once, because he had none, he only had himself, hoping that would be good enough.

The scent of spices lingered on him mixed with the odd wildflowers that intermingled with his natural scent. He'd been drinking, and that was obvious by his breath. After several moments a noise rumbled from his chest, a hum, tunes of baritone escaping his slightly parted lips. The song he couldn't get out of his head. It was slowly paced, bittersweet. It was the only thing he could think to do in the moment. Void, he could hardly think at all.

It felt like hours she spent swallowing cries, even as a near constant stream of tears fell from her eyes. She hated tears. She hated crying. She cried in complete silence, every breath held til her throat burned and her chest might burst, hiding her shame, her weakness. She still shook.

Hands that had been wrapped around his back pulled inward as her whole body curled up, becoming small. She grabbed at the front of his shirt instead, nuzzling into him again, until his scent filled her lungs. He smelled beautiful. Not just pleasant, actually beautiful -- she could see the colors of every note of his scent.

Silent hiccups wracked her body. His hands on her back soothed her, melting away the tremors of horror that had shaken her so thoroughly as to give her a headache.

His silence was perfect. If he had spoken she would have needed to acknowledge her cries, her fears, would’ve needed to define what exactly was happening between them. His silence, like hers, let her pretend it wasn’t happening.

As his lips pressed gently against the crown of her head, she shifted again, pressing her body into him, bare skin against the fabric of his clothes. Her movements were lessening, silent sobs reduced to the occasional shiver. Her ear pressed to his chest as he hummed, sucking her wounded lip nervously, the last flow of the blood already stemmed, though it still remained swollen.

Another moment. And another.

The tension in her body gradually eased, leaving her exhausted again, eyes heavy and limbs loose and leaden. She found it hard to open her eyes, and not just from their puffy bloodshot state. She was so tired. So very tired.

For once he didn't care that his shirt would be wrinkled, that his hair might be disheveled. He rocked her back and forth at a slow pace, going quiet as he suddenly pulled her back, movements careful but swift. He laid her down and found that she wasn't very heavy at all, her lithe figure curled against his as he held her still, now laid beside her sprawled along the length of the bed. She needed to sleep. He also perhaps needed to sleep. It had been a few days.

His head was aching still.

He kept his eyes closed, reaching up to run a hand through her hair as he'd been dreaming to do in these past few months. It was as soft as he remembered, softer even, now that his senses were mostly back in order. But his hands moved at a rhythm, some kind of beat that only he knew privately, that replayed in his head over and over, never leaving him in his day to day life. He liked to think it was the music of his existence.

Even though he would have gladly remained here with her for the rest of his life, bodies intertwined, breaths quiet and faint, hearts synced together, his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Before he could do much besides heft a blanket partway up their bodies, he'd drifted off into unconsciousness.

[onewhoturns]

pt 3 - Protector

Did you miss Part 2? Part 1? Here’s part the third - an interlude, to some extent. Again, credit to @kaldwinqueen for the Outsider. I wrote for Emily and Corvo. This chapter is all adorable dad and angsty whale boi. Posted to AO3, so go leave it some love. Part 3 in The Void Devours. [If you have trouble with formatting, click through to keep reading]

Emily was asleep within five minutes of her head hitting the pillow.

She’d offered the bed to him, after realizing he’d made a good point -- not wanting to just summon servants to her room with a cot only to explain the sudden appearance of a man. She offered to sleep on the divan. But he’d refused, so she slipped under her covers despite the still setting sun, and was out in an instant.

She was still asleep some time later, when an assertive knocking came at her door. “Your Majesty.” It was Corvo, his voice typically gruff but perhaps a bit on edge. A harder knock. “Emily.” She didn’t stir.

Oliver had taken his seat on the couch and for several minutes he sat at the end with his back against the arm and his knees tucked to his chest. His shirt had gotten a bit wrinkled -- which annoyed him to no end, but otherwise he remained pretty presentable. It was when she passed out that he buried his hands in his hair, tugging at it and grumbling to himself unsteadily, trying to remain quiet. Though he was certain that no amount of his angsty bickering would actually wake her.

He left it that way, disheveled and tossed about, figuring he could fix it later before she woke. He knew that wouldn't be for another long while but he was a patient man.

He was a man.

He breathed out. Breathed in, capturing the breath and holding it there, bringing his hand up, now raw with a cut that had stopped bleeding, and he stroked the thin line across his throat before breathing out again.

He had was a man who had survived.

His eyes flickered over to the door at the sound of the knock and for a split second he weighed his options. Leave and disturb her sleep, open the door and disturb her sleep, or, hide. Yes. That seemed to be, in his now very much alive and human mind, the best course of action in the moment. But once he found himself hidden behind the royal purple drapery, silk covering the expanse of his body as he leaned back against the cold window, he realized that this perhaps was in fact not the best course of action.

He realized this of course, when it was too late. So he would ride this out and hope to the very void itself and beyond that Corvo wasn't on high alert like the watch dog he was trained to be.

A louder knock. “Emily, I’m coming in.” And in another minute he was in the door. While not frenzied per se, there was a definite anxiety in his tight lips and sharp eyes, that softened when he spotted his daughter sleeping soundly. He always softened for her. She was his weakness, he was her strength. The most loyal subject she would ever have.

Corvo took soft steps to her bedside, sitting on the edge. He remembered doing this same thing back when she was younger -- especially during the rat plague and right after it, right after Jessamine…

With a gentle hand he smoothed the hair from her face, pausing just a moment to feel her temperature. She hadn’t been well lately. She’d been hiding it - attempting to hide it - but he wasn’t as easily fooled as some others in the tower. He’d planned to give her another couple days to fix it herself before he would send Hypatia straight to her. Still, now she seemed at peace, cocooned in a deep sleep.

He leaned down and placed a bristly kiss on her forehead. All this responsibility, and she was still a kid. But she’d always be a kid to him. His kid.

The last week she’d been restless and seemed steeped in hectic energy, but now she was just a young woman in slumber. “You’re gonna be okay, Em,” he assured her sleeping form, giving her hand a squeeze. He looked down at the gloves that still covered her hands even in sleep - not knowing if she’d ever be called from bed, or walked in on. His eyes were pained again, reminded of the struggle she now faced, all because he hadn’t been there, hadn’t done his job well enough. He’d failed her, when she needed it most. But she’d come out of it as strong as ever -- stronger, even. “You’re a good kid.” He pulled the blankets up a little further around her, and held her hand again. “I’m proud of you, Em. And I’m gonna keep you safe. I promise.” He never got to talk like this to her anymore. Not after 14, where anytime he got emotional she would roll her eyes and make gagging sounds. But she couldn’t tell him off now. And he needed to tell her things like this sometimes.

Satisfied his daughter was peaceful and comfortable, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. Eyes scanned over every surface as he did the cursory Royal Protector scan, the same he did every time he escorted her to some new location. He didn’t go check her drinks for poison - not right this second, anyway - but he looked over the entrances and exits, checked for weak spots in security. His eyes narrowed, lips thinning into a hard line as he spotted the shape in the curtains. Assassin? If they were, they weren’t particularly good at it.

Quick, silent steps, circling around from the side. He couldn’t quite see the figure, but he was sizing them up already. His arm shot out, wrapping around what should be the neck area, pressing the tip of his crossbow into the side of the - man? Seemed like it was a man, too tall for most women. “Hands where I can see them.” A quick glance to the bed. “And keep quiet.” He wasn’t about to wake Emily if he didn’t need to.

Oliver listened and closely so, eyes closed as he grinned faintly. He'd always been so fixated on the bond they shared, his own father having been... not the greatest, to say the least. And perhaps he'd also been just the slightest bit envious as well. But his parents were long gone, even before he'd been cast into the Void on that awful day in the Month of Darkness. Billie was the closest he had to a mother these days but if he were being honest she was far more a sister than anything, or at least, he felt he could trust her more than he could trust a mother. Then again, he didn't exactly know the standards here.

He had no frame of reference for that kind of-

Oh.

His eyes widened and his whole body tensed, adrenaline rushing again. "I assure you that waking Emily is the exact opposite of what I'm here for," he whispered back, bright wide eyes flickering over as best as they could in an attempt to meet his. "I can explain this, and with a fair amount of eloquence, but I urge you not to stab me and to remain calm and rational."

Corvo’s eyes flashed angrily. “I told you no contact with the rest of the tower.” His voice was only slightly gruffer than normal. Irritated, not infuriated. “How hard is that for you to understand?” He lowered his weapon but still pulled Oliver out from his hiding place, stepping between his daughter and the former god. He looked over him in a quick assessment. Messy hair. Wrinkled clothes.

“What are you doing in my daughter’s bedroom?” And he was talking about his daughter, not just the Empress of the Isles. His voice had gone hard, crossbow raising again but not aiming. Not that he’d need to at such close range. He glared at the man who’d been cowered in the corner of his daughter’s room. He had a lot of explaining to do. As much as Corvo trusted Emily, if he were to double it, that’s how much he didn’t trust Oliver. At least, around his daughter.

"Now I am... fully aware of how this looks." He glanced down at the crossbow and his eyes flickered back up to Corvo, then to Emily. "... And I am also aware of how much explaining this might require." He  took a deep breath and anxiously ran a hand through his hair, a habit he was quickly beginning to develop over his past few months of being human. He supposed it was better than nail biting or fidgeting to the point of distraction.

He thought for a moment, trying to gather himself and the words he would use, considering the rhetoric with which to approach the subject and deciding that starting off with 'My dear Corvo' would probably get him an arrow between the eyes... or somewhere else a bit unsavory.

"There are things you take for granted, when you're a human, when you can feel everything so much that it fades from your awareness and easily becomes nothing but noise in the background of everyday life. Sensations were luxury in the Void. To surpass anything but a cold, numb, nothing was bliss, and to be deprived from basic human... basic functions of sentience... existing... for four thousand... for many long years-" He found himself stumbling over his words, stopping a moment to catch himself. Corvo Attano did not know his origins, his story. This would all be foreign to him, it was difficult to explain to someone when it felt so out of context.

He hadn't noticed it before, the fear that had settled within his chest, tightening, tugging, pulling him into himself. He wasn't afraid of Corvo Attano, but the idea that he might never see Emily again, the idea that all of this would sound like rubbish to a man who had little time to entertain him. He wondered for a moment if it were even worth explaining, if words themselves could ever do justice to the way that he felt that night.

"The Void watched. It stared, it commanded and I obeyed. And sometimes I would wonder if it were the hollow breeze of oblivion or the quiet cackling of the presence that kept me bound to an existence without existing. I knew, before Billie ventured to Shindaerey Peak, before Daud told her his plan, that in weeks time I would fade, and I would be liberated in one way or another. But even death itself could never fill the emptiness, the jagged hole that had been left when they... I approached Emily several months ago and we shared a drink and conversed and though I undoubtedly should have asked for your blessing before appearing before her so late at night and - I did not have time nor did I think that-  o-or even expect that-..." He took a deep breath and he stared away, guilt clear on his face even if it were masked loosely behind the stoicism that was so characteristic of him.

"When I kissed her I wasn't aware it would have such explosive consequences... Not until it was already set in stone. There is a wound within her that invites the Void, and it is closing, slowly, but the more that she utilizes her abilities, the more it opens and tempts her. It troubles her late into the night, to the point that the simple human function of sleeping has now become something of a rarity. Because of my... unique connection, tether, to the Void, my presence seems to tame it, which allows her to sleep, among other things." He still didn't look up, swallowing harshly, a sweat pricking at his brow.

The younger man’s talk of 'sensations' wasn’t making it any better. Corvo’s eyes narrowed. His suspicions didn’t disappear as Oliver explained - or tried to explain - some aspect of being... Void-bound, for lack of a better term. Corvo very nearly rolled his eyes at the florid language. The kid was almost as bad as Wyman with their poetry. But that reaction quickly stilled.

His eyes stared daggers into the man who tripped over words of late-night rendezvouses and of asking for his blessing.

Even under his anger he had to acknowledge it; this kid was so damn stupid. Corvo had known better that to mention anything to Jessmine’s father the first time they ever- they were ever- …intimate. He hadn’t mentioned it to the man at all, actually: Jessamine had, and that was after the affair was already underway. Hells, the guy could’ve saved them both a lot trouble if he’d just kept his damn mouth shut. But he’d said it now. And Corvo had heard. And he wasn’t happy.

When you kissed her?! He bit his tongue to stop from shouting at the former god, hearing out the rest of his story. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure the rest was any better. Emotions battled within him -- primarily anger, that the punk had been so reckless, so selfish, so irresponsible as a god. It was one thing to go after heretics that writhed in hedonistic worship, but to set his sights on the Empress. On a woman - a girl, only 25 - who only took his Mark out of necessity. Corvo’s jaw was firm as he shook his head with disdain at the black-haired boy who cowered before him. The 'among other things' comment had him wincing and groaning - he didn’t want to know what other things. He really didn’t. And he didn’t want to know how Oliver knew.

And now he was left in the uncomfortable position of figuring out this whole situation. If he took Oliver away, he’d be hurting Emily. Protecting her, in a way, but - on a more immediate level - hurting her. If he let Oliver stay, he risked losing his still young and still perhaps not the most sound-in-judgment daughter to the temptations of the Outsider. At least the younger man’s words seemed sincere. And scared, which was good. He should be scared.

A moment of silence passed as Corvo weighed his options.

Finally, he put away the crossbow, straightening himself.

“Well you can’t leave,” he said flatly - an order. “You stay here now. Any time she needs to sleep, you’re here, you hear me?” He jutted an authoritative finger at the man. “And if she needs - whatever else she needs. You do it.” He had no idea what the situation was, entirely, but whatever it was; Emily’s well-being was top priority. “But by no means will you ever be touching my daughter, understand? You keep your hands off of her; I keep my hands off of you.”

Oh how he wished he could fade into nothing right now. How he so desperately desired the sweet embrace of nonexistence would sweep him off his feet and take him away from this awful, compromising situation. His eyes met Corvo's and something shattered within him, making his knees a little weak.

He hadn't realized it before, but even if he wasn't that scared of Corvo, he certainly was a terrifying man.

He nodded though, expression hardening in his sad attempt to save face. He went cold, stoic, impassive and unreadable. Even though he was beginning to ponder whether or not coming to the tower in the first place had even been the best course of action. No. Of course it was. Emily needed him, so he would be here. Besides... it felt nice to feel needed.

"It was the arrangement made after our conversation in the hidden chambers behind the fireplace near Dr. Hypatia's lab. She'd been on her way there in her silken nightgown with her hair draped down her..." He stopped himself there. Perhaps he should leave some things unspoken. Imagery set aside.

"I was to sleep here, she was to sleep there and converse with you on the matter in the morning," he explained, trying to change the subject.

Corvo stiffened as he mentioned the secret room. That was Jess’s place. That was his place now. He winced further as the boy went on. “Just-” Corvo held out a hand, “Just... stop talking.”

A brief pause, and luckily the topic was changed. The arrangements seemed… Glancing to Emily, Corvo nodded in reluctant agreement. So his daughter had made a smart choice after all. He really should trust her more.

He did trust her.

Just maybe not her hormones.

“She made the right choice. And I’ll be discussing it with her in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll be sleeping right here.” He promptly lay down on the ground between the couch and Emily’s bed, sending Oliver another glare. “Goodnight.” And with that he turned away from the man. He may not be falling asleep, but he was done listening to the former god pining over his daughter.

Oliver stared at Corvo, eyes widening faintly. He had definitely said something wrong. Perhaps multiple things but he wished people would tell him instead of expecting him to know, instead of scolding him for unintentional wrongdoings. But he was thankful that Corvo hadn't shot him at least. That was good. That was... progress.

He didn't reply, pulling himself back onto the couch and slinking back against the arm, leaning into the fabric with his knees tucked once more to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, almost for dear life. He didn't sleep. He found it difficult to sleep actually, though he hadn't mentioned it to anyone he was sure Billie at least noticed.

The Void didn't have him physically but in spirit, it owned all. Even him. He would visit there sometimes in his dreams, walking the platforms again, wailing leviathans overhead. He would wake up in cold sweats, a numbness taking him just as he woke but fading away once he'd come to.

So he avoided it at all costs. And it wasn't like he'd get a good night's sleep right now even if he tried. Not with Corvo laying there, surely not sleeping either. His stomach grumbled and he realized he hadn't eaten dinner. But he ignored it, the faint aching was nice anyways. It was good to know he was still alive.

Minutes turned into hours but it passed in a blur that he hardly noticed. Notes suddenly began slipping from his closed lips and he hardly realized it himself but he began humming. Perhaps to quell the tense silence that had fallen on the room or maybe out of some odd nostalgia, to feel guilty brought back memories. His mother sick in bed, pale in the face, circles under her eyes as she caressed his cheek with her thumb and her palm. Cold. The Void already had her.

And she would sing to him, there would be a candle flickering somewhere in the room, and he wasn't sure why but her words, her breath that they provoked, it was lined with cold, as if a window had been left open, puffs of mist escaping from her. If this night were good for anything, it was thinking.

A small tear trailed down his cheek and he didn't know why he was sad, but he was.

If Emily had been aware of the hours passing, she may have cheered once she hit hour three. And then it was five, then eight - eight! - blissful hours of sleep. When she finally woke it was a solid ten hours later. Ten hours of perfect, pristine, beautiful, euphoric dreamless sleep. Seeing the light from the mostly-risen sun coming in through her windows and lighting her ceiling, Emily blinked. Morning. She’d slept til morning.

“Finally,” she whispered, eyes closed, overflowing with relief. She felt tears falling from her eyes and wiped them away, feeling silly. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, and yet it was. Emily writhed under her sheets, unable to help the joy that filled her, stretching and popping her joints as she woke up. She rejoiced in the act of waking, reveling in the feeling of her bed, arching her back against the mattress and clutching the sheets, letting out a purr of happiness.

She truly felt the sun. And it was beautiful.

She moaned with one final stretch, toes curling and fingers flexing against her headboard, then finally opened her eyes wide to the sun. She couldn’t help the small smile gracing her lips. It was a glorious day.

She rolled over, grabbing for the whale bone comb as she often did, starting in on the ends of her hair as she sat up, her whole body shuddering delightedly with newfound energy. It was a good day to be--

She stopped as her eyes spotted the Outsider. He didn’t appear to be sleeping.

At first he'd watched her, eyes flickering over her stirring body. But near immediately he turned his gaze away, not only to respect Corvo's wishes but also because he didn't want to tempt himself, didn't want to stare for too long that he might start desperately desiring her, that his hands might ache just to touch her. So he turned his gaze, lids lowered halfway, staring out the window and onto the water.

He told himself he didn't need her. He told himself over and over and over again until he was near mouthing it. He would find someone else, no, better yet, he would grow old and die alone like the vast majority of humans. She was not his belonging, he could not stare at her as such, you must restrict the wandering gaze.

He felt his stomach churning now. So that would make a total of two hungers he was now holding at bay. At least he could hopefully soon satiate one of them. He would get over the other. He would tell himself so much that he would start to believe it.

He hoped.

She felt a plethora of things as he turned away. A bit embarrassed that he’d spotted her rather frivolous response to the morning. Surprise that he was still there -- then again, she reasoned, that was surely why she’d made it to morning at all, but she was still mystified he’d stayed. There was also shame over her behavior the day before, mortification at the failed seduction, guilt at how he’d shut down in those last few moments. Gratefulness that he hadn’t abandoned her.

She felt her hard wall of the day before softening. Of course now she was beginning to understand. Now that she’d already made all of the mistakes. Now she saw how she could have been gentler, kinder, could have given him the touch - the simple affection - he so obviously longed for without viewing it all as some game of power. That wasn’t what it was to him, was it? Just to her. Just to her mind, brought up in halls where power was a monitored commodity, traded and withheld and redeemed by people with pretty clothes and ugly ambitions.

She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts straight, feeling some already slipping from her mind as they might through a sieve. At the very least she should apologize.

Emily leaned forward, crawling to the edge of the bed. “I-”

She cut herself off, at the sight of her father fast asleep on the floor. Her jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowing then immediately raising in shock, a quick bounce of movement that would have surely been comical had she been aware of it. She looked to the Outsider, then gestured silently to her father’s body, cocking her head in question. All night? she mouthed. She’d never heard him come in. As she glanced down again, she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. By the seven bloody strictures - he’d seen the Outsider, then. She winced. That would take some explaining.

He was beginning to hope for a lot of things lately, one of those being that she would be the one to explain everything to him. With her, words came naturally, as if he were in the Void, as if he could pick and choose from every word in the whole language just sitting at his disposal, waiting to be properly utilized in the most advantageous ways possible. But with Corvo he couldn't coordinate, he felt awkward, less of a man when the other towered above, gaze so dark and piercing, face twisted into a glare.

And then there was the other part of him, shut away under lock and key, the one that knew why he was so hardened on the outside, had witnessed every scar he'd gotten, from the competition in Karnaca to the slips along rooftops or the metal searing the skin of his chest throughout his months in Coldridge.

It was difficult to start a relationship with someone whom he knew near every tiny, intimate detail about, when the other knew little to nothing about himself.

It was especially difficult to speak without making comments that would assuredly seem malicious. He didn't want that. He just had no other means of communicating, his few years as a child scraping by in Tyvian alleyways, barely escaping death at every corner had taught him near nothing where emotions came into play and these last few months? These months on a ship with Billie Lurk, a woman who's passion translated into how hard she hit, how well she proved herself? She wasn't much better at it either.

Not since Deirdre. It'd gotten even worse after Daud.

He nodded in response to her question, though passively, with no clear expression on his face. She was now a business partner. Nothing more. He would let her know that, he would be firm and strong enough to keep himself contained. He had stared the Void in the face for four thousand years and it had blinked first.

Emily wanted to be exasperated at her father’s protective nature - and honestly, she was, to some extent - but she found herself with a tiny soft smile as she looked down at Corvo on the floor. He was her strength, she was his weakness.

She glanced to the standing clock. Just past 5:30. A bit early, but it wasn’t as though Corvo would be mad at her for waking him. Whether or not she wanted to wake him was another matter. She had to consider the conversation that would inevitably follow. Her eyes flicked briefly to the Outsider, trying to greet his expressionless demeanor with patience instead of pain. She would find a way to make it right. She would. She didn’t want him hurting.

She hesitated there for a moment, looking at her father, her indecision visible -- a rare occurrence. But here, in her own room, this early in the morning, after the most satisfying night of sleep she’d ever had; her guard was down. Examining Corvo’s sleeping face, she imagined the questions he might ask. She wondered how much the Outsider had told him. If he was smart, not quite everything. Had he explained the corruption of the creeping Void? Even now she sensed its presence, though far away and not so vicious as it had been before. The longer she spent around him, the weaker the pull of the Void was.

She could have kissed him for that.

She wouldn’t. A kiss given in gratitude wasn’t what he wanted - at least, she didn’t think so. Still, her lips tingled at the prospect. Her body felt free of the tar-like tendrils of the Void for the first time since - well, since he’d kissed her those months ago. She felt light and airy and as though her vision was suddenly clearer than ever before. A part of her even felt confident that if she needed to she could access the abilities of the Void, too, without being destroyed in the process. She didn’t intend to test the theory.

Emily’s gaze drifted back to the Outsider, her warm eyes clear and bright, untouched by the Void, her judgment unhindered. Instead of buzzing in her head, questions floated calmly, waiting for her to pluck them from her thoughts and vivify them with her tongue.

She kept her voice low, just a hair above a whisper, trying not to wake her father. “Thank you. Truly. I can’t possibly express how grateful I am-” She stopped as Corvo twitched, watching him for a moment, verifying he still slept, before her eyes returned to the Outsider. “...How much does he know?” The question was tentative, curious.

He was unaffected by her voice, only letting his eyes linger on hers and nowhere else. No longer would he indulge temptation. He would bury the desire to study her from afar, with her wild hair and half waking expression, clothing disheveled and wrinkled in some places but form fitting... oh so very form fitting.

By the Void.

When he noticed the twitch in Corvo's features he immediately tensed, slowly shaking his head and turning his gaze away at her question. Too much, is what he was compelled to answer with, but he didn't, lips pursed together in a thin line, eyes dimmer than they were the night before. Perhaps it was a lack of passion, or perhaps a lack of sleep. It was probably both actually.

Physically he was exhausted but his mind was whirling. He had things to write, things to do, things to distract himself with. But he was at least grateful that she'd said thank you, it made him feel just the tiniest bit better about the whole situation.

"Everything," he said simply, which was vague in itself. "We kissed without his blessing, and through selfishness I cursed you," he added, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. He failed to mention the fact that Corvo probably thought they'd done far more than that.

Probably because he didn't realize that was what Corvo thought.

Because no one told him anything.

Emily’s eyes caught the way he looked at her father, the way he turned away. Something had certainly come to pass between the two of them. And with his words she immediately understood what.

Her eyes widened, mortified. “EV-” Her voice came out far too loud, and she quickly glanced down nervously as she lowered her voice. “Everything?” She couldn’t even focus on her feelings about the rest of his words. Was he completely daft? She felt a blush rising up her chest at the prospect of her father knowing about their… brief intimacy. He tended to assume the worst, to blow things a bit out of proportion, at least when it came to his daughter’s love life. She could remember his lecture to Alexi about her responsibility to the Watch, how she couldn’t let her relationship with Emily affect it in any way -- how he’d gone out of his way to make sure she was never posted alone when she took duty in the tower, even after they’d broken off the affair. Wyman had gotten the same treatment, until Emily had stepped in and brokered a peace. And she could only imagine it was worse with the Outsider than with any previous suitors -- Corvo wasn’t exactly inclined to favor the former deity. And with the strictures - the wanton flesh, and all that - the Outsider didn’t exactly have a pristine reputation.

Emily shook her head. She’d need to iron this out, and quickly. She wondered if she could sneak the Outsider into her safe room without waking Corvo. It would probably be better if he wasn’t there.

Thoughts immediately shifting into problem-solving mode, she performed a quick maneuver with the comb she held, reviewing the rest of his words, until it held her hair back decently well, wedged in a complex knot. She was suddenly slightly irritated. “You don’t need to ask for his blessing.” She tried to keep her voice as a whisper. “That’s just… insulting,” she added with a disapproving look. “I make my own decisions, my father doesn’t speak for me. If it were his way, I’d still be a virgin.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them, but then the deed was done. “And I’d never have kissed anyone,” she added, though it was a bit too little too late.

Corvo stirred.

“You should leave,” Emily spoke apologetically, truly feeling bad about cutting him out of the loop, but she knew he’d only serve to distract Corvo, and that would prevent any sort of resolution.

Oliver's thoughts drifted back to the days before the contest in Karnaca, how religious Corvo's mother had been, how so very sweet and loving she was towards him, but how adamant she was about him following those seven guiding strictures, even if she rarely directly enforced them. They were her morals, so he figured in some way, they were also Corvo's.

"It is respect, Emily," he suddenly spoke, standing up. "It is not that he owns you -- despite what you think, not everyone in the Empire is working against you, or actively attempting to sabotage your rights," he scolded, clearly not in a great mood. He stepped past Corvo with near perfect silence, the grace in his step clear even if he were typically on the clumsy side.

"Corvo Attano is a great man who's made sacrifices in his short lifetime that the strongest men in history would shudder at the thought of. To have his blessing would be the greatest of accomplishments. Like it or not you are his daughter and thus he does have some say in your life, and at the very least, a right to his own opinions. Cast aside your petty rebellion for a few moments and you might see things the slightest bit clearer than you had before." He turned the door handle, opening it and glancing back at her. "And perhaps you should show a bit more gratitude to one of the only people in the Empire who genuinely cares about your well-being rather than dismissing him or stepping on him like hardened dirt beneath your polished boots." He shut the door behind him, an unreadable expression on his face. It sounded as though he were warning her, but his tone was chiding, his brows furrowed but not in anger, knitted together in hurt. It did hurt. It felt like regardless of the steps he took, he would always land on eggshells, cracking under his weight, shifting, crumbling. There was no winning with either of them. Tell the truth and they disapproved, lie and they were infuriated, say nothing at all and he was being dismissive. His patience was wearing thin.

Emily’s lips thinned into a taut line as he chided her. She took steady breaths, reminding herself to be patient. He was tired and grumpy. His power came from his words; he would use them to keep himself safe, and to him that meant scolding her. She wasn’t even that mad about his words. He made a decent point, it was just the way he assumed her thought process that was irritating as all hells.

Of course she knew Corvo wasn’t trying to ‘sabotage her rights’ - he loved her. She loved him, of course she did, he was her father and she respected his opinions. But she sometimes had to remind him that she wasn’t a child anymore. If the Outsider thought he might shame her for taking advantage of her father, he obviously hadn’t been paying close attention to their relationship.

Emily respected her father tremendously. He was a great man, and she didn’t need anyone telling her that. She saw it clearly enough. No ‘petty rebellion’ could cloud the pristine (if imperfect) image her father held in her eyes. Everyone who looked on their relationship with scorn, calling him weak-willed or her spoiled, knew nothing. They were the only family they had. No grandparents to help shoulder the burden, no siblings, no aunts, uncles, cousins. Not anymore, anyway. She knew he was strong. Knew he was brave. She loved him more than she could ever love a partner, of that she was sure. She owed him her life a thousand times over. And if the Outsider couldn’t understand that she wouldn’t explain it to him.

She watched the Outsider pout his way out of the room. And he called her childish.

“He’s got a point, you know.” Corvo looked up at her once the door had closed, sitting up, in good humor despite the tense exit of their guest.

She shook her head, wryly. “You know I appreciate you, Father.”

He pulled himself to a standing position, wincing at stiffness left over from sleeping on a crossbow, turning that small bristly smile on his daughter. “Of course I know, Em.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him in a clumsy hug, kissing the top of her head. “But really,” his voice was conspiratorial, “I keep wondering when I’ll get that parade in my honor. Or a statue.” She grinned and pushed him away. “Don’t forget the boat. I need a boat named after me,” he added with a grin, knocking her arm aside and swooping in for a full-on hug, nearly pulling her from the bed.

“Father!” She laughed, knocking him with her shoulder playfully before slipping her arms around him, too. Maybe his little tirade had made her realize one thing: they didn’t hug enough.

With one last quick squeeze she pulled away, adjusting herself until she sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a huff of breath. “Okay. Fun time’s over. We need to talk.”

Corvo nodded, accepting her shift in tone with a determined grimace, the threat of a lecture entering his voice. “Yes we do.”

More of my stuff here.

[onewhoturns]

Wake up look me in the eyes again I need to feel your hand upon my face Words can be like knives They can cut you open And the silence surrounds you And hunts you

I think I might've inhale you I could feel you behind my eyes You gotten into my bloodstream I could feel you floating in me Words can be like knives They can cut you open And the silence surrounds you And hunts you I think I might've inhale you I could feel you behind my eyes You gotten into my bloodstream I could feel you floating in me

The spaces in between Two minds and all the places they have been The spaces in between I tried to put my finger on it I tried to put my finger on it I think I might've inhale you I could feel you behind my eyes You gotten into my bloodstream I could feel you floating in me I think I might've inhale you I could feel you behind my eyes You gotten into my bloodstream I could feel you floating in me

[onewhoturns]

I take far too much joy in writing smut.

Thanks @kaldwinqueen @emsiider