These Dark Days

by naruhoe

Summary:

This is the day that Emperor Jacinth Kaldwin dies. Or is it?

In which Delilah decides to be a bit more proactive in going after her despised half brother. This changes everything.

IE: Corvo arrives two days early, spoiling Hiram Burrows’ plans. Then, Delilah and her coven show up, kidnapping the Emperor from the gardens and utterly derailing Daud’s painstakingly-planned assassination.

(IE: Royal OT3 but Genderbent)

Notes:

Written for the AU: 'always a different sex'. Basically, I've been obsessed with Dishonored again recently (as always) and wanted to re-imagine my power throuple (along with some changes to key canon events) and the ways that it might shift their relationship dynamics. Also, this is my shameless ploy at finally digging into the Jessamine & Delilah feud because I am *obsessed* with it.

As with most things I write, this is all for the benefit of my own personal enjoyment and is, as a result, extremely self indulgent.

Chapter 1: These Dark Days

Jacinth drummed his fingers against the top of the desk, pen nib resting against the bottom of the letter. Repetitive ink blots near the border there seemed to suggest that this was not the first long pause that had been taken during the undertaking of this letter.

It was an ugly thing, the script slanted and cramped, whole sentences struck through, but as a first draft, that was its right. As a first draft, it was destined to languish here, on the desk of this narrow room of Dunwall Tower, or at the bottom of a wastebasket until Jacinth declared himself satisfied enough with it to draft the finalized copy upon a nicer sheet of parchment, package it neatly up in a waterproofed envelope, stamp it with the seal of office engraved into the ring that rested upon his index finger, and send it out with the rest of the postage.

There was much postage to be sent out. Postage by the basket. Postage by the bucket. He took postage between Parliament hearings, had it delivered to him on a tray alongside his meals. These days, he often caught himself neglecting said meals to scribble out a furious response to one of the particularly incendiary letters. These responses seldom saw the light of day, usually crumpled up and tossed into the wastebasket to await being fed to the fireplace during the cold Dunwall nights.

The nights had been very cold, lately.

The conceit of this Empire is that people cannot be trusted to rule themselves, my son. Some day, you will stand where I stand, and you will find that you are not prepared. Still, this must not stop you from trying. Be diligent in your studies. Keep your eyes open. Listen twice as much as you speak. As Emperor, it is your role to shepherd your people. Protect them — from the tyranny of others, yes, from descent into lawlessness, yes, but also from themselves. This Empire can thrive, but only if it has a strong hand to guide it in the right direction.

His father had been right. He had not been prepared.

There had been sickness in the City before— scarlet fever and whooping cough among the factory workers, an outbreak of cholera in Drapers Ward, but nothing that could have prepared them for the Plague. By the time they learned of its existence, it had already started to spread through the districts. Rapidly.

The vector of transmission? Rats, of all things. It didn't take the papers long to adopt the moniker of 'Rat Plague', and before long, word of it had spread far past the walls and canals of Dunwall.

It didn't take long for the diplomats to start pulling out. Whispers spread faster than he could hope to control them. Several months in, it had become abundantly clear that the rest of the Isles were simply watching from a safe distance, waiting to see whether Dunwall would survive this — or simply implode upon itself.

Requests for aid had been sent. Favors had been cached. Anton Sokolov had traveled to Dunwall from Tyvia, allegedly on behalf of the High Judges, though Jacinth suspected it had been more or less the man's own decision that had brought him here. Duke Theodanis of Serkonos had been responsible for generous shipments of provisions; flour, grains, dried fish, and some valuable research components that Sokolov had been requesting. Morley, however, had pulled back.

It was a blow, but Jacinth could say that he had fully been expecting it. The famine after the Insurrection had starved many Morleyans and sent many others fleeing from their homes in search of better prospects — food and work alike — but the memory of the Morleyan people was a tightly-held thing. The lingering bitterness between their two nations would not be easily dispelled any time soon.

This did not change the fact that Jacinth could not see Dunwall starve. He'd had to dig up and invoke several treaties, as well as brandish the might of the Gristolian navy before their monarchs begrudgingly started up grain shipments again.

There were some days that the weight of the responsibility upon his shoulders felt like an impossible task. When it became unbearable, days like this one, he found himself penning variations of the same unsent letter that now sat upon the desk before him.

This one was more simplistic than some of the others.

Corvo.

I have missed you while you’ve been away. If I could trust anyone else with these matters, I would gladly send them so you could remain close. But there is no one else. The Plague has taken so many. The Spymaster was right to insist that I send you.

When you are away, every day seems a heavy burden. Even simple tasks seem worrisome. Emily misses you Emily is difficult to manage. And the great troubles of the City, the conflicts and the Plague, all seem insurmountable. But when you are near, it is different. My heart is at peace.

Scrawled at the bottom, an added section that he had written this afternoon:

Corvo, I selfishly hope that I do not have to wait much longer for your return. The Officers provided by the City Watch are commendable men, but they are not you lack your skills. They do not have the same way with Emily that you do, either.

I feel some days like this City is crumbling apart beneath my feet. Between trying to provide for the people, suppressing the Plague, and sedating the aristocracy, it is all I can do simply to hold it together. I worry that I am making the wrong choices. Focusing on the wrong things.

Emily would rather run from her tutors and play pretend than focus on her studies, and I cannot find it in myself to blame her. I wish that I could play pretend, too, if only for a little while.

Hurry home, Corvo. Please bring fair news with you.

-J

---

Emperor Jacinth Kaldwin, first of his name, had been a figure of scandal several times over the period of his 12 year rule. The first — and most notable — however, had occurred just two years following his coronation as Emperor of the Isles when he left his seat of power for two months on unknown business and returned with an infant girl.

This girl's name was Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin, and the then-22 year-old Emperor wasted no time claiming her in a public event in which he fiercely presented the girl as his blooded daughter and heir apparent to the throne.

The famed painter Anton Sokolov himself, who had received an invitation to the event, painted his own rendition of the ceremony, which he later titled 'The Presentation' and gifted to the Royal Family. Few claimed to have laid eyes on the enigmatic canvas, though it was rumored to hang somewhere in Dunwall Tower.

The focus of the painting, Emperor Jacinth, clad in a severely cut suit, stands before the deep blue drapings of the Imperial throne, hips canted protectively towards the swaddled child tucked into the crook of his left arm. Her tiny red face is barely visible in the deep brushstrokes of the painting. Jacinth's visage is severe, grey eyes seeming to dare the viewer to say something, at odds with the tenderness with which he cradles the child in his arms.

Nobody dared challenge the claim. If anything, the number of courtship propositions during this time spiked, though the Emperor entertained none of them.

To add to the scandal of an heir born out of wedlock, by some strange coincidence, the Emperor's Royal Protector, a minor celebrity in her own right, had also been absent for five months prior to Lady Emily's first public appearance. She had allegedly gone home to Serkonos on urgent family business, but returned to the Emperor's side a month afterwards. Despite Attano's inscrutability, there was heavy speculation among the nobility that the newborn Lady Emily had been borne by none other than the Royal Protector herself.

Jacinth had done nothing, reacting neither to acknowledge nor to dispel the rumors, and eventually, they quieted down as new targets of scandal presented themselves to be whispered about. Time passed. Lady Emily grew. Corvo remained a faithful presence at the Emperor's side — that is until one year, she found herself sent away.

---

The noonday sun was beating down atop her curls. A more sensible woman would have worn a hat, or perhaps a bandana, but her scalp was already sunburnt from the weeks out at sea and she had never been much for hats. (She looked stupid in hats.)

Corvo shifted, craning her neck as she attempted to see past the whaler that was passing their ship. She could feel Captain Curnow's amused gaze on her, but it didn't stop her from arching up onto the tips of her toes as the whaler finally passed them by. She was by no means a short woman, her long legs and lanky frame rivaling many of Dunwall's finest, but in the moment, even a few inches felt like an eternity.

There it was. Dunwall Tower. At last.

Relief filled her at the sight, but it was just as quickly replaced with a gnawing sense of anxious anticipation.

The dark blue wool coat she wore felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, weighed down as it was with all the sea salt they'd collected from their weeks at sea, but it was as warm as ever. It had been new at the beginning of this month-long journey — a gift from Jacinth and Emily.

'Emily picked out the color. Do you like it?'

'It's lovely. You're sure this is for me?'

'Of course it's for you. What, do you think anyone else in this Tower has the same shoulder dimensions as you?'

'Try it on, Corvo! Try it on!'

'…'

'…What do you think?'

'Corvo! You look so handsome!'

'She does look very handsome. I think the color is most fetching on her. Now, come here so I can inspect you more closely, Corvo.'

'…'

'Eww, stop! Kissing is gross!'

Curnow, at the helm of the skiff, gestured for the guardsman at the prow to take them closer.

"Take us straight to Dunwall Tower. Lady Corvo has news for the Emperor and we've come a long way."

The guardsman snorted.

"A long way to bring bad news. The sailors say there's a curse on us. Black magic."

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

She'd never been one to believe in magic of any kind, but the guardsman was right about one thing. The news she carried, tucked securely into the inner pocket of her coat, was far from the glad tidings she wished to present to the Emperor.

In their three-month voyage around the Isles, they had discovered nothing. Nobody knew anything about this cursed Plague. Not Morley, not Serkonos, not Tyvia. Not the jumped-up pricks at the Academy of Natural Philosophy. Not the frigid High Council of Tyvia's Presiduum. Not the contemptuous scholars of the University of Wynnedown in Morley. There had been no answers for her. No cure. She carried in her pocket the signed and sealed letters of her abject failure.

By all rights, she ought to hand in her resignation alongside that cursed packet of letters, but she knew that Jacinth simply would not accept it. Nor, she suspected, would she be able to walk away. Not from Jacinth. And certainly not from Emily.

Not for the first time, she found herself thumbing at the shape of the silver locket that hung from a chain around her neck, hidden underneath the layers of her clothing. Inside, a few locks of dark wispy hairs.

Emily's baby hair. She'd been scarcely been a couple of months old when it had been collected and the scent had long since faded, but Corvo imagined she could still smell it from memory alone.

How it had hurt to give her daughter to Jacinth, to watch their ship set sail from Karnaca, bound for Dunwall. She'd known that day would have to come when she made the decision to keep their child, to give her the title of Kaldwin. It still hadn't stopped her from worrying herself sick every night thereafter, though. That the ship would sink, or be swept away by a tidal storm, or simply vanish, taken by the Outsider.

When she'd woken one morning to find the local papers all proclaiming that the Emperor had declared his new heir, Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, it had been with mixed relief and anguish. She'd stayed up late that night, ordering drinks until the bartender cut her off, and then wandered astonishingly drunk through the streets of Karnaca with a bottle of Orbon rum clutched in one hand, making belligerent commentary towards any passerby who dared rest their eyes on her for too long. How she'd longed for a fight. It was a miracle that she hadn't been arrested.

Things were better once she was recovered enough to make her way back to Dunwall. Better and also worse. The pure vitriol she'd felt towards Jacinth for those months afterwards had never quite healed, as wildly irrational as it was. Emily was heir to the Kaldwin dynasty, Jacinth's trueborn daughter. But she was also Corvo's.

Something burned inside of her, forced to watch some other woman holding her child, soothing and cooing to her, rocking her, feeding her while Corvo stood in the shadows, her chest tender and swollen beneath her coat from the milk that soaked, like wasted tears, into the folded squares of cloth that she had to change out of her brassiere every four or five hours, like clockwork.

Those days were long since past. The pain lingered, sometimes coming to visit, but things were better now. Had been better, mostly. Emily had grown old enough to at least guess at the truth of her parentage, and she was a bright girl, the pride and joy of Corvo and Jacinth both.

Of all the things she'd made and done in her life, Corvo thought, Emily was by far the best of them all.

"Corvo. We're approaching the water lock."

With a grateful nod, Corvo took a small step back, shoulders straightening as the doors of the water lock closed behind them. The loud rush of water that followed it was successful in breaking her from the cyclical tumble of her thoughts.

She was home.

Strange, that the briny scent of the Wrenhaven felt more to her like home these days than the warm breeze of Serkonos — the old Serkonos of her memories — did.

The Tower entryway had not changed in her absence. There was still the same stale smell of standing water, the stains on the walls indicating how the water level changed throughout the day. The metal of the grated walkway that dropped down onto the skiff was rusty, already slightly corroded from the humidity.

Corvo crossed the drawbridge in two strides, taking in the positions of the guardsmen stationed around inside before she emerged into the bright spray of sunlight just outside the water lock. There were more guardsmen than usual. Jacinth had to be outside somewhere in the gardens, likely waiting for her—

A little girl in a white suit came loping around the corner. Her thin brows, previously pressed together above two deep brown eyes, arched at the sight of the tall, lanky woman who stood on the opposite end of the bridge. Emily grinned contagiously as she launched herself at Corvo.

"Corvo!! You're back!"

Every heavy thought and concern that had been weighing upon her mind dropped as her arms opened. Emily collided with her with a small doglike exhalation of air. Realizing just how desperate she had been for the sight of her daughter again, Corvo allowed herself to hug the girl back, squeezing her in a tight embrace.

Emily pulled back, still grinning but clearly assessing now. Corvo held still for her, tanned face, salt crystals in her eyelashes and all. The grin turned into a pout as the girl set eyes on the coat. Previously a dark brilliant blue, the combination of weather and exposure to the sun had faded the wool to more of a dark navy color.

"Your coat! It faded…" she said, sounding crestfallen even as she reached out to trace the gold threaded embroidery around one of the buttons on the front of the cowl.

Corvo caught her hand and gave it a quick squeeze, smiling as she observed the lower lip pout. "It kept me very warm."

Emily smiled back at her.

"Ok!" she chirped, chipper demeanor returning as if it had never left. "Father's waiting for you in the pavilion." Looking seriously around, she leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. "He's been very quiet and he keeps staring out the windows. I think he missed you." She leaned back quickly, tugging at Corvo's hand. "Did you see any pirates?" she asked, conversationally.

Corvo had no time to respond before Emily was tugging upon her hand again.

"Come on!"

Corvo felt her lips twitch up into a smile despite herself. Rising, she allowed Emily to tow her towards the stairs leading up towards the Tower.

There was a man standing in the small garden offshoot there, garden furniture pushed off to the side to make a clearing for another man who stood there, alternating between exaggerated stiffness and impatient fidgeting. However, the moment he spotted the two of them coming up the stairs, his eyes immediately zeroed in on Corvo.

"Royal Protector, welcome home," Thaddeus Campbell declared silkily, obsequiously.

Corvo felt her face harden back into trained neutrality as she exchanged a nod with the man. This man. The High Overseer of the Abbey. He lounged like a fat cat, a decanter of whiskey at his fingertips.

As a child, Corvo had been forced to learn the Seven Strictures down to the word by her mother. Paloma Attano had been devoted to the Strictures. They guided her. Comforted her. A more devoted member of the Abbey's teachings, one would be unlikely to find.

She had died the first year that Corvo had spent here in Dunwall, a mere two months after her arrival. Corvo had received the letter a full month and a half after it happened, addressed to 'Corvo Attano, daughter of Paloma Attano'. Written in an uncertain hand by their neighbor, the woman who had lived in the apartment beside them, it stated, quite simply, that Paloma had passed away in her bed one night and that she (the neighbor) was very sorry and had kept some of her possessions; that Corvo could come by to pick them up at any time, if she pleased. She had only been fifty seven. Corvo had never gone back, even after Emily's birth. Perhaps especially not after Emily's birth.

Corvo had heard things about High Overseer Campbell. Even without having heard those rumors, she could do without the way the man looked at her. Like he was trying to undress her with his eyes.

For most of the men who bothered her in such a way, this was a non-issue that could easily be solved with a sharp jab to the nose (or occasionally as an arm wrestling or sparring contest, preferably with several peers around to bear witness), but by societal contract, she could not just punch the High Overseer of the Abbey in the nose in broad daylight for no good reason.

"Stop fidgeting, Campbell," Sokolov interjected, impatiently flapping his hand. The scent of oil paints hijacked the breeze for a moment before fading back to the usual Wrenhaven tang. "And Corvo, welcome back from… well, wherever you've been."

Campbell snorted, chest puffing up. "Didn't you hear? Our Emperor sent her all around the Isles to beg for aid."

Sokolov hemmed in the way he normally did when he found a thread of conversation so dull as to not warrant a response. Corvo was already well familiarized with it.

Jacinth and the old goat could sometimes talk for hours, if provided the opportunity, both curled around a tumbler glass of King Street, but he and Corvo were lucky if they managed to exchange pleasantries and nothing else. It was just as well. The two of them usually disagreed with one another on just about everything.

Emily tugged impatiently at her hand, craning her neck as she attempted to peer over the hedges at the marble pavilion ahead.

"A waste of time. My elixir will banish the Plague from this City. Now hold still, High Overseer Campbell. Your visage on the canvas is already looking precariously wide as it is, and I would hate to have to start over."

With the Tyvian's back was turned, Corvo did not bother to hide the roll of her eyes as she turned and allowed Emily to pull her back into stride. So the old goat was still on about his elixir. He sounded as confident as ever. Last she'd heard, he'd still been pestering Jacinth about the need for human test subjects, an issue which Jacinth had been adamant about denying so far.

Her personal feelings about Sokolov aside, for all their sakes, she hoped that he was as close to a breakthrough as he claimed to be.

Through the barred iron door, they ascended the next two flights of short stairs, emerging onto the gravel-paved trail of the garden pavilion that Jacinth favored, the one with the roses. The Kaldwin banners hung in-between the arches of the marble fluttered blue and gold in the light breeze, but if truth was to be told, Corvo hardly noticed their presence. She immediately found her gaze drawn magnetically to the slender silhouette of the man standing between two pillars.

Jacinth's raised voice cut through the garden as sharply as any knife as Emily's hand slipped from his, the girl skipping up the steps.

"They're sick people, not criminals, Hiram."

Another voice; nasally, urgent: "We've gone beyond that question, your Majesty. They're—"

"There is no question. They're my citizens-" Jacinth interrupted in a tone like steel. "-and we will save them from the Plague, if we can. All of them."

A pause. Corvo could practically see through the stone pillar how Hiram Burrows' shoulders must be rising around his ears right now, sunken face red with frustration.

"Very well."

The Emperor cast a sharp look to Hiram. Momentarily catching sight of the figure standing in his peripheral, his eyes flickered to Corvo. It felt practically electric, that glance, causing her to straighten where she stood, fingers clenching anxiously in her sleeve.

"We will not speak of this again."

Emily chose this moment to interject, giving a tiny, crooked curtsy as Jacinth turned, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his attention to his daughter in the universal signal of dismissal.

"Father! Corvo is back!"

The grey eyes flicked to her again.

"Thank you Emily. Hiram, leave us please."

Hiram bowed. "As you wish, your Majesty."

The Spymaster's mouth was a thin slit across the bottom half of his face, the corners unhappily downturned at the corners. The disdainful creases in his cheeks seemed to deepen as he came down the stairs and set eyes upon Corvo, but there was something strange about him today. A peculiar spark in his eyes.

"Corvo — two days early. Full of surprises, as usual."

Corvo did not bother to smile. Neither did Hiram. Theirs was a relationship that needed no further clarification. She watched the man as he passed her before proceeding up onto the pavilion where Jacinth and Emily stood side by side. They mirrored each other, father and daughter with the same-shaped eyes of different colors.

She distantly heard Hiram say something to Captain Curnow at the gate, but her attention was not there anymore.

The Emperor's face softened as he looked upon her, a brief up and down that told Corvo that it was Jacinth who was examining her, comparing her to the day she'd left. His voice was soft when he spoke, quietly hopeful. Corvo ached, knowing that she would all too soon dash those fragile hopes upon the rocks of their reality.

"It is a fair wind that brings you home to me, Corvo. You look healthy. What news have you brought?"

Something of their situation must have shown upon her face as she reached into her coat to retrieve the bundle of letters, but she wasted no time handing them over to Jacinth. His mouth firmed as he opened the first one, eyes rapidly scanning the paper. The second one was much the same, but a little of the anguish he was feeling slipped through the cracks when he opened the third.

Corvo found herself clenching her jaw. She had not read the letters, but she knew just as well as Jacinth what they said. The messages were all the same. Nobody had heard of this strange disease. There was no cure. She had failed.

Emily shifted anxiously next to her, looking between the two of them.

Jacinth shut his eyes tightly as he reached the end of the third letter. He did not move to open the fourth, drawing a tight breath as he turned to the view of the City across the smoggy river. Corvo yearned to join him, to put her arms around his waist and hold him close. She did not.

"This news is very bad. Dunwall is at a breaking point. I had hoped that one of the other cities had dealt with something like this before, knew of some cure…"

He trailed off. The letters fluttered from his hand as he released them to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers, swan feathers scattering across the floor of the gazebo.

"There is no more aid. Cowards! They plan to blockade us, to see whether this Plague turns our City into a graveyard."

The back of her throat was dry, fluttering with all the words she yearned to speak, words that the Royal Protector had no right speaking to her Emperor. I'm sorry. I failed you. Emily, however, had no such qualms.

"Are you okay, Father? You seem sad."

Oh, to have the frankness of a child. Jacinth took a visible breath before he turned to direct a smile down at Emily, his eyes flickering to Corvo over their daughter's shoulder.

"Yes, darling. I'll be fine."

Emily frowned at him with her dark eyes. In response, Jacinth reached down, drawing her into a tight embrace.

Three things happened, then.

The first: Emperor Jacinth Kaldwin, looking across the gardens, came to the sudden, chilling realization that the three of them had somehow lost the company of the six or so guardsmen that had been stationed across the gardens just moments ago. They were completely alone.

The second: young Lady Emily, pressed against her father's leg, noticed the sudden appearance of several strangely-attired people on the roof of the waterhouse. 'Sudden appearance' as in, they had not been there one moment and they suddenly were the next.

The third: the Royal Protector Corvo Attano abruptly noticed that one of the rosebushes behind Jacinth was looking very strange indeed. It was… pulsating, the vines twining strangely, as if they were growing at an impossibly accelerated rate. Then, there was the other strange thing. The roses were in full bloom, red petals pouting, luscious. But hadn't the flowers always been white?

The garden erupted into chaos.

---

"Well, well, looks like we have some competition, girls."

The man in the industrial factory mask cocked his head to the side, a very canine mannerism, before he shoved with all his weight back against the Watch Officer's sword blocking his blade from skewering the Emperor's pale, swanlike throat. The two blades separated with a screech of metal. Jacinth Kaldwin, sprawled on the marble floor of the pavilion like an oil painting, watched the exchange with luminous grey eyes.

"Get out of my way," the assassin snarled.

The rose-wreathed woman standing opposite from the masked man smiled widely at the sound of the other's voice.

"Interesting. You must be the one they call Daud — and yet, you're no man. But you aren't the one I'm here for. Get out of my way, dog."

Jacinth's eyes widened in cold recognition of that name. Daud — the Knife. An assassin for hire — allegedly an Outsider-worshiping occultist heretic, according to the Abbey. Yes, he could see the the truth of that to be plain enough. The back of his neck suddenly erupted into gooseflesh as that mark on the woman's hand flared again. Her face— it was so strangely familiar, almost distressingly so.

Quick as a snake, she disappeared, leaving the scent of her earthy rose perfume hanging in the air behind her. The assassin jerked, clearly anticipating her to reappear behind him, but in doing so, left himself open to the two women — vine-clad witches who suddenly appeared at his either side, striking at him with thorny whips that seemed to be formed from the same rippling briar that had erupted in the gardens around them.

Gasping, Corvo fell to her knees, suddenly released from the strange grip of the energy that had enveloped her, turning her limbs numb and intractable, as another of those strange women appeared behind the assassin and neatly slit his throat through the leathers of his whaling gear with her sword.

Scrambling away, she drew her own sword just in the nick of time, parrying what would have been a fatal blow from one of the assassins. She skirted around one of the twining rosebushes, ducking underneath a grasping vine, past an assassin and a witch locked in combat.

"Jacinth!!"

Emily's voice rose, pitched high and terrified. "Corvo, help me!"

Corvo's gaze snapped to Emily, who was struggling to cling to the wrought iron gate as one of the assassins grabbed her arm and attempted to toss her over their shoulder.

Jacinth was still on the floor at the center of the gazebo, unarmored and utterly unprotected. Their eyes met briefly in the chaos.

It was an impossible choice. 

With a soundless snarl and a pounding heart, Corvo turned hard to the left, slipping underneath a witch's blade as she threw herself towards the assassin accosting Emily. He had just been bitten on the hand by a near-feral Emily and was utterly unprepared for the near six feet of furious Royal Protector that came barrelling at him seemingly out of nowhere.

Meanwhile, the assassin in red had killed one of the women accosting him with their briar whips, but the other had managed to snare his left arm and one of his legs. The briar was starting to envelop him. Snarling, the man — woman?? — tore his arm free and ducked just as a thorny projectile whistled through the air past his head. It still tore through the side of his mask with a hiss of depressurizing air.

Daud growled again, sounding more desperate animal than human as he tore his leg from the emerging briar, clenched his fist, and suddenly reappeared on the other side of the pavilion where he skewered yet another of the women from behind.

His blade punched through her back, briefly lifting her off of her feet an inch or two before he slid her convulsing corpse onto the ground and tore the whaling mask from his face. Her face. Scarred as it was, deep lines etched underneath her eyes and frown lines around her stern mouth, it was undeniably the visage of a woman, as was the sweaty, dark silver streaked hair that hung over her equally sweaty brow.

It appeared that industrial whaling masks were not, in fact, all that well ventilated.

She met the Emperor's alarmed gaze, eyes flashing with what was clearly frustration. The mark on the back of her hand — the same mark as the other woman — lit up. However, in that split second, another witch appeared from behind with sword raised, and the assassin was forced to drop her spell in favor of deflecting the blade from the small of her back. 

Jacinth, face white, his aching arm pressed against his stomach, pushed himself away, though he found his eyes glued to Corvo's back as she fought off the assassin who'd been trying to steal their daughter. Emily clung to the iron rails behind her, her outstretched arm barely visible past the writhing of the briar.

"Father!!"

"Emily! Stay with Corvo!"

He attempted to stand but felt his hand skid out from underneath him on the slick marble tile, made slippery with spilled blood. Not his. Not yet. The white roses were red. The air was thick with the earthy scent of rose perfume. Gooseflesh, on the back of his neck.

Slowly, Jacinth pushed himself to his feet and turned to meet Her. The dark, pale-faced woman with the stolen City Watchman's sword.

Her painted lips, a red so deep and rich that it appeared almost black, curved in a smirk. 

"Dear half brother — at last we meet again."

He had only a millisecond of dreadful realization before the hilt of her sword connected with the side of his head. Darkness.

Chapter 2: A Stay of Execution for the Royal Protector

Summary:

Corvo wakes up in Coldridge.

Notes:

I'll preface this chapter by warning you that the first part is pretty nasty, owing mostly to the fact that it's Burrows and Campbell menacing Corvo to squeeze a confession out of her - or in Campbell's case, simply because he's a sadistic fuck who gets off on other people's fear. If those vibes aren't for you, feel free to skip the first half of the chapter following "Don't fucking touch me!". I've provided a helpful blurb to summarize what goes on in the first half of the chapter, which can be read below:

Corvo, after being apprehended in the gardens following the departure of Daud's assassins and Delilah's witches, is arrested by Burrows and Campbell and brought to Coldridge for questioning. Emily has been taken by Burrows' men to places unknown. Corvo wakes in the torturer's chair, quickly comes to the realization that Burrows and the High Overseer were in on the plot to assassinate Jacinth, and refuses to give Campbell a confession. He provokes her with racism, sexism, and jabs about her and Jacinth's relationship, but realizes too late that whoever strapped her into the chair neglected to also chain her legs. After biting his own tongue and getting kicked in the balls, he takes a poker and angrily knocks her unconscious.

Darkness.

Cold. Sudden, extreme cold.

Corvo gasped at the shock of the icy water soaking her face, rushing down her neck and underneath her clothes. Jerking hard, she found her wrists restrained down by her sides. She was sitting in a chair. Her wrists had been cuffed to the arms.

"Ah, finally awake again. Took you long enough."

She'd recognize that nasally voice anywhere.

Corvo jerked her shivering body up against the restraints, a furious growl rattling out from between her clenched teeth.

"Hiram, you putrid rat fuck, let me out of here!"

The Spymaster sneered at her, disdain glimmering in his beady eyes. "No, I don't think that I will. You see, Corvo, you're under arrest."

The sheer outrage she felt made her go momentarily mute.

"Are you insane? For fucking what??"

Hiram leaned in. "Why, treason, of course. And I suppose occult hereticism as well. You conspired with that witch to murder our Emperor — and nearly let those assassins make off with Lady Emily as well." Pausing a moment as if to revel in the woman's shocked silence, he continued. "It isn't often that a Royal Protector fails both of her charges in a single day, but I suppose it should have been expected, given the caliber of foreign ineptitude on display."

His breath was a ghastly thing. Corvo snapped at his long, hooked nose. Her teeth snapped closed mere centimeters from the tip. The man stumbled back with a satisfying yelp of fright, his hand rising to his nose to check for teeth marks.

There was a chuckle from behind her. A new voice. The iron door of what she now recognized as the torture room of Coldridge Prison clanged shut.

"You!" The Spymaster shouted, overcome by outrage. "Impudent harlot!"

"I don't know what you expected, Burrows," Campbell drawled. "The woman is half she-wolf. Barely domesticated. Brazen Serk bitch."

Corvo twisted around as much as she could in the prisoner's chair, the hairs on her arms prickling as she caught sight of the High Overseer's silhouette approaching from behind.

Fingers brushed the back of her collar. Corvo jerked in the restraints again, growling. Her curls were still soaking wet, plastered against her brow, and she found that her body was lightly shivering, much to her displeasure.

"Don't fucking touch me," she snapped. "You're making a mistake — The Emperor is still alive! They took him!"

Campbell rounded the chair with a smirk plastered across his face. His eyes glittered in the low light. The dimness of the room didn't matter. Corvo could have sensed the barely-controlled lust a mile off. Alarm bells sounded in her head.

When he spoke again, the bastard had adopted a light, condescending tone, as if speaking to someone who didn't quite understand the language.

"Control your hysteria, Attano. I know that right now, you're willing to say just about anything to save your skin, but we know your crimes. We know what you've done. The sooner you confess, the sooner this will all be over."

Corvo found herself searching his face. For what, she could not say. This was not a face of a good man. This was a face that had never known the touch of shame or remorse. This was a man who had no respect for people like her, or for anyone else, really. After all, it was plain as day to see exactly what sort of conspiracy she had stumbled into — Burrows fretting in the corner, Campbell grinning widely at her like a salivating wolf preparing to devour a snared rabbit. There was nothing she could say or do to prevent what was going to happen next.

Fuck it.

Corvo gathered all the saliva she could muster from her dry mouth and spat it into the High Overseer's grinning face. It spattered across his mouth, the tip of his nose, dripping down the corpulent skin fold of his cheek. Off to the side, she heard Burrow gasp in offense. Campbell, however, had a suspiciously delayed reaction.

While his eyes had initially flown closed, they opened slowly, revealing through the cracks of his eyelids that his pupils had dilated ever so slightly. Corvo watched, appalled, as the man's tongue crept, slug-like, out of the corner of his mouth, licking her saliva from his lower lip.

"You know," he said almost thoughtfully, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a neat white handkerchief square. "I've always wondered about you, Royal Protector. First Serk to serve as Royal Protector, and a woman too! Well. Some sort of woman."

"The Emperor was so young when he chose you. He couldn't have known how a savage like you would corrupt the spirit of the Empire — corrupt him. How old was he when you enticed your way into his bed, harlot?"

The brazen accusation was so thoroughly overshadowed by the abject horror she was feeling that Corvo found herself frozen in place, her tongue paralyzed. Even Burrows was looking pointedly away, pretending to examine some paperwork on the desk.

There were only two thoughts in her head, circling one another like wolves. She was trapped. There was no way out.

"Well?"

The hard slap that landed across her face took her by surprise, but it had the added bonus of thoroughly jarring her out of the fright that had previously paralyzed her. Reactive adrenaline rushed through her veins, anger spiking hot and bright in her gut.

"I asked you a question," Campbell said pointedly. "How old was our Emperor when you crawled into his bed?"

Corvo bared her teeth at him.

"Go fuck yourself, Campbell."

Campbell grinned at her. Her spine crawled.

"Oh, come now…" he sang, adopting a sing-song tone that grated on Corvo's nerves, nails on a chalkboard. "We're not fools. We all know that Lady Emily did not magically spring from some "spontaneous union" between Emperor Jacinth and some pretty young socialite. It was you. You're the bitch. No wonder the child is such a savage, knowing who her moth-"

The rest of the word was cut short, choked off by the sound Campbell made as Corvo swept his ankles out from underneath him with her long, powerful legs (It had been a mistake not to chain her ankles as they had her wrists) and jammed the top of her head up into the vulnerable underside of his chin. His jaw snapped shut with a gristly crunch. And just for good measure... a good kick squarely between his legs.

"Don't you talk about her. Don't you ever put her name in your fucking mouth again, do you hear me??"

Burrows squawked his associate's name even as Campbell staggered soundlessly back into the corner, clutching at his bruised jewels. He eventually managed to get ahold of himself again, bringing the pristine white handkerchief up to the blood that was now pouring from his mouth. He really was bleeding quite a lot, Corvo observed with satisfaction. Clearly, he had bitten his tongue. Good. She dearly hoped that the stupid bastard had managed to bite it in half.

"—ou thuckin bith!"

Campbell stumbled over to the tool rack, grabbing the first thing he managed to get his hands on. A poker.

This was going to hurt.

The poker swung wide. And for the second time that day — darkness.

---

She regained consciousness to the uncomfortable sensation of being bumped up and down across someone's shoulders.

The air smelled like smoke. Like fire.

Corvo's eyes snapped fully open, animal instinct compelling her to lash out, wiggling like an eel until she found herself dropped, free falling — and crashed onto an unforgiving concrete floor. She groaned, weakly.

A boot toed at her side.

"Nice going," said a gravelly voice.

Corvo groaned again, pressing her cheek against the cool — if grainy — floor.

"…head hurts.. Fuck."

"Damn, boss, how hard did you drop her?"

Where was she? Where was Jacinth? Where was Emily?

Emily… the guards had taken her just before… Corvo grimaced, reminded once again of the ache in her head. Oh, yeah. Just before she'd caught a pistol (and then, a little later, a poker) to the head. The image of a bloodied, poker-brandishing High Overseer flashed behind her eyes.

Suddenly alert, Corvo lurched upright. A chorus of voices rose in protest, but nobody moved to physically stop her from standing. Corvo grasped at the wall, swaying unsteadily as she suspiciously watched the gaggle of blotchy, dark-suited figures resolve themselves into a clearer image.

Three ambiguous leather clad figures with whaling masks — one harsh-looking woman in red leathers without a mask. The assassins from the garden. They were standing in a nondescript little filing room that Corvo supposed had to be part of the prison complex. There was a guardsman lying face down next to a squeaky chair that was rotating in ever-slower circles. He was still breathing.

Corvo lurched forward with feral speed, seizing the woman in red by the front of her leathers. A handful of the others drew their swords, but a hand motion from the one in red held them back. The woman's back collided with the wall with a bang (Damn, she was dense…), Corvo's bony forearms digging into her chest as she snarled into her face, a panting beast.

"Emily," she spat. The woman's (impressively broken) nose wrinkled. "Where the fuck is Emily??"

"How should I know?" replied the woman, very coolly considering how close Corvo's teeth were to her throat. "Your Spymaster's men took her from the garden just after they bashed you over your fool head."

Corvo replied with a hard shake that had the woman's lip curling back in a way that seemed to indicate she was rapidly losing patience with the present position she found herself in. Corvo didn't much care what she thought, and continued to exert pressure to keep her pinned there against the wall. Why the fuck not? She was a full head shorter than Corvo, even if she matched her in broadness.

"You. You're an assassin. You were there —"

"— to kill your Emperor. Yes. And now I'm here to rescue you from a date with the hangman's noose. Congratulations. The building is also on fire, if you haven't noticed."

Corvo so badly wanted to punch her right in the face. Or scream.

"Why??"

The assassin arched a scarred brow. "Why is the building on fire?"

In lieu of punching her in the nose, Corvo shoved her against the wall again. Hard. "No!" she snapped. "Why break into Coldridge??"

A muscle in the other woman's jaw twitched, cold grey eyes narrowing. Yeah. Corvo tended to have that effect on people.

"Because somebody ruined my contract, and now your Royal Spymaster is going to have every Overseer and guardsman in this City baying for my blood."

That still didn't explain why she'd gone to the trouble of breaking into Coldridge Prison for Corvo.

"Good," Corvo spat. "Maybe you should've considered that before you decided 'killer for hire' was the road you wanted to take."

Corvo jumped at the sudden sharp sting in the back of her elbow.

She was fast on the draw, but by the time she yanked the small, dark green liquid-filled dart capsule from her arm, it was already too late. Half the vial was already gone — rapidly circulating through her bloodstream, propelled by the furious beating of her traitorous heart.

Taking advantage of her momentary confusion, the assassin shoved her back with surprising strength and before Corvo could get her hands on her, simply popped out of existence. Void damn it!

Corvo spun in a tight circle. The woman in red was now standing on the other side of the room, readjusting her leathers. Corvo could already feel the way her equilibrium was starting to degrade, gravity swaying, bringing her down, down, back down to the darkness...

"Fuck, not again.."

The woman in red advanced. As the rest of the room dimmed, she almost seemed to brighten, the dull red leather of her coat becoming almost painfully oversaturated as he knelt just out of Corvo's reach, studying her fading face with those cold grey eyes, two chips of ice against the crimson backdrop.

"The fact is, I need a bargaining chip, and right now - lucky you - you're the best and only option I've got. Sleep well, Royal Protector."

Chapter 3: Cuckoo's Nest

Summary:

In which Jacinth confronts his kidnapper, his childhood friend Delilah, and learns some uncomfortable truths.

Notes:

There is animal death in this chapter. You have been warned.

Jacinth came back to consciousness with a gasp. He shot upright, reaching out for something — for Emily, for his daughter's outstretched arms — but his fingers found only empty air.

He was alone on a large, comfortable bed in a darkened room, fine sheets rumpled underneath his back, a warm indent in the pillow where his head had lain for an indeterminate amount of time.

What was this place? Emily and Corvo — where were they??

He tried to cast his memory back, a fishing line whose hook failed to find its quarry. The garden, the assassins, the strange women… it all felt like a fever dream. Had all of that… actually happened?

He found himself reaching up to gingerly prod at his temple, where he remembered feeling a sudden pain before the blackness that had enveloped him, before he woke up in this unknown place. The area was swollen and bruised. The touch of his probing fingers sent a spike of pain through his tender head again, and he winced — not at the pain but at the memory of seeing a sword's hilt rushing towards his face, of throwing up his arms in an attempt to protect himself, and then nothing.

It was real. It had all been real.

Emily. Corvo.

Jacinth felt for the edge of the bed, then swung his legs over it. He sat there for a moment in the cool darkness as his eyes adjusted and his equilibrium returned. As he sat there, he came to the realization that the room was not as quiet as he'd initially thought. There was, coming through the floorboards, the familiar hum of conversing voices.

It sounded like people. A lot of people.

Where was he?

Using one of the bedposts as an impromptu cane, he pulled himself to his feet, making his way across the dim room to where he could just barely make out the shape of a light switch on the opposite wall. The resulting light, despite the relative dimness of the bulbs, was enough to sting his eyes and provoke another wince as the inside of his head throbbed in dull anger at the stimulus.

The room resolved itself into an elegant bedroom. Roses climbed the walls, gilded stems and leaves glinting dully upon the wallpaper. Against one wall was the large bed he'd come to on, while the adjacent one featured closet doors. There were a pair of discarded stockings just barely poking out of the underside of one of the doors. Against the wall closest to him squatted a lady's vanity with a small mirror.

Compelled by some sense of strange, morbid curiosity, Jacinth approached the vanity mirror.

The first thing he noticed about his reflection was that he was missing the dark jacket he'd been wearing this morning. He had been stripped also of his waistcoat, as well as the small letter opener he always carried in one pocket. He was also missing, to his dismay, his father's pocket watch

When he carded his fingers through his hair, he found that there was indeed a welt swelling the fragile skin at his temple, bruised and red around the split flesh. He surveyed his reflection; the mussed hair, the darkness that persisted underneath his eyes from the too many restless nights these last three months.

If he was merely a waking ghost, if he'd actually met his death there in the Tower gardens this afternoon, would his restless spirit appear this way in the Void, too? Jacinth pinched one ear. Watched his grey-eyed reflection watch him through the glass, pale and serious. He didn't feel like a ghost. But then again, who was to say what a ghost felt like?

He touched the welt on his temple again. If the scene in the gardens had really happened, it meant… she had to be real too. The woman with the roses at her throat.

'half-brother' she had called him. And her face… so familiar. Not just familiar. Half-remembered, flawed and imperfect, but he was certain that he knew her. Had known her, at least.

His fingers twitched as he almost reached for his mising pocket watch again. 'Half-brother' echoed again through his ears.

Could it be true?

Jacinth jerked upright as the door to the room, entirely unprovoked, creaked open. It cast a bright beam of light across the floor from the hallway, but no footsteps followed, no indicator that anyone was standing out there.

A long, tense moment passed before he dared to move. The hallway was just as empty as it had appeared from the darkness of the bedroom, lushly carpeted with dark wood paneling. This, too, struck him as strangely familiar, however, realization dawned far sooner than he'd been expecting. There was an old family portrait hanging in a frame upon the wall. Realization struck him like lightning. Not because of the figures pictured but due to the caption scribbled there at the bottom, near the frame.

-Count Ichabod Boyle I, painted with his two young daughters, Cynthia Boyle (R) and Rose Boyle (L), recently arrived back from an exploratory voyage to the Pandyssian Islets.

The Boyles. This had to be the Boyle Estate. But how? Why?

A loud laugh from downstairs shattered his immersion. Jacinth turned down the hall, making his way to the stairwell that lay just beyond. It was a thin, winding stair that had likely only ever been intended for the servants' use, but even as he emerged into the kitchens, he did not see any around, though there were a few tightly-lidded pots boiling away on the stove.

Pushing through the kitchen doors out into the House proper assaulted and beguiled his senses. He'd emerged into a strikingly opulent dining room, where a buffet style feast had been set up on a large table, filling the air with the scent of food and alcohol. Perfumes drifted through the air, mixing into one dizzying combination. Off to his right, there was a woman asleep on a sofa underneath what looked to be a lace doily.

The hearth was lit. A stick of something sweet and woody was burning there, filling the house with the scent of incense. Somewhere in the distance, music cascaded through the air, floating dreamily through the halls. Somebody was playing a harp - playing it beautifully.

Unsure of where it would lead him, Jacinth followed the sound of the music from the dining room into the hall. Outside, there were small groups of people everywhere. The strange thing was, there wasn't a man to be seen. All the guests present appeared to be women.

A couple of the guests seemed to be socialites, but a few others were clearly commoners. Most, however, didn't quite fit into either category. They were all dressed unconventionally, some of their clothes dirtier than others, and several openly sported weapons. There - a woman sitting atop one of the chandeliers, silently watching him pass from above. How had she gotten there? How long had she been watching? He recognized her instantly, though staring up at the chandelier nearly blinded him. She had been there in the gardens, tangling with the assassins.

These women watched him with a hard, almost hungry edge to their eyes. He passed a small group of four in the hallway. One of the four actually reached out to touch him, her fingers trailing along the back of one arm as he passed. Whispers followed in his wake.

"Your Majesty."

"Highness."

"Is that…?"

"Could it really be the Emperor?"

Jacinth quickened his step. The music was getting closer. As he turned the corner, he found a small crowd half spilling out of a room. His shoes had never sounded louder in his ears as they did then. Heads turned as he made his way between the watchers, but they did not move to stop him as he entered the music room.

Inside, the hearth was lit. The furniture, along with the rest of the standing instruments, had been cleared off to the sides to make room for the woman who sat at the gilded harp near the hearth.

The sharp swoop of her ash blond hair shadowed her face from Jacinth's view. She wore little more than a sleeveless vest and a pair of trousers, her bare feet tucked under her, and her hands flew across the strings with such grace and confidence that they instantly captivated the eye.

It seemed like her fingers should bleed with the force with which she plucked away at the strings, but they flew, and the harp's strings sang, each note pure and perfect.

So enthralling was the performance that Jacinth felt himself lured into silent observation, his body swaying to the movement of the rest of the watchers. At one point, the harp player looked up past the strings, and he realized with a sting of startling realization that this was no unnamed harpist, but Lydia Boyle herself, her hair cut short, her arms bare.

Jacinth looked about the room. Where there was one Boyle sister, there had to be another close by. His intuition paid off as spotted Waverly near the far door, standing uncomfortably alone with an untouched flute of champagne. Her grey eyes grew huge and flitted away from his gaze as soon as she realized that she had been caught out, like a startled dove taking to the air.

Lyda, Waverly… where had Esma gotten off to? Search as he did, he simply could not find her there.

Two more notes. Three. The song came to a close. Slowly, the spell faded from the room.

The partygoers all seemed to shake themselves from the collective trance they had all fallen into. Lydia Boyle, however, only had eyes for one person — the dark-clothed woman sitting on the loveseat closest to the harp, another woman cuddled against her side. Her. The woman from the gardens.

She looked up from the performance as if she'd only just noticed him, dark lips curving up into a sly smile. Jacinth's attention immediately snapped to the dull flash of silver in her hands.

"Look at the time." She snapped the clamshell lid of his father's pocket watch closed to dramatic effect, drawing titters from several of the girls sitting around her. "Emperor Kaldwin, you've deigned to join us, at last. Welcome."

At last, the memory of that face surfaced. It all came rushing back. That strange familiarity, a tide of childhood memories.

Jacinth spoke without thinking:

"Delilah. You've returned home."

For a moment, his old friend's porcelain facade cracked wide open.

Anger. Blistering. Scalding. Hurt. Resentment. Spite. A voracious hunger.

The facade snapped back into place a millisecond too late, leaving Jacinth reeling at what he'd just witnessed even as Delilah chuckled earthily. Her eyes betrayed her, though. They were sharp like daggers, like broken glass. 

"Home. How delightfully quaint. Yes, I suppose that I have, Emperor. Or should I say 'half-brother'?"

Scandalized whispers erupted throughout the room. Delilah crossed her arms. Her glittering eyes watched Jacinth, gaugeing his reaction. He was silent. Utterly uncomprehending in the calm before the storm that was starting to rip the tiles out from beneath his feet.

"He never told you, did he?"

Jacinth made no reply. He did not need to.

She scoffed, the cut-glass hurt flashing in her dark eyes for a moment. 

"Typical man, leaving us both to rectify his mistakes. Shall I tell you my story, then, sibling? How our father wronged me, wronged my mother and dishonored yours?" She smiled thinly. "I do not think that it is a story you will enjoy, but I believe it is one we all deserve to hear, regardless. The man you knew as your father and the man who sired me are not two different people. They are one and the same. Their cruelty. Their cowardice."

His father. Their father.

"Could this be?"

"Do you remember my mother, the kitchen maid, Emperor Jacinth? Of course you don't. While we played together upstairs, she broke her back hauling hot water and picking up after the royal family and all of Dunwall Tower's entitled aristocracy. Our father never looked at her again after I was born. She was a plaything to him, just as I was."

Jacinth managed to break through his shock and disbelief long enough to interject:

"Delilah, if what you say is the truth, it is one that I was never made privy to."

Delilah's face sharpened, contempt flashing across her features.

"Handsome Jacinth with his clever, pretty words. Shall I tell them of the last time we played together, half brother, or will you?

Jacinth squeezed his eyes shut. This was all so much. So many realizations, so many hazy memories. There was no lying to himself, though. He remembered that day in vivid detail.

The Spymaster's ears were bright red, but his face was white. He stood with one hand on his friend's shoulder, his glittering eyes boring into her as he gave her a hard shake.

"Do you have any idea what you've broken? Speak, girl!"

"I didn't break it! We were just playing!"

"And Young Lord Jacinth? Your account of this matter?" 

"It was her. Delilah's lying. She broke it."

"We were playing together in Father's old study. That cabinet - it had always been wobbly on one leg. Delilah pushed me, I pushed her back, and she fell into it. My grandfather's ashes happened to be resting there in an urn on top of it. I think my — our father — liked to have them close, for the times when he was forced to make difficult decisions. The urn broke."

Void, he could sill see it shattering across the floor, hear the sharp sound of porcelain shattering again, smell the plume of fine ashes that billowed up into the air around them and spread across the floor at their feet...

"I was so terrified of what Father would say to me when he found out that I let my friend take the fall. And afterwards, you just… disappeared."

How foolish he had been, so blinded by the privilege he wore like a star upon his brow. It had taken him so long to realize its presence there, even well into his adult years. Even when he'd been a child, of course the Spymaster could not have blamed him for it — for anything, had he wished it.

"I was a coward, Delilah. I should have said something. I should have looked for you. I am sorry for wronging you. But what I told you is the truth. My father never once spoke of you."

Her face hardened, offering him another glimpse of the anger that roiled behind her eyes. Her hatred was a scorching thing, flaring hotter at every mention of Euhorn. It seemed so righteous — so real. Could she be telling the truth?

"This Plague has deeply affected Dunwall. Resources are scarce everywhere, the mainland is wary of any who emerge, as are the rest of the Isles, but if refuge is what you seek, I would gladly offer you and any of your friends a place at Dunwall Tower."

Delilah laughed. Once. Sharply, as if taken aback with derisive outrage by the offer. Jacinth paused in his explanation.

"Oh, no, half brother. You mistake my presence here in your City entirely. I do not come here as a refugee. No. I am here for one thing, and one thing only — The Imperial Throne."

His shock must have shown itself upon his face, for she laughed at him before continuing.

"I would not go to the trouble of kidnapping you if I did not want something from you, half-brother mine. Even if you had not hired those petty assassins to preserve your life, I still would have found a way to spirit you from your High Tower."

Jacinth managed to recover slightly from his surprise, though he did not correct her. If she had not hired the assassins, and neither had she, then who had? "If you want me out of your way so badly, then why go to the trouble of sparing my life?"

Delilah smiled. There was bloodthirst in her eyes.

"Because I wish for your fate to serve as an example to young Emily. From everything I have observed, it seems that my niece is turning out to be a very bright young girl. I hate would hate for her stubbornness to get in the way of a bright future."

Hearing his daughter's name from this woman's mouth, Jacinth's heart nearly stopped in his chest. He'd managed to keep his wits about him up until now, but this was the breaking point. Outrage, then cold fury filled his chest.

"You've been watching my family."

Delilah acknowledged it with a slow dip of her head. "You might be surprised how easily my girls were able to infiltrate your household, Emperor. Very little has changed in Dunwall Tower over these long years. You all act as though your servants are mute and invisible, still. If only you knew the things they say about you."

She clicked her tongue, amusement gleaming in her eyes. "I admit, I was very entertained to find that the rumors about you and your handsome Royal Protector seem to be true, after all. At least you had the decency to claim your daughter."

Cold dread prickled along the back of his neck.

"You don't have to do this, Delilah."

Predictably, his old friend only hardened in response, her anger pulling tightly at her sharp jaw. 

"No. This is the only way." She said it with such finality. Did she truly believe so? "When young Lady Emily yields the Imperial Throne to me, you may rest easy knowing that I intend to mold her in my image. She will be a ruler without mercy, feared and adored."

His temper flared.

"You will keep your claws out of my daughter, Delilah!" Jacinth realized too late that his voice had risen to a shout. "She has done nothing to you!"

Delilah smirked at him, teeth half bared. The wicked slash of her dark mouth was nothing like the smile of the girl he remembered.

"I shall do whatever I please — brother — as it was meant to be."

Her words seemed to rebound around the room, a sinuous echo that rippled across the lips of several of her followers. Some of their eyes were hard. Others, shining with devotion.

Was this his fault? Could his nine year-old self have prevented this, had he been less cruel, less careless? Or was this the way it had always been meant to happen, in some time, some ripple of the water, some beat of a doomed waterfowl's wings?

Delilah stood with a rustle of clothes. The woman at her side followed suit, smoothing her trousers. 

"Come, Emperor. I have planned an entire evening for you."

Two women who had appeared at some point on either side of him took hold of his arms with a grip that seemed designed to pierce his skin with their clawlike nails. He withheld a wince, but in absence of any other option, allowed them to pull him along in their Mistress's wake, out into the hallway, out into the main foyer of the Boyle Manor. 

The sight that awaited took his breath away.

There in the opulent vestibule of the Boyle Estate, a large circle had been painted upon the marble floor in some fluorescent blue paint. Lines, circles, strange sigils that seemed to wriggle before his eyes, and at its very center, a single, spindly metal chair, which for some odd reason, appeared to have been bolted into the floor. He found himself escorted there. Both women were careful not to smudge the lines of the circle with their feet, making sure that he did not do so either.

The metal was cold against his skin, as were the manacles they produced, securing his wrists to the arms of the chair. 

Set at evenly-spaced points around the fringes of the circle were seven ivory objects. They varied in shape and size, some roughly ovaline, others strange shapes of carved scrimshaw. Not ivory scrimshaw, Jacinth realized, wincing as his tailbone bounced off the seat, but bone. It was clear that a few were a fair bit older than some of the others, and that some of the others were very new. The one closest to him was one of the latter.

The newly carved bone gleamed, reflecting the light of the chandeliers. It had been carved to resemble the rough likeness of a waterfowl with a long, elegant neck. A swan.

Something about the presence of these small, runic idols, each situated in their own tiny circles that mirrored the larger circle he now sat within (Their only connection point, a single drawn thread of glowing oil), made him deeply uneasy. Here, in the center of the circle, there was a strange hum in the air.

Jacinth looked to the side, where he once again spotted Waverly.

Waverly Boyle stood as she had in the music room — at the fringes of the small crowd. She appeared to be staring at the circle. Her shoulders were high and tense, arms crossed over her chest. One finger tapped a nervous rhythm against her arm. Could she also perceive the queer writhing of the symbols that had been painted in glowing whale oil there on her floor?

Something tickled against his cheek. Jacinth turned, looking uncomprehendingly for a moment up into Delilah's face. He had not heard the sound of her shoes on the floor as she approached. The woman — his half sister — was holding in her gloved hands a long sleek black feather.

"Whatever you're about to do, Delilah, you don't need to do this."

This time, she was unmoved by his plea. Her slough eyes narrowed at his, contemptuous.

"I tire of hearing you repeat yourself, Emperor Kaldwin. I hope that your daughter will prove a more decisive monarch than you did."

The feather trailed across the bridge of his upturned nose. It gave him the most dreadful urge to sneeze. He resisted it, barely, tugging once, hard, at the manacles that secured him to the chair as he glared up into Delilah's smirking face. They clinked against the arms, chiming like bangles.

"Our father's cruelty was not your fault, Delilah — It is not Emily's either. You should not have had to suffer for his sins, and Emily should not for mine. Let it be me alone to atone for my mistakes."

Something moved underneath her face; a subtle ripple. Then, Delilah straightened as if snapping herself out of a half considered thought, and extended one long, gloved arm out to her woman, her second.

"Breanna, the reagents."

Breanna's heels clicked against the smooth marble floor. She was a tall woman already and her heels were taller still, her slim bared shoulders and arms possessing a certain, sinewy musculature that drew the eye as one looked to the silver tray she held between her hands.

Jacinth found himself eyeing the contents with a morbid sort of curiosity, however, his gaze was drawn almost immediately to the sheet covered cart (what looked like a repurposed luggage trolley) that had been wheeled in through a side door. There was a faint rustling coming from underneath the sheet. His stomach flipped nauseatingly.

Delilah had already plucked one of the components off of the silver tray: a flower. She held it up to the light, admiring the darkness of its many small petals against the backdrop of the vaulted glass ceiling.

"Born in the Month of Earth. Freshly-picked black hyacinth for my half brother's namesake."

She tossed the rest of the blooms at Jacinth's feet. Small flowers broke from the stem, scattering their petals across the floor beneath the chair. Jacinth's fists clenched as the woman picked up a small bowl full of what appeared to be cotton blossoms. But they were too small, barely longer than the tip of one's index finger, and the texture wasn't quite right.

"Silk moth cocoons, to usher in your transformation."

"Not just any moth," Breanna interjected. "These ones are special. After the caterpillars hatch and gorge themselves fat, they attach themselves to the underside of a leaf and spin their cocoons. A year later, they emerge from the forest floor at twilight, dry their new wings, and take to the air to find a mate."

Her eyes were clearer than the others, though they had the same dogmatic glint as the others when she turned it upon Delilah.

"You see, they live for just one evening. The adult moths emerge from their transformation without a mouth or stomach. By the time they've finished laying their eggs, they are too exhausted to continue on. With no way of eating or drinking, they soon perish."

Jacinth found himself half relieved when Delilah simply set the bowl down inside of the circle, having been expecting to be pelted by the things as he had the flowers. He

The next item was self explanatory indeed. The silver knife glinted in Delilah's hands.

"Do not look so afeard, half brother. I do not intend for you to die, not yet." She raised her voice as she turned to the other women. "Sisters, we have among us a new initiate tonight. Most of you have already heard her play. Lydia Boyle, step forward and prove your dedication to your Mistress."

The crowd around Lydia drew back as all eyes turned upon her. Uncertainty momentarily presented itself, her feet turning inward, but it melted away as soon as she set eyes on Delilah. Emboldened, she advanced, stopping a few paces back from where the two leaders stood just within the circle. Delilah beckoned her with an outstretched hand and dark eyes.

"Come, soon-to-be Sister. Do not tread upon the runes."

Lydia's newly-shorn hair hung like a curtain over her brow, shading her fever-bright eyes. It was Breanna who addressed her next.

"Are you prepared?"

Lydia nodded, throat bobbing as she swallowed, nervous but determined. Breanna's voice filled the chamber, accompanied by a strange resonant hum.

"Tonight, you enter a sacred pact. This Coven will be as your family, and you will be as ours. This is the beginning of a new life. A life without titles, without birthrights, without the pain of your former one. No secrets. No stations. No more hiding in the shadows." Her eyes pierced Lydia's. "Your Sisters will be your shields, your confidantes, and you will be theirs, matching them in service to a higher purpose. Is it your wish to become a part of this family?"

Lydia's voice was hushed, reverent. "Yes. More than anything."

"And will you faithfully serve our Mistress, no matter what she asks of you? Will you protect her, even at the cost of your own life?"

"Yes, I will."

Delilah gave a sharp nod of satisfaction. The knife in her hand was a slim, pearl-handled thing. The blade glinted in her hand as she extended it to Lydia. "Then take this knife. Rise."

The sheet was at last removed from the cart, revealing a large cage containing a large black swan. The feathers were dark as midnight, as were its webbed feet, but in contrast, its eyes and beak were a startling shade of red.

As the cage was unlatched, the bird spread its large wings as widely as it could and hissed. The two witches tasked with retrieving it did not look excited but remained undeterred in the face of their Mistress's will, setting about wrestling the furious, wing-beating bird out of its cage with ungentle hands.

Meanwhile, Delilah had laid a hand on Lydia's shoulder. The woman looked concerned, dark brows drawing together as she watched them wrestle the animal to the floor, but as soon as Delilah's hand alit on her shoulder, it melted away, her face turning towards Delilah like a flower opening for the sun. 

"Kill the bird. Bring its heart to me."

Lydia's hand shook, but only momentarily. She nodded, dazed face hardening, and turned to do as she had been bid.

Jacinth found himself shuttering his eyes as the scene unfolded, but he could not block out the sounds of the knife sinking into the swan's body, of the animal's hissing turning to pained screeching, of its great wings battering against the women, the floor, before at last they stilled. The knife, however, still had work to do. He shuddered to hear the sound of the blade sawing through bone, cracking cartilage. It was smeared and slippery with blood by the time she was finished.

Breanna accepted the knife with a sharp-eyed nod of approval, using a small square of dark cloth to wipe the blood off. Lydia Boyle, meanwhile, met Delilah's eyes and dropped to a knee as she offered her prize to the other woman.

Her hands were in a similar state, smeared with blood up to the wrist. There was one wayward stripe across her cheek where she had evidently wiped her face halfway through the process. She looked nothing like the quiet, severe woman Jacinth remembered. Her hair fell messily over her brow. Her pale face was alight, eyes gleaming. Had this part of her always been there, locked somewhere deep inside, stifled and severed? Aching to be free?

Delilah accepted the offering. The organ still held delicately in the palm of one hand, she beckoned Lydia closer. Her hand left a bloody print on the side of her cheek, while her thumb painted a rouge of bloody lipstick across the other woman's lower lip. 

"Welcome, Lydia Boyle — our Songbird."

The rest of the gathered Coven burst into scattered applause, yips, and even a few howls. Jacinth managed to pick Waverly Boyle's face out of the crowd. Her face did not reflect the rest of the women's joy (or in a few cases, their barely-veiled jealousy).

Glowing, Lydia stepped back. Delilah now looked to Breanna. The two exchanged a look, then moved as one, positioning themselves on either side of the Emperor.

Jacinth found himself testing restraints that he already knew would not yield to him. Corvo was far from here, in what state, he did not know. He was alone. No allies would be coming to his aid this day.

"The time has come to collect the final two reagents, half brother. If I were you, I would hold very still."

Breanna's hands were very cold as she carded her fingers through Jacinth's hair. The sensation of her nails against his scalp sent a shiver down his spine. Decisively, she selected a piece from the forelock that fell gently over his temple and set the knife to it.

A couple loose ribbons of hair drifted to the floor as the lock was cut. Though they weighed next to nothing, it felt as if the humming of the circle changed tone with each hair that settled there on the marble among the flowers, cocoons, and feathers.

"Hair from my brother's head," Delilah intoned. She held in her hands the last item from the tray — a silver chalice, its gleaming sides smeared with bloody fingerprints. It tilted just enough for Jacinth to glimpse the gristly sight of the swan's heart at the bottom, soon joined by the fine strands of his shorn hair that Breanna tipped into the bowl.

He should have struggled more as the cold fingers unbuttoned the first four clasps of his shirt, baring him nearly to the navel, but found himself frozen in place as the knife touched his bare skin.

"Would you like to guess what the final component is, Jacinth?"

His breath hissed out of him as the knife bit into his flesh. Dark blood welled up along the long stripe Breanna had opened with surgical precision a couple of inches beneath his collarbone. He jumped at the press of cold silver against his skin. Delilah had been quick to press the silver cup to his chest, gathering the blood that poured freely from the shallow laceration.

At first, it collected shallowly in the very bottom of the chalice, but slowly, the level began to rise. Before long, the swan's heart was an island in a pool of crimson.

Jacinth could scarcely take his eyes from it, and he was not the only one. Delilah, too, seemed enthralled by the sight of his blood. The cup withdrew, but for a moment, she simply stood there before dipping a finger into it, coating it in thick crimson up to the second knuckle and holding it up to the light as if under some spell.

"It seems that our blood is the same color after all, brother."

His vision spun. The humming was so loud now, almost unbearably so. The air around them smelled strange, a caustic mixture of river brine, ocean salt, and whale oil fumes. He blinked in utter confusion at a hyacinth flower that went floating past his face, spiraling lazily through the air.

It was not the only one. Indeed, it was soon joined by the rest of the blooms; the moth cocoons, floating through the air in an uncanny mockery of the flight the tiny lives inside had been denied; the black swan feathers, plucked from the headless carcass in its puddle of blood upon the floor just outside of the circle. Snatches of whisper joined them, carried through the air on the back of the phantasmal breeze that had filled the ritual circle, an otherworldly tide of Void.

Jacinth knew in that moment that it was the strange hum of these very whispers that he had been hearing this whole time - emanating from the bone idols that crowned the seven pointed star drawn inside of the circle. 

Even whale oil runes painted upon the floor glowed brighter, pulsating. They reacted to the sound of Delilah's voice. Caught in that riptide of otherworldly power that had flooded the circle, he'd nearly forgotten that she was here, but even as he set eyes upon her, upon the strange mark that flared and pulsed upon the back of her hand, he realized that she was none other than its conduit.

Delilah's voice rose and shifted, bitonal, humming with power that flowed through her.

"You offered me a place in Dunwall Tower, that wretched edifice, but you are mistaken. I have not come here to stay as your guest, Brother Emperor."

Her voice crescendoed.

"I am here to take back what is rightfully mine. Just as your throne would have passed to your first born, so does the Kaldwin throne belong to me. I will have that which is owed to me — my throne, my kingdom. And you — spectre of our wretched father — you shall fade away, but you will watch as I take all that is dear from you — and you will do so in silence."

"Now hold still, half brother. Your new form will be the perfect spectacle to show all the Isles the power of their new Empress." 

Notes:

I know that I'm having a great time writing this, but if you happened to enjoy it, let me know in the comments! Your feedback means the world to me <3