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laur-rants · 6 years

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Fic Update - Steady the Sword Ch 2

Fandom: Dishonored Pairing: Corvo/Daud [eventually] Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence AO3 Link Previous :: Next

“I always knew that Hiram Burrows was a snake, I was just too young and eager to see it when he hired me. You know he had me do spy work all over Tyvia under the pretense that I was serving Tyvian interests, the crown’s interests? It wasn’t until Hiram ran off and the High Judges were after me with at least six counts of treason that I realized I’d been had.”

Zhukov talks with his hands. It’s one of the first things Corvo notices, as they sit across from each other in the mess hall. Corvo winces against the bandages on his face as he eats, keeping his good eye quietly on Zhukov.

Chatty, animated Zhukov.

After the fight, Zhukov and a guard had helped Corvo to the infirmary, where they patched him up and sent him on his way. Afterwards, Zhukov suggested dinner, and since it wasn’t like Corvo had any other plans in this frozen death trap, he obliged the offer.

Besides, the man had made it obvious that he knew who Corvo was. Is? Had been, at the very least. And, curious as he is, Corvo has to figure out how and why.

So he stays quiet, asks few questions, and listens to Zhukov as he talks with his hands.

“It wasn’t until after I’d been here for six months or so that I heard from one of my Dunwall contacts what had happened,” Zhukov continues, shaking a fork at Corvo. “That the Royal Protector had killed the Empress, and Burrows was acting Lord Regent. I was shocked at first, but as soon as I had heard that Void-damned man was involved, I knew you weren’t at fault. He was just using another scapegoat, like he did with me.”

Zhukov stabs at his horned seal meat angrily before scooping up another bite.

“And now you’re here. Another sad victim in his game of pawns. Outsider’s bastard.”

Corvo is half listening by this point, chewing on his food absently, but something in Zhukov’s implication causes him to slow to a stop. He eyes the Tyvian man carefully, looking up and down his slim frame. His good eye squints, and the other man looks up, an eyebrow raising. A few beats pass between them before Zhukov sighs loudly.

“You really are a man of few words aren’t you, Attano. Do I have something on my fucking face? Spit it out.”

“I’m not here because I killed…” Corvo pauses, looking around the mess hall, his Mark itching. Zhukov knowing what happened in Dunwall was bad enough; Corvo doesn’t need additional eavesdroppers.

However, everyone else in the hall is too engrossed in their own going ons to care about their long-winded conversation. He meets Zhukov’s gaze and watches as the man shakes his head a bit, eyes large, hands open to coax on whatever Corvo was going to say. Corvo sighs, and starts again.

“Yes,” he states. “I was used as a scapegoat for Hiram to cover up the fact that he hired an assassin to kill the Empress. But I’m not here because of that false accusation.”

Corvo pauses, licks his lips carefully.

“I’m here because I killed too many people getting the crown back. Emi- the Empress considered me a danger to Dunwall as a result, and sent me here on a sentence of freedom.”

Zhukov gives Corvo a scrutinizing look, and Corvo goes back to his food, too self conscious for this kind of conversation.

“And the Lord Regent?”

The Lord Regent’s voice bellowed over the speakers as Corvo looked down at the man himself, cowering like the worm he was. He begged for his life, but it was already gone; his sins were being broadcasted far and wide across Dunwall. The rat plague that devastated the city was his fault, and now everyone knew. If Corvo didn’t kill him now, the populace would do it for him. And yet, still Hiram Burrows had begged. He cried, bargained, and pleaded. He pissed himself in the face of Death.

It was disgusting.

Moments later, Corvo watched from a perched position as the guards inevitably came in to arrest Hiram Burrows, only to find him slain on his bed, face still contorted in fear, smelling of blood and feces. His arm was pinned to the wall behind him with his own sword; a closer look found his very heart stabbed through and pinned to the fabric, blood soaking through the sleeve.

“He was dealt with accordingly,” is all Corvo says, giving no indication of the finer details of his assassination of the man who betrayed the crown and sold out his Empress. A silence settles between them. Corvo busies himself with eating while trying to ignore the sharp ache of his cut cheek; Zhukov digests both his meal and this new information.

“Well,” Zhukov says awkwardly, after a time. “Good riddance, then.”

“Mm,” Corvo affirms. More silence follows.

Corvo scratches a hand over his beard. He’s going to need to trim it soon. Zhukov fidgets with his food.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Corvo,” Zhukov starts again. “This puts me in an awkward position.” He waits, but when Corvo doesn’t respond, he continues on. “You are still an honorable man. So honorable, in fact, that you probably feel you deserve to be here, working out your sentence.”

Corvo snorts and finishes chewing as he looks at Zhukov, a mirthless smile playing at his lips.

“Yes. Of course I do.” But that does not make me honorable , he thinks bitterly.

“Then you are probably not interested in escaping this place, hm.”

If he hadn’t sounded so serious, Corvo may have laughed again. Now though, Zhukov’s voice lowers dangerously, and Corvo can feel the creep of unease on the back of his neck. His brow furrows but he has no response for Zhukov, not yet. Zhukov takes Corvo’s silence as an invitation to continue talking, his lips twitching up in a quick smile as his voice rushes out of him.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that this place is more than it appears. I’ve noticed it too; I even know a thing or two about it. Comes with whole ‘being an ex-Tyvian spy’ deal. And regardless of your feelings, I think we’re both floating along in the same screwed-over boat. And – if we continue the boat metaphor – if we both grab an oar and start paddling, we can help each other–”

“No.”

The answer comes out with such force that Zhukov shuts his mouth with an audible snap. Corvo clenches his left fist, opens it, desperately trying to get the deep itch of the Void out of his fingers. Corvo’s eyes darken and he takes a steadying breath. Zhukov visibly shifts, distancing himself from the wave of wrath that is, no doubt, about to be directed right at him.

“No,” Corvo repeats, softly this time. “I agree, but no. I can’t take that proposal. For my sake, if not yours.”

“But Corvo–”

The Serkonan stands, the action so fast Zhukov is taken aback. A shadow falls over Corvo’s features and Zhukov shrinks.

“ No .”

Something is wrong here. Terribly, irrevocably wrong . Corvo doesn’t know why, but his gut is roiling, head spinning from all the alarm bells blaring in his ears. Walk away from this , his instincts yell at him. Forget this interaction . Avoid Zhukov as much as possible. It is stupid; he should have known as soon as Zhukov recognized him that–

“Okay,” Zhukov shrugs out, his body relaxed and fluid once again. His voice drops when he next speaks, a whisper over the noisy tables. “Just know there are strange happenings afoot here. An ever-present energy. So if you change your mind and want to help…”

Zhukov drums his fingers atop the table as his eyes flick to Corvo’s hand and back up to meet his eyes. Corvo’s intake of breath is sharp as a shock of fear fills him. Did Zhukov know about…but how could he?

“Just let me know,” Zhukov finishes. “I’ll be around. I mean, it’s not like either of us are going anywhere any time soon, right?”

And just like that, Zhukov’s mannerisms switch from serious and deadly to light and amiable. The shock of it fills Corvo, and he’s still standing there, watching the other man go, until he is alone and adrift in the sea of humans filling the mess hall.

It is never a good night for Corvo when he falls asleep only to wake to the sound of whale songs lamenting in the distance.

Corvo’s eyes open to see his tiny dorm filled with a soft blue light. He sits up and the chill that greets him is both unreal and familiar, all at the same time. It is a far cry from the bitter, permeating cold that Tyvia is so known for; no, this is a cold that came from within and surrounds him like a veil. It is the chill of deep water, of whale oil, of death.

It’s the chill one gets from entering the Void.

Preparing himself, Corvo opens his quarters’ door and steps out into a very different landscape. It’s a world that is no longer the icy, bitingly cold halls of Utyrka, but a empty space that stretches until eternity. Islands made of a black, obsidian-like rock hang suspended, their long paths breaking and stretching into the distance. Sometimes they lead to moments of time, pulled from Corvo’s mind and frozen for all eternity. It is a land where a soft blue hangs over everything, a dark gold light threatening on the horizon. It is a place where water flows upwards and whales cry and still-beating hearts tell the secrets of men.

Slowly, carefully, Corvo clenches his left fist and blinks out, embracing the Void stretching before him. He jumps and crosses multiple platforms, passing the happenings of the world suspended in time, before Corvo finds what he’s looking for.

In the shape of a slender young man dressed in grey and black, the Outsider stands on a crumbling stone island, studying a frozen image of Zhukov. The form under scrutiny looks marginally younger and more clean-shaven than the man Corvo met earlier, but the sharp black hair and long nose are indistinguishable. As Corvo grunts and walks up, the ethereal form of the Outsider turns to face his Marked, black eyes boring through him, as if watching his very soul.

It smiles. Corvo manages a frown in return.

“What do you want, Outsider.”

The whale god tilts Its head, manages to look sad, if only for moment.

“Oh, Corvo. Not even a hello for an old friend such as myself? You must be so lonely out here in this frozen world, so far away from Emily, and everyone else you wonder about in the dark when you assume nobody is there to listen to your thoughts.”

Corvos fist clenches and he closes his eyes, counting to five before reopening them. “If you cared about how bored I am out here, you would have visited a lot sooner than this. What. Do you want.”

The Outsider was a being that held the visage of a young man, but this only barely hides Its true, immense nature. The Leviathan dematerializes into smoke and obsidian, only to rematerialize next to Corvo, pacing, hands folded behind Its back.

“Oh but Corvo, you aren’t bored here! There’s so much work to be done: mining, electrical upkeep, making friends…or is Zhukov more truthfully an enemy?”

The being disappears and settles before Corvo, sitting on a block of Void, chin in Its hand as It smiles at the man innocently. Corvo watches back, shaking his Marked hand nervously.

“He knows about the Mark, doesn’t he.” Corvo doesn’t pose the statement as a question. The Outsider doesn’t really answer it anyway.

“Kristopher Zhukov knows many truths of the mortal world. If he doesn’t know the full truth of something, he will know enough to scare. He likes to have secrets, and he loves his current secret most of all. He’s torn between telling you that secret, and letting you guess after it.”

The Outsider frowns now, looking back to the frozen form of the younger Zhukov.

“So I’m here to… caution you, Corvo. Zhukov can help you escape, it’s true. But what will it cost him? What will it cost you ? Even I do not know. Something about him makes his future clouded. Unknown. Perhaps he has already seen what his end will be.”

“What does that even mean?”

The Outsider turns to face Corvo, the movement stiff and unnatural. Those black eyes pierce him like shattered glass.

“It means to be careful , dear Corvo. There are forces at work here in the cold wastes of Tyvia, forces more powerful and awful than even myself. However… if you tread lightly, your feet will find the way out.”

Corvo opens his mouth, ready to ask more questions, but the air rushes out of him like a breath after plunging into cold water. He gasps and coughs as he abruptly awakens, nearly rolling onto the hard floor of his room from the force of being thrown out of the Void. Cursing, he shakes his smoking left hand, willing it back to normalcy.

“Damn that Outsider,” he growls out angrily. “Damn It to the Void and back.”

Despite the inconvenience and annoyance he feels, however, Corvo can’t get the Outsider’s words out of his head. Instead, he quietly repeats them, like a mantra.

Caution, Corvo. Be careful.

Tread lightly and your feet will find the way out.

Paranoia is a natural state of being for Corvo Attano. He doesn’t trust easily and he never has; it made him a great swordsman and an even better protector. It is a sense of awareness that has helped keep alive more than once in the past; now, though, his paranoia is no better than a festering wound he can’t stop picking at.

For all the cryptic warnings and messages he had received from the Outsider, Corvo got next to nothing for them. Time passes at the prison in its increasingly weird way, and Corvo itches with worry. With the sun now up and getting higher, Corvo doesn’t feel safe using his powers to blink and survey the compound, causing him to itch even more. He catches himself massaging his left hand more than he’d like to, trying to calm the deep-seated ache that dwells right under the surface. It reached a point to where a guard noticed, asking if he needed to get his stiff hand checked. He had to hurriedly throw out an apology, saying he was fine before scurrying off and back to work.

Caution, Corvo, the Outsider had told him. Be careful. Tread lightly.

He thinks on the words often but they just leave him with more questions. Caution towards who ? Careful of what ? Tread lightly where ? The Outsider never appears to give him more answers. Instead Corvo is left to stew in his paranoia, cursing the Outsider for every passing day that leaves his nerves on edge. Another month passes. After a while, Corvo can’t tell if he really thinks there’s a strange presence in Utyrka, or if his mind is playing tricks on him.

The worst of it all is Zhukov is still ever present. Corvo swears up and down that he never once saw Zhukov, but now, he’s everywhere. Perhaps he had spent most of his time stuck in the mines, where Corvo didn’t see him. Or perhaps now that the sun was constantly up, his shifts had moved to the compound at large. Or maybe he had always been there, and Corvo just recognizes him now and can therefore pick him out of the crowd. Whatever the reason, Zhukov is now a constant presence in the prison, always just on the edge of Corvo’s vision. Corvo does his best to ignore him, but as time passes and no answers come forth, he realizes the inevitable.

Sooner or later, Corvo is going to have to confront Zhukov for information. So, despite the way his Mark sears in his hand and how much his senses tell him to leave, he sets his food down across from Zhukov one day in the Month of Clans, his face as stony as Zhukov’s is bright.

“Corvo! It’s been some time since we last saw each other! Are you well?”

Corvo tries not to think about how he’s sure that Zhukov has been watching him just as closely as he has been watching Zhukov. They both “saw each other ” less than a day ago. It’s moments like this that Corvo is not surprised Zhukov was once a renowned spy. He is very good at keeping up appearances. Which also means he expects Corvo to do the same.

“Fine,” Corvo says, a little less stiffly. “The weather is good for my hand; my joints tend to get stiff in the cold.”

This is lie. He watches to see if Zhukov catches it. The sparkle in the man’s eyes tells him he did, in the worst possible way.

Be careful.

“ Hmm! Yes, I suppose neither Dunwall or Serkonos gets quite this cold. Even during the summer thaw, it isn’t that warm up here.” Zhukov motions for Corvo to sit and he does so, only now realizing that he’d been standing with only his food set onto the table. Zhukov makes a subtle look down the table.

“Mind if I take a look at your wrist?”

Corvo’s eyes flick up to Zhukov’s face. The man interlaces long bony fingers evenly on the table. Corvo responds by rolling his wrist and stretching his fingers.

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t get in the way of my work, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course, didn’t mean to pry. But you may want to look into getting a new wrap. That one is quite frayed.”

“Thank you. I’ll look into it,” Corvo says lightly, and they both fall into a silence as they eat their food. After they are done eating, Corvo and Zhukov say their goodbyes, both quick to head out to their respective manual labors for the day.

“Same time tomorrow?” Zhukov asks conversationally. As if this was a regular occurrence.

Corvo glances at the clock. Glances at Zhukov.

Tread lightly.

“Sure. I’ll be here.”

They part ways as if nothing more than a casual meeting happened, both knowing that isn’t the case at all.

They meet the following day, as well as the day after that. With the sun high in the sky now, almost everyone was up out of the salt mines and working while the weather was fair. Schedules align more easily. Nearly every day, Zhukov and Corvo are able to meet, eat, and exchange pleasantries.

Except they aren’t pleasantries at all.

It’s subtle, but the veins of serious conversation run just below the surface of each word. The meetings, however, are amiable enough. Zhukov has many stories and makes for an interesting companion. Despite this, Corvo is not sure what trust means to the other man; even as the secrets slip by, Corvo is not sure yet how much to tell Zhukov, and watches each step with a calculated eye.

As a result of his own careful efforts and Zhukov’s intel, Corvo’s mental map of Utyrka grows.

For example, Corvo has now learned through their banter that Utyrka utilizes an underground railway for the guards to rotate shifts and renew supplies. Corvo has known about this railway because the inmates come in through these tunnels, but that was basic knowledge. Now, he knows rough schedules of the railcar comings and goings. He knows how long the tunnels are. He knows most people who try to escape through those tunnels die because of a lack of oxygen, a lack of food, a lack of water, or all of the above.

Corvo has learned the true perimeter of the grounds, and how that changes based on visibility. He knows the furthest body from Utyrka succumbed to frostbite 25 kilometers out. It’s been out there for 74 years, roughly, untouched even by the wolves and so perfectly preserved it looks like the person dropped yesterday. The guards don’t pursue anyone, because nobody has ever really escaped. The Tyvian wilderness is just too harsh for the mere mortal human to handle on their own.

Corvo has also learned that in the over 500 years since the prison has been operational, only about a thousand prisoners have ever served their full sentences. No matter the length, almost all prisoners die here. Some will be here for life, though very few have lasted longer than ten years. Many will try to escape; most, though, succumb to the harsh labor and maddening lack of sunlight. There are even stories of prisoners losing their minds and just wandering off, only to be found months later, dead and curled in a salt cave alcove. No matter their demise, nobody ever has escaped, and only a few have survived.

By the time the sun sets, Corvo’s knowledge of Utyrka is much greater than it was when the sun rose.

Despite this, Corvo never relaxes. His skin still prickles when around Zhukov, his heart still races like he should blink away and never look back. Against his gut instinct, Corvo stays, listening and learning because, just like him, Zhukov has a secret. And Corvo is so close to that secret, he can practically feel it brush up against his fingertips.

It’s the day after the sun finally dips under the horizon that Corvo makes his move. Like a cat, he plans every step, silently stalking closer the breaking point.

“Zhukov,” Corvo says after they eat, grabbing the attention of the thin man. Zhukov doubles back, eying Corvo curiously. The good weather and lack of salt mine work has been good for Zhukov; over the summer his skin had tanned and his eyes had cleared. He also found time to keep his beard trimmed; now, it twitches, a subtle smile tugging at his cheeks.

“Corvo!”

“Can I talk to you for a second? I was going to look into that new wrap you suggested…”

Zhukov doesn’t need a second hint; the eager curiosity shines on his face even as he makes his way over to Corvo slowly and evenly. Corvo motions him around a corner of the complex, just out of the guard’s earshot. It’s deadly cold without the sun, the darkness stretching away from them and only punctuated by the occasional whale oil lamp. When Zhukov pauses, Corvo tugs him a little further along, pulling them out of the light entirely. Hot vapor billows from their mouths in clouds as they hurry along.

“Corvo, what is it? I, uh– woah. ” Zhukov stops only to be started again by Corvo’s powerful grip pulling him along. “Ow– yikes , hey is it just me or is your hand really…warm?”

Corvo looks down at his hand and abruptly lets go, shaking it off. Steam rises gently from under the wrapping. Corvo swallows hard, composing himself.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“This meeting has nothing to do with a new hand wrap, does it.”

Corvo looks at Zhukov, who knowingly looks right back. He takes a deep breath, his fingers flexing nervously, instinctively.

“No,” Corvo starts, between breaths. The cold air bites at his lungs with each inhale. “It doesn’t. But–”

He pauses, choosing his words.

Caution, Corvo .

“Zhukov, you’ve told me– a lot on what we need to do to get out of here. But I haven’t told you how I can help us.”

Corvo hesitates only a second before he starts to carefully unwrap his hand. The Mark underneath burns, as if wanting nothing more than to be exposed to the cold air, to be used. Zhukov’s eyes watch, confused, until the long strip of cloth falls away, revealing Corvo’s left hand in its entirety. Corvo exhales in relief, watching the Mark as it burns and glows with a sensation that goes deeper than just skin.

Corvo can just barely hear the sharp intake of breath from Zhukov over the Tyvian wind.

“Oh,” Zhukov breathes out. His hands tremble as they hover over Corvo’s Mark. Somewhere in the back of Corvo’s mind, an alarm bells rings and his Mark sears painfully as the other man nears it. He does his best to ignore it.

“You know what this is, don’t you,” Corvo says, keeping his hand just out of reaching distance.

“I–yes, but only the stories, never in person.” Zhukov’s breathing is short. “To think that…all this time…”

More alarms, more pain. Corvo gently pulls his Marked hand back, and it’s like a spell is lifted from Zhukov. He meets Corvo’s eyes as Corvo slowly wraps his hand, hiding the Mark of the Outsider from the cold.

“ This is what I can offer you. The darkest months are when I can use my…abilities the most without being seen.” Careful . “But even my powers are not enough for an assured escape. I just can’t stretch that far. I still need your help, Zhukov.”

He stares Zhukov down, eyes burning like dark embers.

“Can I trust you with this secret?”

Zhukov inhales. The Outsider didn’t lie; the man loves his secrets. Zhukov is nearly shaking in excitement and triumph, as if he always knew but Corvo telling him made it official.

“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice barely over a whisper. “I didn’t work for ten faithful years under the royal spymaster just to sell out your secret here. I want to get out of here and clear my name too.”

Corvo nods, massaging his wrist. He shifts, turns.

“Good. Now, we should get back before the guards ask, and before the food gets–”

“Wait.”

Corvo turns, watching Zhukov carefully, a frown on his lips. Zhukov is fidgeting, as if on the verge of explaining something else.

“I have something else for you, too. That I need to tell you, because maybe you can help me understand it. You might be the only one who does. I would have mentioned it sooner, but I didn’t know…about…” he finishes by gesturing towards Corvo’s left hand.

Corvo’s frown deepens as his insides chill over. “What is it?”

Before he can respond, a guard yells out to them. Both of them jump, turning to see who it is that’s calling out.

Two guards plow up to them, waving for their attention. They are in full Utyrka gear, their heavy coats and thick eyewear hiding their identities.

“Oi! Is that you, Attano, Zhukov?”

Shit . Both of them straighten, fearing the worst. Zhukov squints in recognition.

“Stine, is that you? Yes it’s me, I’m here with Attano.”

Zhukov waves back, and Corvo eyes him carefully. Whatever he was about to reveal, Zhukov has already buried it away like a mouse buries its storage.

“Excellent,” Stine says as she nears. “I’m glad we found you. I have a new assignment and you’re just the man I need. Attano, you can help; this is a two-man job at the very least.”

Somewhere, soft and faint, a ringing starts in Corvo’s ears. It almost reminds him of another sound, singing softly, beckoning him, led by a still-beating heart. He squints against the reverberation, shaking his head to be rid of it.

“What can we do for you, Stine?”

“We found a new tunnel in the mines – need to see if it leads anywhere fresh. You’re the best man for the job, Zhukov. Follow us; they’ll be wanting you both down in the mines, effective immediately.”

#dishonored #corvo attano #zhukov #the outsider #dishonored au #temper the blade #steady the sword #fic #my fic #fanfic #my fanfic #writing #my writing #chapter twoooo #up and running #and very cold #almost out of tyviaaaa

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