The kindred that Miranda feels around Corvo would be almost alarming if it
weren’t for the fact that she feels so calmed around him, a sense that she
belongs here, a place so seemingly forsaken by elements of the unknown.
Where his realness hauntsher, a walking figure among shadow. That
sudden temptation to touch, as a sign to show how much she wants him
to know that she is real and breathing, flesh and blood and not of fragmented
parts of things, twisted metal and broken glass with piercing eyes and straightened
teeth.
She is real, she is here—
and she belongs…
To talk in equality is a privilege Miranda isn’t used to. A reflection of
her times upon her self-made pedestal, reigning herself untouchable
by the masses she’s deemed unworthy. An act of defense, defiance,
to a man who only told her otherwise. To have that crumble causes
a sense of panic, but also that calm that is brought by Corvo, it eases
her. Brings something she hasn’t felt in a long time, a feeling of someone
who understands.
He bound back, if only slightly, at Miranda’s words. About the mask.
Something that stops him, grants him pause. It is his…identity now,
a sense of self, a way to separate the mask from man. This person
is not him, not the one who’s seen blood strewn across wetted roads,
or had seen the reason why he hides in the first place.
This mask is not him, not Corvo, not the man who helped Miranda
to her feet as she hangs over the endless space of nothing—
And how Miranda knows that feeling, that desire to leave behind
what she had wrought, of twisted faces and deadened eyes. Of
herself, that sad little boy beneath a broken mirror…
(how in a way she had masked herself,
with hair to her shoulers, those subtle
changes in her face and body,
a new person, a new life,
and how it’s just the same)
Fingers pry underneath metal, and soon the mask is gone, leaves
Miranda facing flesh and sunken eyes, of matted hair and stubble…
and it leaves her breathless, if only for a moment, seeing Corvo like this.
How there’s a man underneath that mask.
A name to a face, something less like death itself.
(Less than death,
not death
just a man, simply Corvo,
and Miranda finds it hard to speak.)
And how she smiles,and gives a bow of her head in return.
”The pleasure’s all mine, then.”
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