His dress blues did not fit him quite so well as they did a year ago, when the little princess had ordered him to get them replaced, once she’d completed her first cotillion and could now appear at the balls that took place after sundown. Corvo was a little taller now, a little broader in the shoulder and the chest, a little longer in the arms, though he wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. He was hardly the fastidious type when it came to sartorial matters, the sort of man who would only change out an item if someone else pointed out it’s too damaged to wear out. So of course he’d found himself fussing over his uncomfortable formal attire mere minutes before he was scheduled to be seen in them.
His footsteps were heavy as he ascended the stairs, a finger already hooked into his collar to loosen where it dug unceremoniously into his throat. He’d have to fuss with that later. At present, he was set to enter the princess’s chambers, ready to escort her to the first grand ball of the season, and he needed to be alert to more important matters. One hand pressed to each of his pockets, both hidden and not, noting silently every weapon at his disposal, including his sword, folded neatly away in its holster for the occasion. A deep breath, a sound knock on the heavy, carved door, and the princess’s maid was allowing him within, to the splendor of cerulean silk drapery and walls painted blue like the depth of the sea on a clear day, everything gilded in dark gold.
The princess sat at her vanity, attended by her lady’s maid who was primly applying rose-scented rouge to her cheeks with an obscenely fluffy powder puff. Corvo could not see her face, but noted the excellently tailored form of her dress, her ebon hair twisted into an elaborate array of braids.
“Your father will be expecting you shortly,” Corvo announced gruffly, as though he had any authority to her time. The princess would come and go as the pleased, and no dinner, no party would occur without the consecration of her presence. He shifted his weight, even his boots now feeling uncomfortably foreign to him. “Promptly at seven, that’s what he said.”
He took a step forward when she did not turn or make any sound of recognition. “Did you hear me, princess?”
“So. You and the prissy girl in the fancy tent. Jessamine. What’s the story there? You’re giving it to her on the side? Rolling a bunch of Antivan peasant girls when you’re not warming her bed? Sometimes I think I should have been a Crow. Who gets more play than you guys? I’d be really good at that part.”
I asked for prompts, and she wanted Jessamine not doing so hot when she’s first made Empress so fuck my un-succinct ass, ig
Every morning, he rises with the dawn, dresses himself after her performs his ablutions, raking and combing his unruly hair into some semblance of acceptability. He douses his wrists with the unreasonably costly extrait of juniper and sage she gifted him for his nameday. It’s a more concerted effort than he usually exerts, but today is a marked occasion.
Today he does not knock, does not presume that his presence is welcome in the Empress’ chambers. The sound of her door slamming in his face last night was enough to resonate with him, devastate him still, even after the regulation of sleep. So he stands at attention outside her doors, like the reverent soldier he is, and he waits for his empress’s bidding, and not the welcome of his lover.
She doesn’t greet him as she sweeps out of the room, barely even bothering to give him a sidelong glance before she’s halfway down the hall, and he wonders how angry she still must be to maintain her displeasure even now.
But she stops. Waits for him to gain on her, then slips her little hand in his. It’s the only concession she makes. It’s the only concession he needs.
He stands in the corner during her conferences, arms folded and silent as a sentinel, observing the room with an admonitory intent that’s futile, given how astutely Jessamine manages to preside over the following meetings. She receives the envoys and ambassadors with an imperial grace, she listens with the patience of a saint to every complaint and criticism, presents practical solutions and viable alternatives with a quick aplomb that surprises even Corvo.
But he’s sure he’s the only one who notes the crease of her brow deepening as her fatigue grows. The excruciating crawl of the afternoon is marked by shadows growing longer by the minute, and Corvo wonders half-amused how this isn’t the Jessamine he knew, who as a 12 year old, would have flounced off in a pretty little tantrum. This Jessamine wears her beatific, tired smile and waits until the last ambassador retires for supper before snatching her protector by the lapel and dragging him towards the vault.
“Five meetings!” she cries as the vault door closed behind them, yanking the pearl-and-gold pin from her elaborate coiffure, her dark hair spilling out in a brilliant inky display. “Five diplomats in one day! I could hardly remember their names, did you know? And I couldn’t rightly call them Ambassador Nose-Wart or Senechal Neckbeard, so I batted my eyelashes at them to make up for it, and now I feel filthy.”
Her hand shoots out to grasp his wrist again, slinging him into the chaise and clambering indelicately after, settling herself with her head laid in his lap, her hair fanned out and spilling over his knees in a cascade of loose curls. “But I’ve missed you,” she sighs, tugging at his hand to lay upon her petal-soft cheek, and he’s rendered helpless at the warmth of it as much as the tenderness. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you over dessert, that was foolish and uncouth. It wasn’t about the dessert at all, and even less about you. I’m so tired these days, and my patience is so thin, and I’m meant to be so diplomatic that I wanted to be horrible, just for a moment, to say something awful. Because I can’t.. And you were there, and you were doing that … overbearing supportive thing, where you reason with me like I was simple or soft, and I hated you, just for that second, and I snapped at you, and I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”
He listens to her, patient as a stone, and lets her push her cheek into the palm of his hand.
“You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Corvo?” she asks quietly.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, as gently as he can. “Really, Min. It’s nothing.”
“I did because it was safe,” she admits. “Because I knew you’d forgive me. Because you always forgive me.”
He shrugs, his fingers threading through her dark hair and deftly working a loose braid against her scalp with one hand. “You weren’t wrong. I would have. I do.”
“But that doesn’t make it right!” she cries, sitting up, incensed again, her eyes flashing wild and almost desperate as she dashes her little fist against his thigh in frustration. “Is that fair at all? Is that just? That I exert dreadful tyranny knowing there is no recourse, no retribution? Will that speak to the future of my reign? The mettle of a man is tested in times of crisis, and in crisis I’ve done my level best to act injuriously against those most loyal to me. What more would I do to those ” Her face falls then, her voice following suit. “And it makes me question how fit I am for this office.”
He wishes at that moment that he was blessed with the facility of speech, that he were more fluent in the art of candor. But he knows his limitations. And he knows his strengths. Without thinking, he gathers her to his chest, shifting beneath her until she feels secure in his lap and within the confines of his arms. She’s so small it breaks his heart, the way she fits so neatly, tucked under his chin, and he kisses the crown of her hair for emphasis. “I was once told a person’s greatness grows with their task. You’ve been at this less than a year, Jessamine, and look how much you’ve accomplished. I’ve seen my share of nobles and rulers in their own right. I’ve served under them. I’ve seen all their dirty laundry. I’ve seen them pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t know what it is to rule, but I know what it takes to accomplish it with success. And there is no doubt in my mind that you were born to this. This is your birthright. And you inhabit it, exactly as you should.”
“I don’t care if you snap at me every once in awhile,” he goes on, grasping her chin to turn her mouth up to be kissed. “I’ll accept it with the duty of your protector, and forgive you with the devotion of your lover.”
His lips brush against her the bloom of her rose-stained lips, his fingers closing about her willowy wrists and holding them to his chest. “Take it out on me. Take it all out on me, I don’t care. I’d suffer anything for your sake, Mine. I’d suffer the whole world and tear it down with my bare hands for you. So long as you knew that you are the first in my heart, the first in all my thoughts, and nothing, nothing could take me from you, or you from me, Jessamine.”
She returns his kisses with an unanticipated sweetness, her lips as soft and slick as honey, and he’s undone, silent in the repletion of knowing that this woman would devastate him in all the best of ways, for as long as he lived.
His power is growing. His grip upon the Void and the world beyond it was expanding in rates that most might consider alarming. Each conquer is another way to bring in the witches. Each tribute is another notch in his arsenal. The magic in his hands was twisting and growing and spreading and, soon, he would be able to touch her again.
Yet, this night, he found her in scattered pieces. Bit by bit by bit, he was stitching her back together. Weaving her back into the woman that he had fallen in love for and his memories were the guiding beacon.
Lips found the crook of her wrist. Astral form hovered against his own, his body growing black as tar and spreading out to engulf her. However, she was a guiding light. A glowing light. Something still pure and gentle in the darkness that Corvo was trying to conquer. Oh, how the darkness within him hungered for her. How the taint grew in the pit of his stomach and he instantly sought to press her against himself.
Their naked forms grind and writhe together in the realm of dreams, his voice constantly uttering for her to come home. For her to follow his tongue. She laughs and it is cathedral bells in his mind. Her fingers touch his mouth and across his chest as they once again merge into one., but she quickly withdraws to once again float in the Void.
He awakens in the real world again, alone and drenched in sweat. However, he rests his palm against his chest and, for but a moment, there are two hearts beating within him.
Soon enough, fairest Jessamine. Soon enough no manner of being from either living, dead, or void will ever be able to tear them apart again.
