#corvodaud

This time, he paid more attention. An individual caught his interest; Corvo watched him travel down an alley, open a door, entering a nondescript building. His eyes burned as he carefully watched the man find a hatch, take it down a long hallway, then disappear from his Sight. Another painful blink and then color, light, darkness all draped on top of the world again. 

From Corvo's breast pocket he pulled out the paper Daud had given him, marking the entrance. It matched where the man entered; under the address, a single message was written there: Answer Karnaca Blue. His neck prickled at the passcode, sending alarms for what he was walking willingly into. Yet, despite his consistent trepidation, no traps or ambushes had shown themselves to him. That knowledge didn't put him any more at ease; he put the paper back, mentally making his final decisions. 

Another second later and his burning hand extended; he disappeared and then reappeared into the street, unseen. The rest of the way would be on foot and, hopefully, entirely uneventful and uninteresting. 

Of course, Fugue was about to begin. And Fugue was never uneventful. 

Tracing the steps of the person he watched from the rooftop, Corvo easily made his way over to the door, entering and finding the same hatch the man had. The ladder didn't go down too far and the ceiling was low enough that Corvo could feel himself stooping his head to avoid the ceiling. The air was musty, as if ventilation hadn't properly been established, or perhaps the humidity was creeping in, feeding the mold. Corvo's eyes darted, but there were no other paths but forward. 

The hallway sloped gently down until it terminated to a well-lit booth and a singular vendor. Floating up from a further room behind him, the sound of rabble could be heard. Mutton chops and small glasses on a severe complexion greeted him. “Cullero Red?” He is asked. Corvo did his best to not trip over his own words. 

“Karnaca Blue.” 

“Ah, welcome in, new customer. Of course, every one is a new customer for the Fugue Fight. This way, and I will explain the rules.” 

Fugue Fight? Corvo’s brow furrowed, unsure if he misheard, but he asked no questions and instead allowed himself to be led. The clerk came around and unlocked the door on Corvo's left, ushering him in. In this new room the sound of voices grew in decibel; He was vaguely reminded of the hounds in the pits as men wagered on their victors. He hadn't forgotten that Daud had said this was a gambling event, but he was starting to have second guesses about what kind of event this would entail. The clerk pulled him from his thoughts as he brought him to the board. 

“Alright my good sir, the rules, which I know, I know, rules during Fugue? But I ensure you, it's for your safety and enjoyment, entirely! Welcome to Fugue Fight. Win three fights in a row and gain a chance to overthrow the reigning champion! The one champion left standing at the end, wins the pot! 

“Now, first rule: You can enter as many times as you want should your physical state allow it, but you can only bet on an outcome once. Rule two: If you spectate, keep behind the ropes; the fight is forfeit if others join and you don't wanna see the result of that! Rule three: you get a small consolation prize if you win your first three rounds, but the pot goes to beating the champion. Rule four: no stabbing, shooting, or using weapons of any kind.” The man looked down his nose at Corvo as he said that last one and Corvo shifted, feeling at least one hidden weapon shift on his hip.

“I'm not planning on entering, just viewing.” 

“Mmm, well, if you should choose to change your mind…” 

The clerk looked Corvo over with an appraising eye, and Corvo in turn scowled further. 

“I'll consider it.” 

The clerk beamed good naturedly. “Of course good sir! Just come see me when you change your bets or wish to enter. Happy Fugue fighting!” 

With that, the man left Corvo to wander and wander he did— true to his nature his curiosity drew him into every dark nook and cranny and if he gathered loose coin and keys in the process, well, who was likely to miss them? Eventually, the voices and cheers in the distance drew his attention and he followed it, more eager now to see why Daud was so sure this would be something he was interested in. 

One bending hallway led out to a wide, sunken-in room with bright spot lighting, minimal tiered seating and plenty of standing room. In the back right corner, a bar served patrons food and spirits, with plenty of rowdy customers already making noise. Doors to the left, right, and front led to rooms further in, where more cheering could be heard. And of course, there was the center of the room, where a large elevated and roped area served as the main fight arena. 

And on the far corner of that arena, scowling and looking particularly bored as he checked his hand wrappings, waited Daud. 

When Corvo had compared him to a boxer physique, he hadn't actually believed Daud would be into such a profession. And yet, here he was, his strength on display wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, though his hands remained ungloved. 

From the far room, more cheers erupted. Out burst a sweaty, burly man, with fresh cuts and a fat lip, but nonetheless victorious. Spectators poured out behind him, one raising his hand, and others helping out the loser whose nose looked thoroughly broken. The man thumped his chest, before proudly shouting, “Fugue has officially started! Let's get this show on the road!” 

A pointed hand, straight towards Daud. 

“I've been training all year for this! I'll be the new Fugue Fight champion, starting right now!” 

The crowd erupted again as Daud stood, ready to greet his first opponent, and Corvo couldn't help but swallow painfully. He knew, no matter how strong this fighter was, no matter how skilled any of them were, if Daud was the champion to beat, their luck had already run dry. He slipped into the shadows of the growing congregation and sat back to watch the show. 

It was as Corvo predicted; the man put up a good fight, but he could tell Daud wasn't even trying. Daud worked just enough to make the fight look good, but then, faster than any of them could see or even sense, the knockout would come, fast and swift. Only Corvo could feel the rush of the Void, the chill in the air, see more than just a flash of light as Daud slowed time to a standstill for a moment to complete the final blow. When sound rushed back in, the disappointment and surprise was a palpable beast, then renewed vigor as more individuals decided they would try their luck. The fights resumed, the crowds dispersed, and Daud rested by the bar before the next round of fights. 

With that, the Fugue Fight commenced in full; the initial trickle became a flood of newcomers, those doing their best to try their luck and those putting down money to see the champion fall. Men and women, locals and tourists, those who came with masks and hats and costumes aplenty. The testosterone-filled pit became a complete spectacle of noise and fight and people thirsty for blood. Intoxication led to heavier fights, harder hits, and higher stakes. 

And through it all, Daud remained an untouchable pillar. Even when the cuts and bruises accrued, his opponents fared no better. Corvo watched two, three, five fights pass and Daud barely flinched. Some he ended fast— Corvo learned quickly that Daud never suffered a fool and he certainly didn't accept cheaters. They'd enter the ring and in seconds would find themselves flat on the floor, their arm twisted back, their voices wailing in pain. Sometimes, he didn't even use the Void, strong enough on his own to fight to the end and give a better show. 

Through it all Corvo didn't show himself, didn't tell Daud he was here, though it certainly looked as if Daud searched the growing crowd for him. The hours ticked by; he had never intended to stay so long, and yet here he was, body thrumming with the surrounding energy, quietly rooting for an assassin from the sidelines and curious against his own advice to see how the holiday would end. 

At some point, Corvo entered a dazed state. Or, something similar to a daze; the Fugue was a strange time, where the barrier between Void and World thinned, making it easier for that energy to reach out and touch his Mark. That energy messed with his senses, making him too relaxed, buzzed, the world’s edges tinged with chromatic aberrations. He could blame it on the lack of sleep, the few drinks in his system by then, or the second hand smoke so many patrons brought with them into those murky depths, but it all accumulated to his vision swimming and time moving past him before he could even grab at it to stop it from passing. 

Because of that, what happened next went under his radar until it was almost too late. 

A patron entered, like any other. A costume— or so it appeared, since the person underneath those grey robes and golden mask sounded young and full of laughter, drunk off their last party before they entered into this one. Loud and raucous, Corvo should have paid closer attention. On any other day, Daud would have noticed too, but he was locked in his tenth match of the night, and the Fugue was deep. 

Neither of them expected a certain sound to rip them apart, tearing into their very bodies like the Void itself was being forcibly pulled from every pore. 

To every other observer, it simply appeared as if the Ring Champion had hit a sudden wall. He took a knee, the sweat pouring off of him as suddenly his breath came fast and labored, and his opponent spared no opportunity to take him out. The crowd roared ever louder, but still, the sound of an Overseer’s music box from somewhere in the room continued, screeching loud over the oblivious patrons.

Unseen in the crowd, Corvo had also collapsed, body seizing and hand burning like a brand. Immediately everything in his body went into overdrive; Overseer music could and would kill them if it went on long enough, a torturous end even if the common man couldn't hear it. The cheers erupted and as everyone stood to watch the champ finally get beaten, nobody noticed Corvo on the ground, crawling through gritted teeth and fighting to regain control over every fiber of his being. 

Then, reprieve. The music stopped and immediately the cold sweat doused his arms as he was able to breathe again. A growl escaped him as he pulled desperately for the Void, his sight changing as he stood up shakily and peered through the crowd. There— by the entrance, someone dressed as an Overseer, wearing the box, watching the happenings with rapt attention. Corvo snarled again and could only imagine that whoever had that box wasn't an Overseer, had no clue the power they wielded, and had not yet put two and two together that Daud had collapsed due to the music alone. 

As Corvo watched, the costumed man with the magical music box began to crank it yet again. Like a sawblade on his mind, he was brought to his knees, his teeth feeling like splinters in his mouth. But this time, he was prepared; standing up, he fought the oppressive notes with every fiber of his being. 

Daud did not fare so lucky. 

Another gasp and jeer from the crowd as there is the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Corvo, through the screeching reverberations of his body, managed to look over his shoulder. Daud was down, and it didn't look like his opponent was done yet. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing. 

And again, the music stopped. Corvo stumbled forward and he could hear the Overseer laughing over the blood rushing in his ears. Sneering, he silently stomped forward, looking for a vantage point. The only thing on his mind was to get to that Void-damned Overseer, and fast. He didn't think the other Marked man was in a state close to death, but if the crowd was anything to gauge the fight off of, he wouldn't be conscious soon, and if he lost consciousness, with the music playing, well…

Corvo had to be fast. Fighting the fatigue and his own shaken, drenched limbs, he pulled even harder at the Void, catching it in his trembling hand. 

Immediately, time stopped and all sound ceased. All he could hear was Daud's breath breaking the silence, like a thrashing fish in an empty ocean. He ignored it and Blinked, his body hurtling through space, going as fast as he could. Sweat clung to his shirt, his jacket stifling, his headache worsening and his ears throbbing but still, he reached the Overseer and wrestled their unmoving body away. The Void wavered in his grasp but he held it tight, choking the man out and dragging his body to the ground. A swift kick to break the music box ensured the torturous sound was no longer a problem. 

His headache grew to bursting and proved to be too much; he let go of time before he meant to. Stumbling back into the cacophony of reality, he nearly tripped over the Overseer’s body as his friend, a fellow in a rat mask, yelped in surprise and called for help. Corvo shoved away from them, breathing shallow as he lost all pretense and started pushing back through the crowd, much to the loud protests of the people around him. He never took his eyes off the center ring, locked onto stunned Daud and the man who finally had gotten the better of him.

It was a strange sensation falling over Corvo's being, if not an unfamiliar one. He was a seasoned professional to it actually; he felt it every day for his daughter, and before her, her mother. But to feel it coming on for Daud, of all people… there was no time to examine it. He simply leapt over the shocked crowd, pushed under the ropes before anyone could even try to stop him, and immediately danced around the fighter in the ring. Corvo elbowed the fighter in the ribs, the man stumbling back to create space, all while ignoring the shocked face of Daud on the ground. 

“Ah, silly me, I interfered with the match,” he started, still breathless but regaining his rhythm. “Sorry sir, but I guess this fight is forfeit.” 

“Wh’the Outsider’s prick is an asshole like you doin’n my fight?!” The huge man was barely recognizable, having somehow stayed upright despite the left side of his face being utterly swollen. Honestly a feat in and of itself and at twice Corvo's size, he managed to come off as at least mildly intimidating. There was a gruff noise behind him and Corvo chanced a glance down. 

He met Daud's eye and only saw pure recognition— and the pure fear that came with it. With a crackle of arcane energy and a whiff of acrid smoke…

The Knife of Dunwall was gone. 

Corvo's insides froze over. Unsure of Daud's position, unsure if he would retaliate, and all too aware that he was now the center of attention and the focus of this brute’s ire, Corvo needed to think fast. The man lunged, roaring, surprisingly fast despite his size. Corvo ducked, mustering his energy, and once again yanked the Void into his hand, submitting it to his will. 

The crowd erupted as the fighter landed his blow, but just seconds later, people began rushing out of the adjacent rooms, screaming for help and spreading panic. Patrons rushed for the door as an avalanche of rats poured into the room, squealing and squeaking, falling over themselves in their bid to find food, escape the building, and avoid being stepped on. The floor moved in an undulating pattern of browns and blacks and whites, the ensuing chaos causing people and rodents alike to shriek in terror and confusion, looking for doors and routes of escape. People yelled about the plague, men shouting for guns or bullets, women petrified and screaming as the rodents rushed past their ankles and tried climbing their pants. 

The landed punch added to the effort of summoning so many rats left Corvo even more lightheaded than before, and still the fighter kept coming, undeterred by the rodents swarming into the ring. He lunged for Corvo, brandishing fists, but the Marked man just ducked, impassive, as the rats did the work for him. As they swarmed the man's limbs his angry yells turned into scared cries, fighting with the terrified rats instead of the man who summoned them. With the entire room now preoccupied, Corvo stood, breathed, and pulled for the Void one last time. 

Escape was easy, if not exhausting.  He looked in every corner as he left, blinking and transversing past terrified patrons and evacuating individuals; Daud was nowhere to be found. Corvo didn't take a breather until he was back up and outside, where the oppressive Fugue sun beat down on him and forced him to retreat to a nearby shaded alley. He watched, checking every person as they poured out, screaming about rats and plagues, and then even watched as the rats themselves escaped, squeaking and skittering to the nearest exit, scattering into gutters and vents, dispersing  as his magic faded and the spell lifted. 

Corvo slid to the ground, arms on his knees, limbs shaky and weak, but still his eyes never stopped checking who left. Only when the last person was two blocks away did he close his eyes and let his head fall back against cool brick. Soon, all he could hear was the soft Fugue Festival music down by the water, the buzzing of insects and bloodflies, and his own steadying heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

He didn't know why he expected Daud to be among those who walked out of the fighting pit. In fact, he didn't know what else he expected at all. 

Corvo opened his eyes. Blue sky and lazy fat clouds drifted across his vision above the buildings. His fist clenched, unsure if he hadn't made one huge misstep. At the time, it seemed obvious; if one of them hadn't stopped the music, Daud would've likely been beaten to death. 

But stopping the music exposed him. Interfering with the match exposed him. Causing a distraction to give Daud a chance to recover, exposed him. 

And Daud did what any self-respecting person who was face-to-face with someone he believed was here to kill him would do.

He ran. He ran and Corvo couldn't even blame him for it. 

------

The fireworks were endless as soon as the sun set. The cheers, the noise, the partying, the fights; it never ceased. Corvo Attano watched them all from his perched vantage point, enjoying the breeze the skyline offered. His vest and layers were gone; just a loose and half-opened shirt invited in the breeze and well-fitting pants and boots complimented his silhouette. In his left, exposed hand he nursed a single glass of wine, his Mark black and silent and innocent even as it was visible. Next to him sat a bottle of Cullero wine, dry, aged 15 years. And next to that, an empty and expectant second glass. 

I should've found a table and chairs, Corvo thought, his limbs still aching from earlier, the hard surface of the concrete roof doing no favors for his comfort. He looked around, enjoying the breeze, using the lights exploding in the sky to spy for illuminated shadows on the rooftops, but there was nothing. No one.

This was potentially a folly, but Corvo was nothing if not stubborn. He couldn't say that he could predict Daud (he didn't know him that well) but if it was Corvo. and their roles had been reversed, he knows he would not be able to stop himself. He'd look for Daud, and wouldn't stop until he'd found him. And where better to find a Marked but in a place no other mortal could reach?

So Corvo sat. He sat, waited, and relished in the booms big enough to shake his ribcage. 

It wasn't long until the static in the air from the constant exploding chemicals shifted to something more familiar; an electricity that made the hair on his arms lift. His head turned; Daud stood there, just behind his right shoulder. There was a tension they allowed to hang in the air before Corvo turned more fully and said, just barely audible over the display, “Come on, sit. I won't bite.” 

He could feel Daud shift, uncertain, before acquiescing. The assassin sat down carefully and Corvo lifted the bottle to pour Daud a glass. With the movement, he looked over at the other man. Daud looked no worse for wear but he had come cleaned up too; his wounds were bandaged or tended to, the bruises still red welts where they settled on his chest and arms. The corded muscles were visible from just under his shirt and Corvo watched as Daud grimaced and flexed, a bare left hand reaching for the wine and swirling it in the glass. 

“A cute invitation.” His voice was back to his gruff, graveled Gristolan. He did not make eye contact with Corvo as he tasted the wine, despite the other man hunting for it relentlessly. 

“One I knew you couldn't refuse.”

“A trap, then,” Daud surmised. Corvo smirked, toothy. 

“Sure, something like that, Daud.” 

When called by his name, the wolf of man stilled, his jaw working. 

“I… I haven't heard that name in years.” It was pained; Corvo looked at him and the emotion was palpable. “I thought I was rid of it.” 

“I can still call you Montague if you…” but Corvo trailed off at Daud's raised hand. 

“No, no. Daud is my name. My mother gave me that name and it's all I have left of her. It's who I am.” His eyes turned to the depth of his wine. “I just didn't think the Royal Protector who should hate me would say it so easily, like talking to an old acquaintance.” 

Corvo huffed, sipping his wine, focusing on the feel of it traveling to his stomach. “Truth be told, I never thought I would say it so easily either, but ten years is a long time. People change. Pains ease.” He looked over, the fireworks throwing a myriad of colors over Daud's face, smoothing the angry lines. “It sounds crazy, coming from me, but it's good to see you, Daud.” 

The assassin ground down on his teeth, his neck straining and his brow furrowing. Daud tossed the whole glass back, drinking his wine in one quick movement. He coughed when he came back up for air, his free hand wiping over his lip, cursing when he hit the cut. Corvo watched the movement, but when Daud turned to look at him for the first time, his eyes were there to meet him. Daud’s expression remained impassive, as smooth and fragile as glass.

“That's not your line, Corvo Attano,” he growled. “That's Antonio's line. Corvo Attano is supposed to hate me, seek me out, find me, remind me of my crimes, and put a Void-damned knife in my—”

He couldn't keep going. He looked away, jaw muscles popping in the dark. The empty glass in his tightening grip creaked and groaned until it cracked. The shiver in his shoulders was barely noticeable, but Corvo saw it. 

This was his front row seat of the consequences of keeping Daud alive. 

“Was I that much of a phantom for you?” The question was soft and careful. 

“Yes,” Daud replied, voice as cracked as ice. “I was resigned to it. I was ready, or so I thought. Even after I left Dunwall as promised, I always thought you'd still hunt me down, find me when I least expected it, slitting my throat in the dead of night. But you never did. Years passed. I moved on. And somewhere along the line, I stopped fearing you and learned to enjoy my life again.” He shook his head, as if disappointed. 

“And then, after all that, you waltz back into view like this.” The laugh was ironic.

Corvo eyed him carefully. “I'm not here to kill you, Daud. I didn't even know you were here until I walked into that barbershop.” 

Another dry laugh and Daud looked back at Corvo, really looking him over this time.

“I should've known the moment I called you a disheveled rat,” he mused aloud. “Damn my age. At least you clean up nice.” 

“Thanks to you, yes.” 

“The stubble suits you, though.” 

Corvo’s eyebrows shot up. “You think so?” He thoughtfully ran a thumb and forefinger over his jaw. “It's so hard to grow; you saw my face after Coldridge? That was six-month’s growth.” 

Daud laughed. “I think I know now why your hair is still so thick. It never migrated to your chin.” Corvo curled his nose and gave a derisive “hah”, but hearing Daud ease out of his initial discomfort made the jab less painful. 

The fireworks light danced against the empty, broken glass, catching Corvo's eye. He motioned for it carefully; Daud looked down and muttered out an apology as he held it out for Corvo to take. He did, Marked hand brushing Marked hand. Corvo held the glass up for examination before rapping it against the rooftop. The shards scattered and he tossed the remnants away. 

One glass left between them; Corvo didn't miss a beat finishing it off and pouring more wine. He proffered it to Daud. 

Daud's eyebrow raised. “Sharing a glass, are we?” 

“Are you scared I might still harbor the plague?” 

“It's been ten years and who knows where you've been since you swam in those sewers,” Daud joked, but still took the offering anyway. Corvo smirked, watching Daud take a drink before handing the glass back to him. Corvo drank, noting the scent of Daud's skin and mouth lingering around the rim. 

“So now what?” Daud murmured. “Fugue this year won't be done until tomorrow morning. I was supposed to still be fighting down there. Was looking forward to the purse I would've collected for winning.” He took the wine from Corvo's hand. 

“Oh. About that…” Once his hand was free, Corvo rummaged in his shirt, finding what he was looking for. With a few loud clinks, he pulled out a large purse, overflowing in his palm. Daud gaped, then laughed. 

“You just can't help yourself, can you?” 

Corvo grinned, handing the money over to the true victor. Daud took it, absently counting the coin. 

“Just one of my more charming quirks,” he laughed, “always makes for a great parlor trick.” 

“I'm sure the nobles love it.”

“Oh, they hate it because they never know. Makes their reactions funnier.” 

Daud laughed as well, doing his best to store the purse, cursing that it was so large and he had no string to tie it down. He grumbled and Corvo watched, thinking. With the tension between them dispelled, Corvo leaned back, crossed his ankles, and toed a line he never expected to try crossing. 

But it was Fugue. And as they say…

“If I recall, there are some nice, secluded spots up in the highlands you were interested in showing Antonio,” Corvo watched as Daud stilled, giving him a side look. “Is that offer still on the table for Corvo Attano?” 

There was an emotional turmoil that Corvo didn't expect to cross Daud's features, and the speculation as to why made his mind run wild. But the moment passed with the wind and Daud stood, grunting from discomfort. He set the glass down carefully, leaving it empty and stained red from the wine. 

“Let's go, then, before I change my mind.” 

------

Traveling by Void was always Corvo's preferred method of travel, ever since the Outsider touched his mind and irreversibly changed him all those years ago. Walking was slow and thoughtful, but blinking through space was heady and exhilarating, expediting the process with precision and exploration, jumps and falls and catches. With Daud, the experience became a race, a dance between two phantoms as time was slowed, movements planned and executed perfectly. If Daud jumped up, Corvo jumped down. He banked a left to avoid Daud's right; they traded leads, their burning hands leaving lines of light and smoke and ash in their wake. 

The sweat beading up was whisked away in the wind. His limbs ached and his lungs burned and when his brain asked once again ‘am I getting to old for this?’ he laughed at his own insecurity, relishing in another surge forward. 

Void willing, he would never be too old for this. 

Daud led the way, taking Corvo out and above Cullero proper, up a path that winded around low, gnarled trees and then white-bleached boulders dotting the fielded mountainside. Cullero mountains were not like Karnaca’s; more like rolling hills than terrible peaks, this area was ancient in its own unique and strange ways. The elevation was more gradual but by the time the two men slowed, they were still high enough up that all of Cullero spread out before them, looking picturesque with the lights and fireworks still booming. The view was beautiful, one Corvo drank in even as he fought to catch his breath. Daud watched him thoughtfully, his hands tucked into his armpits. 

“Pretty nice, hm?”

“Makes me wish I'd never left Serkonos,” Corvo muttered, suddenly moved by how beautiful this pocket of his country could be. 

“Could always come back,” Daud supplied. “Do a tour of the island. Pull some Empress-related strings. She'd love to see Karnaca, for instance.” Daud shrugged. “I'm sure you would too.” 

“Yes and no,” Corvo replied, bittersweet.  “I… don't want to go into it.” 

“Then don't.” 

“I…” Corvo tried again. “Have you ever gone back?” 

“To Karnaca?”

Corvo nodded. 

Daud grunted, kicking a rock before settling down near a boulder, motioning to Corvo. Corvo readily joined him, watching the festivities from their far away perch. “I've wanted to, but there's nothing really for me there. Just memories of a childhood that wasn't too kind to me.” 

Corvo chuckled, prompting Daud to give him a look. Corvo just shook his head. 

“What?” Daud asked, incredulous. 

“Nothing. Just another thing we have in common, is all.” 

Daud relaxed and nodded, easing even more. “Like two sides of the same, Outsider-damned coin.” 

“Kindred spirits,” Corvo reminded him, smiling to himself. He stretched out, letting the wind cool his hot, Serkonan skin. In the silence, he felt Daud lean into him, shoulders brushing. Corvo gave him a side glance, but Daud just looked contentedly tired, watching the fireworks below. 

Corvo felt something catch in his throat and he swallowed it down. Fingers tapped against warm stone. 

“So, what did you invite Antonio up here for?” His question was rewarded with a surprised sound and Daud looking at him sidelong. It took a few seconds, but when Daud settled back down, he gave his answer.

“Sightseeing.” 

Corvo laughed and Daud’s lip twitched.

“You planned on taking a complete stranger who walked into your barber shop, whom you shared drinks with and invited into the pit to watch you fight, up to a remote cliffside to sightsee?” 

“He was a sight I wanted to see,” Daud confessed, hands tucked into his pits again and eyes forward.

Corvo stared at Daud, trying to both process the words as well as formulate a response. When Daud met his gaze and held it, his brain took every thought already collected and tossed them out the window. His foot bounced as something hot pooled in his chest. His throat cleared and he found it easier to sound cheeky if he was not making direct eye contact. 

“Was that before or after you trimmed his hair and gave him a shave?” 

“It was before I knew he had a mountain of baggage he was carrying around.”

Corvo laughed, loud and clear and true. His body shook lightly with it and next to him, Daud smirked. Corvo shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. 

“I do apologize about that,” Corvo confessed. “I was just so surprised. No— scared. I thought about running too, but I didn't want to spook you.” 

“You did, when you decided to jerk when my razor was at your throat,” he snarled. Corvo grinned, shrugging apologetically.

“Can you blame me? Your reputation precedes you and I was still adjusting to your presence. But the more I learned…” he went quiet, enough that Daud’s attention was grabbed. “...The more I was surprised to find that I liked what I found.”

That sobered Daud in a way that Corvo didn't expect. The weight that had been carefully pressing into his shoulder lifted as Daud leaned forward, hands folding in his lap. Corvo followed him up, trying to keep the contact, but Daud’s gaze was far away, watching the lights of the city, the cheers echoing up to greet them.

When he looked to Corvo again, his gaze was more soft than it had any right to be. 

“I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's good to see you too, Corvo Attano.” 

Corvo's mouth ran dry. He turned slightly towards Daud, who watched him closely.

“Daud,” he started, his voice raspy. “It's juvenile of me, I know, but I have one last hypothetical for you.” His dark eyes burned with the reflection of the far away city lights. “If Antonio was here, what would you want to do?” 

Daud swallowed, his jaw working overtime. 

“I would want to kiss him,” he whispered. 

The heat lanced through Corvo's chest and his own Mark flared as he reached out. But as his hand found the back of Daud’s neck, Daud grunted, flinching back. Corvo stilled. 

“Corvo.” His voice was the cracking of a wine glass. “I can't, not after—” Daud's chest heaved.

“Daud,” he repeated softly, “It's okay. It's Fugue, and maybe I don't want to be Corvo Attano tonight.” 

With permission given, Corvo waited.  Daud hesitated only once, but the confidence from Corvo drew him in like a magnet. Corvo met him halfway, gentle to Daud’s tentative, easing him into it, but once the dam broke, there was no way to stymie the flood. Daud groaned into his mouth and hot fervent hands were soon snaking under loose fabric, looking for the burning contact of skin, voices murmuring out instruction, direction. Corvo closed his eyes and drowned, intoxicated from the taste of wine, from the salt and sweat on his tongue, in the rhythm of their bodies against the tide. 

Fugue was a strange pocket of time, where the barrier between Void and World thinned. And what were they, but two individuals caught in that in-between, born of both, walking that thin veil every day? Corvo couldn’t think it a coincidence that they'd meet again at this moment outside of time, when the world heaved along with them, their Marks burning against one another as the sky cracked at their command. Maybe Daud wasn't superstitious, Corvo couldn't know, but to him it was as if this time was made for them, the Void itself wanting them to devour each other's fear just to watch it reform into something new. And Corvo was all too happy to hasten that transformation, his teeth grazing against Daud's jugular as nails clawed at his spine, the two of them arching in unison. 

Under the Fugue moon, they burned and smoked and sang like whalebone again and again and again. 

------

It was late the next morning when the Fugue Feast bell finally tolled, signaling the true beginning of the new year. Corvo stood outside the hotel, tired but relaxed, his shirt buttoned up and his things gathered, even as the salt and sweat still clung to his hair. He was, of course, waiting on Emily, helped out of the hotel by Alexi and Jameson, who somehow managed to remain more awake and upright than their inebriated Empress. Corvo’s mouth twitched up; somehow, someway, all three of them had managed to make him look like the responsible one of the group. 

Adjusting his hand wrap back in place, he greeted all three of them amicably, holding that hand out for Emily. 

“Can't we stay just a little longer, so I can sleep this off?” she mumbled, her skin burnt red under her wide brim hat and sunglasses. Their packed things were already waiting, the bell hop having already stacked their bags neatly on an available trolley. 

“When we get back on the boat,” Corvo assured, smirking as he got to tease his daughter about her state of affairs this time, instead of the other way around. “You'll have all the time in the world to sleep. Don't make me carry you over my shoulder, now.” 

She grumbled, waving him off, and with a sleep-happy Alexi and Jameson in tow, the four of them made their way carefully through the streets containing folks in similar states of disarray.

“You are way too happy to have done nothing at all this Fugue, Corvo.” Even when residually drunk, his daughter remained ever observant. “What kind of fun did you get into?” 

“Oh, not much, and nothing you'd find interesting. I did win a fighting tournament with a huge gambling ring, though. Turns out your old man has still got it.” 

“Mmhmm,” Emily chuckled, barely believing him. “And your friend, did you get to say goodbye?” 

Corvo went quiet long enough that Emily looked up at him, searching his face. Catching her looking, he just shrugged and smiled. 

“Yes, you could say that. I was able to find him during Fugue and thank him for all the sightseeing.” 

Satisfied, Emily hummed and laid a head on his shoulder. “Good. I'm glad. You don't have nearly enough friends, you know. Maybe we'll come back and you two can meet up again.” 

“Maybe,” he smirked. “That certainly is a thought.” 

The royal group reached the harbor uneventfully, finding the dinghy used to bring them ashore. Helping Emily into the boat, he felt it; a prickle of energy at the back of his neck. His gaze immediately turned, searching with enough urgency to cause Jameson alarm. It took only a moment to find the source; perched atop a nearby shop, Daud stood, watching them off. Corvo's throat ran dry. It was only for an instant; Corvo blinked and Daud was gone in a flurry of ash, as if he was never there in the first place.

“Everything okay, Royal Protector?” 

Corvo turned back to Jameson, his expression twitching into a small smile. 

“If you can believe it, yes. For once, it actually is. Everything went off without a hitch.”

Behind Corvo, two members of the Royal Guard were with them, but you wouldn't be able to tell by the way they were dressed. Emily and her entourage were entirely in civilian clothes; while the guards (and Corvo himself) were armed, their clothing was breezy and in fashion for the seaside town, instead of the easily identifiable deep blues and yellows of the Kaldwin house. No— here, with no true official business to attend to besides “unwind,” they could be far more undercover, and, dare any of them say it within earshot of Corvo himself, relaxed. 

Of course, neither of the guards did. Emily, on the other hand, was far more open and fiendish with this moment of freedom. She tugged at Corvo’s arm gently, easing a wrapped and stiffened hand out of a stubborn pocket. 

“Look. It's just a few days, and you really do need some time to relax. We still have a long trip around the Isles, and you were already so agitated when we landed for an evening in Whitecliff.” For good reason, of course, not that Emily needed to know that. Ever since getting Marked by the Outsider ten years ago, Corvo was reasonably tense against the religious group that would love an excuse to kill him without a second thought. “So, for just a few days, until next year, you are relieved of being Royal Protector. And I'll be relieved of being the Empress of the Isles.”

His teeth ground down into his cheek, jaw working. His scowl didn't lower, the air leaving his lungs harshly through flared nostrils. “You'll keep at least one of the guards with you at all times, yes?”

“Only if you promise to get an actual shave and haircut, Corvo.” 

His head jerked back, indignant. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me; you haven't shaved in the last two weeks we've been on the boat.”

“I can shave myself, thank you.” 

Her look grew incredulous. 

“Go get pampered then, Corvo Attano. Or, whoever you choose to be for the next so many sunrises.” 

With that, Emily walked off, taking Alexi with her. Corvo frowned deeply, watching her go, before conferring with the remaining guard— Jameson Curnow— to find them some rooms on the mainland to stay at. The main boat was always an option too but it was moored out of sight so as to not draw attention to the fact that the Empress was both traveling the Isles and had stopped for a break. It was her first trip around the Isles since she came into power— long overdue, but leaving Dunwall had proven impossible for so many years as the city recovered from the damage the plague caused. 

Now, they were hitting all major cities besides Karnaca. Cullero was not a scheduled stop, but they would be heading up past Bastillian, to Potterstead, up to Dabokva, Caulkenny to Wynnedown, before heading south towards Dunwall again. This made Cullero a good rest stop, with no expectations of the Empress and no executive functions to pay attention to. 

Four days gave her time to be young, gave the crew some time for shore leave, and gave him some time in the sun of his youth instead of stuck in the Dunwall grime. 

In theory, anyway. 

Jameson walked off to find them appropriate lodgings and Corvo watched him go, lungs breathing in the ocean spray. His discerning eye couldn't see Emily anymore; her and Alexi were already lost among the crowd of beach-goers and boardwalk vendors. His scowl slowly softened in the seabreeze, so much fresher than the salt and whale oil of Dunwall. He took in another breath, let it out, and moved inland. 

Cullero reminded him of Karnaca, but at the same time, the cities were distinctly different. For one thing, Cullero spread out where Karnaca spread up, carving constantly into the mountainside as veins of silver were uncovered. Cullero had far more coastline and lowlands, the white sand blinding and hot against the sun. Plenty of visitors and natives were on the water this time of the year, regardless of salt and seaspray and weather. Corvo turned away from the beach, however, instinctively seeking out higher elevation, away from the suffocating crowds and water humming with Void just under the breaking waves and decaying boardwalk.

A slow walk when going the more pedestrian route, in time Cullero’s interior opened its doors to him. Inside, away from the excitement and music and smells and noise, Cullero became a quieter place, with the music subdued and the vendors transforming into shops and pantries and locals murmuring about all of their troubles. For the first time in decades, Serkonan language flowed into his ears like water washing away the grime and gristle of Gristolan. A musical and fast language, he had almost forgotten how it sounded in the ear and not just in his head. Many a time he had tried to teach the late Empress Serkonan, with very little headway. And Emily, well, that was even trickier— since he wasn't seen as her father and just her Royal Protector, he had no say in what she would learn in her studies as a child. As she got older, she prodded him about her heritage but finding time to teach her anything, much less the language, was like pulling leeches off exposed skin. So, for twenty-odd years, Corvo had had no one else to speak Serkonan with, not regularly at least, and only in fleeting words and moments. 

Now it was everywhere, surrounding him in swelling song, switching easily to Gristolan whenever the odd vacationer walked up to a shopkeep. A smile pulled at his mouth; perhaps he could blend in here in a way that he hadn't been able to for years. 

What was it Emily had said? Whoever you choose to be for the next so many sunrises. He was no stranger to being behind a mask, but for the first time in thirty years he was not a stranger in a strange land but a man who belonged to the land who could blend in like a chameleon. He could be himself here. Just maybe, perhaps, under a different name and title, for a little while.

‘Corvo Attano’ was just as famous in Serkonos as he was in Dunwall, after all. 

He walked along, workshopping names in his head, as he stopped and purchased a small treat of churros. His Serkonan was shaky but fluid and the clerk couldn't help but notice his accent. 

“Karnaca?” He asked, his handlebar moustache twitching with a small smile. Corvo smiled back and nodded. “Born and raised. Left when I was young and still yet to go back, but Cullero is close enough to feel like home.”

Crow’s feet crinkled at the clerk’s eyes. “Still time to sail home one day, then.”

“One day,” Corvo agreed, and kept on his way.  A small interaction, but his heart felt as light as the fried dough in his hand. 

When was the last time he had told someone he was from Karnaca and had them return the statement with excitement or enthusiasm or even kinship? An exhilarating feeling that he could get used to and then be loathe to part with in a few day's time.

The dough was crisp when he bit into it, seasoning bright and sweet, nostalgia settling on his tongue. He wiped the grit from his lengthening beard and frowned. 

Perhaps it would be good to find a barber in-town, instead of handling the shaving on his own. Just this once, anyway; barbers were known for being good local conversation, after all. 

He walked a ways further, checking the tighter buildings further back and up as he went, cobblestone slowly sloping upwards. Fashion stores, cigar parlors, wineries, convenience, tattoo parlors. More than a few darker alleys, pointing towards black market wares. While he was tempted, he kept moving on, reminding himself he didn't need to stock up on trap snares while he was here— at least, he hoped. Instead his feet carried him on, following a small street towards a larger thoroughfare. There, over the faces of passerby and among the signs, the familiar white red and blue spiral made itself known. 

Nestled between a bakery and a tailor shop, the small barbershop had a nice view of the ocean, giving Corvo an easy route back to the sands. Where the lines of the sun were growing hot and long outside, the interior of the barbershop was cool and maintained, if a bit stuffy. The smells of lye and sandalwood and bergamot played in his nostrils as he looked around.

There was one other person in the shop, already in the hot seat, with a young barber tending to the client’s needs. The boy (a teen really. A slim, tall and wiry thing, not yet grown into his future girth) looked over as Corvo entered, giving a greeting in Serkonan, prompting Corvo to give a small nod in response. Corvo then exhaled, looking around before finding a seat and pulling up a local magazine to flip through while he waited. The barber spoke to his client before walking over to Corvo. Barely a page in, the magazine politely decided to close.

“Welcome sir! You're a new face. What can we do for you today?” His own hair was well kept, coiled expertly and cleanly, and it was clear his age was not a determinant for his skill.

“Just a shave and a trim, today, at my daughter's behest. Guess she thinks I'm getting bedraggled in my old age.” 

“Excellent sir, not a problem at all. If you would be so kind as to wait for a few minutes, my boss will be out in just a moment and he'll take care of you. Any notes you want him to know before he starts to work on you?”

“Oh, just to keep my hair a little long,” he said easily. “I have some scarring on my neck that my hair is still thick enough to hide.” Old stubborn Coldridge reminders that were easier to hide under a curtain, and keeping his hair long always made the neatly trimmed nobles in the Tower that much more irritated with his presence. 

The barber nodded and took out a pad and wrote the notes down. “And a name, sir?” 

“Antonio,” he said swiftly and not at all like he had been debating a name for the last few hours. The barber just nodded again, informing Corvo he would be back in a moment. With that, he disappeared in the backroom before reappearing and tending to his earlier client.

The sound of their easy words and the radio in the corner filled Corvo's ears as he went back to the magazine, idly flipping through without a destination in mind. The pages were in Serkonan as well; he practiced flexing his reading muscle, but reading was harder when it came to Serkonan. He knew the letters, which helped, but when he learned to read in Karnaca, Gristolan was placed higher than Serkonan, so that is what he learned first. Didn't help that under the Duke's employ, he learned even more Gristolan, in preparation for heading to Dunwall. It paid off, of course, and changed his life, but still, the struggle of seeing the words now hurt more than he thought it would. 

The sound of footfall and a chair being lowered. A gruff voice cut through his literary attempts. 

“Antonio?” 

Corvo looked up, happily playing his role, but nearly dropped all pretenses when he saw the face of the man speaking to him. 

The barber was well muscled, thick in the arm and the shoulder and chest, his rough hands wrapped as if he moonlit as a boxer. Corvo wouldn't have doubted if that was the guy's secondary profession, if he wasn't so preoccupied with other features, namely the peppered, slicked back black hair, the steel blue eyes, and the deep, mottled scar that marred the right side of his face, slicing from jawline to brow. 

Standing here, in this Cullero barbershop, was none other than the Knife of Dunwall. Daud.

The Royal Protector gaped for only a second before he coughed, wiping his mouth closed with a hand. He stood up as easily as he could, tried to wet his drying mouth, and said “Yes that's me.” 

Corvo's Serkonan words broke under the stress. The man just raised that sliced eyebrow, giving him a once over. 

“Well get over here then, you look like a disheveled rat.” Corvo, however, remained rooted to the spot. Daud scowled, a hand gripping at the leather of the barber chair. “Look, I don't have time for someone to be  this intimidated by my scars, I ain't gonna cut ya just because I got cut once.” 

Daud's voice in Serkonan was so different that Corvo nearly second-guessed himself on his memory. His accent was local, smooth, though the time-worn edges still remained. For some reason, the sound of a different language was enough to get him to break out of his awkward stance and he goes over, almost sheepish as he settled into the chair. 

“My apologies,” he mumbled out, the leather hot where the sun had traveled across it. “I was just so surprised. Don't tend to see someone with scars as bad as mine.” He revealed that piece of himself to gauge the response; if Daud was phased he doesn't voice it aloud, instead choosing to toss the apron over Corvo's neck, slowly pumping the chair up. 

“Yea your notes said something about a scar. Back of the head?” A hand carded unceremoniously through the long strands at the nape of Corvo's neck and he sucked in a breath, closing his eyes as if expecting some sort of blow-back. When none came, he chanced to open his eyes again. Daud was there, scowling at him in the mirror, a strange look across his stranger features. 

“Does it hurt?” The question is genuine. Corvo coughed again, covering it this time with a single laugh.

“No, no, it hasn't hurt in years, but sometimes the nerves still twinge.” Daud grunted, understanding, a thin comb brushing across the long line of a raised Coldridge scar. 

“I understand that feeling. When the weather turns, my face will go stiff. Never fun to wake up to.” Corvo’s gaze was searching in the mirror but Daud had moved on, a clip in his mouth. “So just a trim for the top?” 

“And a shave, please.” A nod, then Daud (the assassin, the murderer of the late Empress—) was parting his hair, judging lengths before wetting Corvo's strands. 

And Corvo sat there, stunned into an almost absolute silence. He said nothing, just watched as the man who played a part in ruining his life worked at trimming a few centimeters off his hair. Listening to the other barber chatting and finishing his client, Corvo got the sneaking suspicion that while he recognized Daud, Daud had yet to recognize him. 

Which— which may be better for both of them, in the long run. And he didn't have to be Corvo Attano, after all. 

There was a murmur over his shoulder and a tap on his shoulder and Corvo obediently leaned his head the direction Daud needed to complete his job. He licked his lips, left hand itching under his wrap, and tried to still his wriggling leg. 

“So, a barber next to the waterfront. How long have you been here?” 

A pause while Daud thought. “Maybe about seven years now. Took some time to find the location, but it suits me better. Surprisingly quiet.” 

Corvo laughed. “Quiet! With all the people walking by?” 

“Don't get a lot of non-local clients,” he clarified. “You'd be my first in a long time.” 

“Have a long boat trip behind me and ahead of me, and my daughter implored I get cleaned up after being at sea for two weeks.” 

Daud gave him another look from his reflection in the mirror. “You get this unkempt after only two weeks?” Corvo, sensing the underlying jab, just sneered.

“Hey! I don't need you getting on my case about this too! I can't help it if my hair is still this thick, this close to 50.” 

Daud huffed out a laugh, before checking his lengths. Corvo realized he was not just trimming, but also layering, giving Corvo a more even look instead of just a curtain of hair partially obscuring his features. 

“You are lucky for that. My hair started thinning before 40, but now my problem is it's all going white.” 

“I have heard ladies enjoy a good salt and pepper.” 

“If only I was interested,” Daud said with an eyeroll. Corvo hid his surprise, his face remaining even; he hadn't expected that answer. Then again, it's not as if he knew Daud, and it's not as if Daud knew him as much more than the Royal Protector who washed up in the Rudshore District, one foot in the grave from being betrayed and poisoned. There was no amicable feelings between the two men— Daud had shoved a blade into the Empress’s body in front of Corvo's very eyes— but by then, Corvo knew who the real threat was, and it wasn't the assassin who had saved his life and then let him silently leave.

So Corvo had given Daud the same grace, letting him live despite his transgressions against Corvo and the crown. Daud had then disappeared, vowing to leave Dunwall after. 

Now, sitting in a barber chair in Cullero, a whole island away, it was clear Daud had stayed true to his promise. Not that Corvo didn't already know, hadn't checked every corner of the City for him, just to make sure he was gone, but this simply confirmed it. 

And now here the Knife of Dunwall was, talking about himself and saying he wasn't interested in women. Or maybe it was more nuanced than that. Corvo shifted again and Daud grumbled in disappointment, telling him to stay still. 

“Are you not in a lady's fancy, or simply not interested in what people think of you?” 

Daud gave him another scowling look. “A peculiar question for an out-of-towner.” 

Against Daud’s wishes, Corvo waved his hands apologetically under the barber apron. 

“No, no! Not like that! Just a clarifying question, to make sure I understood. I hold no judgement here.” Another indiscernible look, before Daud was grunting again, running fingers through hair, shaking it out. 

“How's that? Think your daughter will be happy?” 

The layered look is certainly… different but still kept its length and fullness, hiding both his ears and the scars on his neck. Corvo nodded approvingly and Daud nodded back. 

“Good. Should keep you cooler in this summer heat as well. How long are you in town?” 

“A few days. Our current schedule has us leaving after Fugue is finished.” 

“Well, have fun with that,” Daud said, not sounding excited at the prospect of the upcoming holiday. “How old is your daughter?” 

“She'll be 20 just at the top of Rain.”

“And where's her mom during all this?” 

“Ah.” Corvo started, but his voice must have betrayed him. Daud, halfway through picking up his lather and brush for the upcoming shave, paused to give him a look in the mirror. “She's… not with us anymore.”

Daud actually looked surprised. No way he recognizes me then, Corvo thought to himself, but he still swallowed, his throat feeling thick. A flicker of an unspoken emotion passed over Daud's eyes before he came back over with his tools. 

“I'm sorry. That was my mistake.” His voice was solemn. Somehow, though his eyes traveled elsewhere, Corvo managed to wave him off. “It's okay. It's been ten years. It still hurts, but it is an ache I have grown around.” 

Daud nods, his brush already busy lathering up for the shave in his hands. Corvo swallowed again, mentally preparing for the next section of his grooming. 

It was only when he stopped talking did he realize the ambient noise held no voices. The other barber had finished with his client and had retreated into the back room.  No other clients had walked in this late in the evening, so the only other people were the tourists walking past— to the beach, to a pub, to dinner, and not to a barber.

Corvo Attano was about to let the Knife of Dunwall put a blade to his neck and nobody was going to be around to see what happened if that blade slipped. 

“Ready?” Corvo's eyes flicked back to the mirror, being pulled out of dark fantasies of his grotesque end coming at the edge of a straight razor in a leather chair in the middle of a beach and wine town. His dark brown eye met Daud's expectant blue, and he gave a stiff nod. 

There must have been something in his gaze. “This is the first time you've ever let someone else shave you, isn't it?” 

Corvo swallowed, his neck bobbing. It was a true statement, but only a partial concern. He nodded stiffly again, feeling like an automaton. 

Daud relaxed his shoulders, breathing out. 

“Well, first things first, I'll get you lathered. Then I'll just need you to be plenty still. If not, your face will end up like mine.”

Corvo's eyes flashed dangerously and Daud laughed, patting his shoulder as he leaned the chair back. 

“A joke, for first-timers.”

“Very funny,” Corvo growled, bristling. Daud put his hands up in surrender, but the emotion on his face… was it concern? A blink, and it was gone.

“Everyone's a critic. But please, do relax. If you jerk around or move, it will be more dangerous for you, and more of a liability for me. Besides, the goal is getting back to the girl in one piece, right?” 

His neck prickled but he sighed out, forcing his body to relax. The lather and brush were soft and he pulled his lips in as it kissed across his face. Daud moved his head as he needed, his hands warm even as the wrappings were rough. 

With Corvo unable to talk, Daud helped him relax by filling the silence in his ears. 

“I also had a daughter— crazy to think about, I know, since I never wooed someone with my dashing good looks.” Corvo huffed and Daud chastised, reminding him to stay still and relaxed. “She was… adopted. And if that's not the word, then I raised her when nobody else would.” 

Under Daud's hands Corvo's head moved. Then, under the soft lather, a touch of cold steel. 

Corvo felt the shiver down his spine and closed his eyes. The first swipe glided over his jaw with such precision he barely heard it, felt it. There was a brief pause as Daud cleaned the blade. 

“I tried to raise her right, the best I could, but outside forces worked their way into her heart. She didn't pass into the Void, but I haven't seen her in a decade.” 

Another touch, the steel warmer from the water Daud dipped it in, another swipe. One and done, right under Corvo's chin. He swallowed only after the blade lifted. 

“I'm sorry,” he tried. “I understand. They love to wander and create distance, no matter how hard you try to hold on.” 

“And holding on just makes it worse,” Daud growled out, the gravel returning to smooth his Serkonan. “The trials and tribulations of being a single father, wouldn't you agree?” 

He would, but had no ability to nod; Daud had gently grabbed his head, cradling him in one hand while the other expertly danced a knife across his skin. Corvo tried not to think too hard, not about how he was in the hands of a man who could so easily kill him, and was choosing not to. 

“I would,” Corvo eventually said, his voice rougher from his position. He peeked an eye open, looking for the blade. He was no stranger to the bite of steel on his skin, but as it neared his vulnerable neck, his eyes closed shut yet again. 

He hoped his pulse wasn't beating too visibly against his skin. 

“Are you that scared of a knife, Antonio?” The question isn't unkind. 

“Well, I've had my fair share of cuts, some of which were a bit too close to my neck for comfort.” 

Daud hummed, understanding. “The scars on your neck.” he swiped off more lather and stubble with a deft flick of a wrist. 

“Bingo.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

“Likewise.” 

Daud’s eyebrow raised, then his free hand scratched at his scar before cleaning the knife again. 

“It wasn't as bad as it looks, but I did get on the wrong end of a blade. I was told my eye was lucky to have survived.” 

“Was it actually a barber accident?” 

“Ah, no, that's just a funny bit,” Daud grinned, letting the scar pull. “You ever been in a slaughterhouse? Not many here in Cullero, and even less than that are operational. Regardless, I used to work in one, and there isn't a good worker’s comp should someone accidentally hit a saw, or if those large filet swords slipped. I had to deal with the latter. Got to help fast enough that I didn't bleed out, but it was close.” 

Corvo digested this story silently, unable to speak given the razor at his skin, making it prickle as it skimmed past. He half-listened, debating on if Daud was being truthful (but then again, was he?) while also marveling at his steady hand and ability with the steel so close and still so deadly. 

That same expertise killed his Empress, his love—

Suddenly everything felt a bit too close, too warm, too claustrophobic. Unable to move he grunted, his eyebrows knitting; Daud stilled, then gave him some space. 

“You alright? Do you need a break?” 

He's far enough away from the chair that Corvo can lean forward, regaining his breath. He breathed some more and nodded. Eyes still shut, he heard Daud walk off and around. 

“It's fine. Almost done; just a few swipes on your left cheek and I can clean you up.” 

Corvo nodded again, brow still furrowed. He resisted the urge to wipe his face and instead settled to flex his Marked hand, hearing a whisper of Void in his ears. He gulped, grounding himself, pulling himself back out of that place. 

No need to panic, he reminded himself. Not yet, anyway. 

“Just got a little claustrophobic,” he muttered apologetically, sitting back in the chair. Daud just nodded, silently going back to his work. Perhaps it was just Corvo's imagination, but his hands felt softer, holding him not just to steady his head but to calm any anxieties or fears. Reassurance, solid and grounding. He resisted the urge to lean into it. 

The next few passes of the straight razor happen in meditative silence, just the two of them. Daud hummed a little but his voice wasn't really built for it; still, Corvo recognised the tune. His eyes open and blink as he stared far off, not meeting Daud's eyes or even his own in the mirror. 

Then, just like that, the moment passed and the silence ended. A soft clean rag landed on his face, wiping away any residual lather. The chair is righted and the cloth is handed off to Corvo so he can finish wiping his face on his own time. 

“Alright, all finished up. Not too bad for your first time.” He clapped Corvo's shoulder companionably before going to clean his tools and clear his station. 

Corvo watched, entranced, wiping his face mechanically. Eventually he pulled the rag away and felt his dry, smooth skin, devoid of stubble. Unbidden, a small noise of approval escaped him. 

“Good work.”

“I pride myself on it.” 

“Steady hands, too.”

“My mother prided me on those.” 

The apron got pulled off and his shoulders brushed. A look over in the mirror and Corvo is more than assured that Emily will be happy with the result. 

“So, how much do I owe?” 

Daud made a non-committal noise as he seemed to mull that over. 

“Ten silver for the cut and shave.” As Corvo fished the money from his waist satchel, Daud just watched him, eyes scrutinous. “And a drink, too.” 

Corvo jerked, nearly dropping his coin. Quick reflexes honed from years of service (and a little inhuman Void) meant all were caught before they jumped from his hand, but now he hesitated to hand the coin over in the first place. 

No, is his instinctual response. What comes out is a broken, Gristolan, “Excuse me?” 

Daud had the gall to look amused, tossing his washcloth over his shoulder. 

“Don't get the wrong idea,” he said, his voice remaining Serkonan despite Corvo's slip into Gristolan. “You just look like you could use it. You're the jumpiest customer I've ever had around my straight razor, for one thing. I know it's not my place to pry, so I won't, but if you need to unwind and have someone to talk to about old aches, I'll be around.” 

Corvo's mouth ran dry. Against his better judgement, he felt himself nodding before handing over the coin. Daud put his hand out and they fell easily into his wrapped palm. Daud nodded too, counting the coin. 

“There's a winery down the way, has a bar for patrons in the back that's quiet. I tend to spend a little time there before heading home in the evenings.” 

Corvo found his voice again, making sure to keep himself in the less identifying language. “I can't tonight, I need to meet with my daughter, make sure I know which hotel we're staying in, get some rest, you know how it is.” 

“Of course. Tomorrow then, before Fugue starts?” 

“What time?” 

“Evening. Just go to the front of house and ask for Montague.” 

Corvo nodded dumbly again and Daud nodded curtly right back. There was a small smile, before he clapped Corvo on the shoulder again. “Well, have a good night, and enjoy Cullero.” 

He exited to the back to clean up, leaving Corvo to stand there until he walked out of the door, resisting the urge to stop time and run through the Void as fast as his powers could allow. 

------

 “Well don't you clean up so nicely!” Emily said, happily giving Corvo's fresh cheeks a pat. Without the stubble there his angles were sharp, his jaw was visible as it clenched in annoyance. He gently removed her hand while Alexi looked on, amused. 

“You say that like I never get a haircut or a shave,” he grumbled. “I know I clean up nicely, thank you very much.” 

“Well you don't do it nearly often enough. You clearly could benefit from a regular barber, I'll see what we can get set up with my stylist, perhaps they know someone…” 

“That's very unnecessary, Emily, but the thought is appreciated.” He let her down gently, his eyes tired but affectionate. “I'll simply have to find someone myself, since this cut needs to be maintained.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “So you do like it, then? Enough to keep it?” 

“For the time being, yes.” He huffed. “Now, don't you have other things to talk about besides me? Surely you found something fun to do today.”

They sat together in the parlor off the inn Jameson had found for them, conferring before they retired. Emily spoke of how they had found a shop for collectibles and had tried to speak Serkonan to the shop keep, who appeared delighted at the attempt but still kept them to their native tongue. They had also found a clothing shop, bought some things for the water, should they choose to go that way. 

“But what about you, Corvo? Any plans you have made yet?” 

He shifted, moving one ankle to rest on the knee of the other leg. 

“Probably just exploring some more, before heading to a winery to grab some drinks.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Would you like us to meet you there? A winery in Cullero sounds like a nice change of pace compared to—”

“No,” he says almost too quickly, cutting her off. Emily, the Empress slipping out, looked at him in irritation. He ran fingers through his hair and immediately missed the longer strands. “It's just that I'm already meeting someone there.” 

The implication hangs in the air. Emily sat back, her agitated expression morphing into something more knowing. 

“Oh, so you have a date.” Her grin spread and Corvo felt the cold trickle down his spine.

“Not like that, Emily. You know I'm not interested in anything after losing your mother.” 

“Are you sure? Not even a little fling? Fugue doesn't count, you know.” Alexi wiped the smile off her mouth as Emily egged her father on. 

Corvo, however, just sighed like the weight of the Isles was on his shoulders (and more often than not, it was). “The barber asked me out for drinks. Apparently I'm so stiff even a total stranger noticed.”

“Just like that? He asked you out?” 

“No, Emily, Outsider’s eyes, can a man not have a friend outside of work?” 

The word stuck oddly in his craw and he nearly swallowed it down again. Friend? Daud? Those were not two words he ever thought to associate with each other. But Emily also didn't need to know that her mother's killer was in this busy beach town. So, friend it was. For now, anyway. 

Or at least, until Daud gave him a reason to think otherwise. 

At least his response seemed to acquiesce her. She backed off, raising her hands in a sign for peace.

“You know what, Corvo, you are right. That's on me for jumping to conclusions. But I do have to say, it's not like you to even make friends in work, either, so I'm happy no matter what. You deserve more companions in your life, even if it's temporary.”

After that, the conversation moved on, meandering until the individual parties got tired and moved to their respective rooms. Corvo left too, but instead of sleeping, he slipped out the balcony of his space, using his powers to silently Blink to the roof and watch the lights of Cullero as they flickered and danced in the hot summer night. 

-------

Evening came with a speed Corvo didn't expect. His day had flown by as he did his own personal version of sight-seeing; rooftop hopping. Nearing 50, he sometimes entertained the idea that he was getting too old for such acrobatics, but the Void kept his body supple and his footing sure. It was hard to fear falling when he could simply suspend himself midair and jump to the next perch. The harder part was simply doing it without drawing a ton of attention, but once he found a route it made for a beautiful way to traverse the city. 

A tiring one as well, a side effect that he hoped would be an acceptable excuse for when he would need to slip out from… whatever this impending conversation was going to be. 

He could be cordial, he was sure. Just another mask, just another undercover part to play. He just needed to watch himself a little more carefully in a casual setting, especially when drinks or smoke was involved. 

As evening came, Corvo watched the barbershop, waiting to see Daud— Montague— exit and make his way to the designated meetup spot. The winery was not far down and it was the same one Corvo suspected; surreptitiously, he Blinked through the Void, landing in a back alley before emerging into the small tricklings of Cullero nightlife. He waited a few minutes before approaching the establishment himself, walking through to the bar and asking after Montague like instructed. 

Corvo was led back through some shuttered doors to a parlor behind the bar. It was clear there was food and smoke as well as wine here; they dodged two waiters as he was led back to a quiet booth in the corner, secluded and sequestered from the noise of the larger parties. 

Daud is already there, eying the drink selection, small readers balanced on his face. Corvo swallowed and took his seat as the bartend took a bow. Daud looked up, eyebrow quirked at Corvo (who smiled meekly back and adjusted his vest) and gave an order for their first round. 

“A bottle of your house wine, please,” he murmured, and the bartend nodded and headed back to grab their drinks. He turned to Corvo, his Serkonan coming out silky smooth, even with his vocal grit. “If you're hungry, they have very good charcuterie here. Not the blood sausages of Karnaca, but, I hope you can forgive them for that.” 

“Well, better to taste something local, isn't it?” he offered up a tight smile, before letting out a careful breath. Still, Daud didn't stop eying him. Corvo squirmed under the attention. “Do I have something on my face?” 

Daud chuckled. “I know you can relax but I'd have never believed it if I didn't see it yesterday. Would you like me to also recommend some public baths after this, if the wine doesn't calm you down?” 

Corvo let out a laugh, feeling some of the tension leaving him in response. “I think the drink will suffice, but it is just how I am. My life has never allowed me to relax, and I don't have much of a social life back home. My daughter is always trying to get me to make friends, but I never have the time.”

“What, are you a hermit?”

“No, no, I see plenty of people for my job. But that is the crux of it; seeing a lot of people daily doesn't really leave me interested in going out and seeing more people, or trying to make friends.”

“Never had colleagues?”

Corvo shrugged as the tender came back with their wine. It was a sharp red, bottled five years prior. Corvo put in his order for the charcuterie and let Daud pour him a drink. 

“Thanks.” 

“I'm open to getting a second bottle if you're interested in trying something different.” 

“Oh, I don't plan on drinking that much.”

Daud once again gives him a weird look. 

“You would take the bottle home with you, Antonio,” he said evenly. “Or I would, if you don't like it. I use it in cooking.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

Daud sampled his wine, watching the crowd with a curious eye. 

“So not many friends, not many colleagues, don't get out much, stiff on vacation. I'm guessing a military man, then?” 

Leave it to the greatest assassin of their age to suss something like that so quickly. Corvo's mouth twitched up at the corner. 

“I used to work for the Duke, actually. Before I was sent to Dunwall. Specialized in guardwork for over thirty years, so it's no surprise my daughter is pushing for my retirement. I told her I'm not that old yet, but she worries.”

“Dunwall? So she lived through the rat plague?” Corvo nodded, trying the wine in his glass as well. It was a smooth blend, good aromatics and it sat pleasantly on the tongue. It was nice enough to try again and with slightly more enthusiasm. 

“It was a tough time for everyone, it was… how we lost her mother. Almost got her too, but the cure came in time for her at least.” His mouth quirked up more. “Guess that's why I'm so protective. It's a big step for both of us for her to be doing her own thing while I do mine.” 

Daud makes a low noise of understanding. “Aha, so that's what's got you so stiff. You're worrying too much about her. Take it from me, it'll be good for you both in the end. It's like holding on too tightly to a cat; you end up scratched and the cat running away.” 

He pulled out a cigar from his pocket and Corvo noticed his hands covered with gloves today, well-fitted leather with a small amount of give on his wrist. Between his fingers sat a cigar, fresh from the tin. Balanced perfectly, he held it out to Corvo. 

“Do you smoke?” He asked casually.

“Not cigars, but as the saying goes, when in Wei-Ghon.” He held out a hand and Daud gave him a stick after lighting his own, passing the match onto Corvo once his was lit. 

The smoke curls lazily between them as patrons walk through and chatter in the background. The noise and the smoke and the companionable silence; it's enough to ease into (for one evening, at least), to relax just enough to fall into the rhythm, to forget the world for a while. 

Their plate of food came and it’s enough to rouse Corvo to thank the waiter and start picking. Cheese, meats, pickles, fish, olives, bread, nuts and berries; the board was a plethora of local delicacies of which Corvo indulges decadently. 

His wrapped hand itched. As if pulled by an unseen force, he looked over, noticing Daud watching him. The look isn't hard or cold, despite his eyes; instead it's studious, understanding, maybe even empathetic.

“I used to be pretty wound up too, you know. Always looking over my shoulder, second guessing everything and everyone. It got particularly bad the years after my girl left. Had to learn how to uncoil… I'm pretty on top of it these days and when I can't, nothing a little smoke can't fix.” He nodded to the wine. “Is it good or do you want to try a different flavor?” 

Corvo just looked, watching the man named Daud as he bared himself to Corvo, completely vulnerable. Had leaving Dunwall had that strong of an effect on him? And had he spent years thinking Corvo would come and hunt him down, off him even as he stood? Truthfully despite everything, once Corvo knew Daud was out of Dunwall he had thought nothing of finding Daud; even this moment was a crazy happenstance. He played with the cracker in his hand, before taking a small bite. 

“The wine is fine. The smoke’s better.” There's an apologetic smile. “I've never really been the drinking type, so I'll be surprised if I have more than the glass.” 

He sat back, taking another drag. His head shook and he suddenly wished that he still had a curtain of long hair to hide behind. 

“Truth be told, I'm not sure why I agreed to buy you a drink. It's not like I'm looking for a friend, and you're a barber. It felt right to accept, and an insult if I refused.” 

“I only asked because I sensed a kindred spirit in you. Turns out I wasn't too far off the mark.” 

The word choice prickled on his skin like the itch of the Void in his hand. A strange emotion bubbled up, and he can't stop himself from asking,

“What made you move to Cullero?” 

Ash tips into the tray. “When my girl left, I needed to feel something, anything, like family. So I came home, and it welcomed me with open arms. It took time, longer than I'd like to admit, but there's very little the Serkonan sun can’t heal. Even if it is just a disaster for my complexion, not that I have much of that left.” He motioned to his scar, mouth twitching into a sharp grin. Eyes closed, he pulled on the cigar, his own worries with the day coiling up in the smoky atmosphere. 

The image was mesmerizing. Corvo couldn't tear his eyes away; while Daud was lost in his own thoughts and memories, Corvo studied him in turn, everything about the moment wrestling with memory. The Daud he had known was serious, stiff, scowling. Here, with wine, food, easy music and the murmurings of conversation hiding him from everyone but Corvo, even his scar lines smoothed. Yes, the wrinkles were still there, but the edges were blunted. 

Or perhaps, more accurately, polished. 

It suddenly hit Corvo like a bullet and he's animated once again, a smooth motion to call over a waitstaff. A small quiet exchange, then the staff was gone again. The movement caused Daud's eyes to open, refocusing, his confusion— or perhaps, suspicion— apparent. 

“Decide on something else?” 

It is Corvo's turn to smirk, the emotion behind it more playful as he rests his chin in his hand. “You'll have to forgive me. I remember you telling me I owed you a drink, so I made sure to pick up the tab. As well as take a bottle to go. My daughter was upset enough when I told her she wasn't coming along, so might as well procure her a consolation prize.” 

“Antonio, that's thoughtful, but the line was simply to get you here, I would rather treat a guest than have them feel it necessary to—” 

But Corvo raised a hand to silence him, ignoring the itch from the wrapped hand under the table. 

“The cigar is more than enough. Though, I can't help but wonder if there isn't a hookah back here, and if you ever indulge?” 

Daud huffed. “I think you overestimate how well-off this establishment is. This is still the resort area of town, but it's not royalty. They that fancy in Dunwall?” 

Corvo clicked his mouth shut. Perhaps he didn't mingle enough with the regulars, to realize hookah was not as readily available as he was used to. “Only in the brothels,” he joked, to cover himself up. It worked, with Daud just shaking his head. 

“The fanciest Dunwall has to offer,” he growled. 

Corvo smiled, leaning back to finish the cigar, as well as his single glass of wine. “This was a good suggestion, thank you Montague,” and he is shocked to hear himself truly mean it. “I'm not one for the crowds, and I'm sure my daughter will disappear with this coming bottle of wine for the rest of the Fugue, so do you have any places to hole up until it passes?” 

“Hole up? You mean you won't be out there, enjoying yourself?” 

Corvo barked out a laugh. “I haven't ‘enjoyed’ a Fugue since my wife passed, and I hold no delusions of that changing. This is as rowdy as I tend to get.” 

A muscle worked in the shadow of Daud's jaw, causing his scar to grimace. Corvo could feel his eyes boring into him, feel the scrutiny, and could feel his stomach coiling in response to whatever the assassin was thinking of saying next. 

“If you are that curious,” he started, his voice a low murmur that is much more reminiscent of the dangerous voice Corvo remembered, “then I can hand you an address. Go there, watch, stay as long as you like. No obligations, and it'll run all Fugue.” He dug into his jacket's inner pocket, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. Interestingly, his eyes darted to the other patrons before scribbling something down. Curiosity piqued, Corvo couldn't help but lean over the table, looking as casual as he could while being as intent on Daud as possible. 

“All of Fugue? But doesn't it start in just a few hours?” 

Daud shrugged and gave a stiff grin. The paper was ripped from the backing and handed to Corvo casually. He takes the paper with a deft and silent movement, not even looking at it. 

“Come whenever. Stay until it ends. Or don't. But I recommend sleeping first, it can go for a while.”

“As curious as I am, I don't like walking into something blind. What exactly is this event?” 

Daud breathed deep. “It's a bit of gambling I partake in every Fugue. It's grown a good amount over the years, so it may be something you enjoy. And if not, well, there are some spots up in the highland trails that are nice and quiet. I could show you those too, if you'd like.”

Corvo is silent for a moment, studying more of Daud's face than he has in a while. His instincts were telling him that this is very clearly a trap, which makes it all the more reason to check out whatever this situation is. But more importantly, if it was a trap, did that mean his cover was blown? He gave truthful information; maybe somewhere down the line, Daud had put two and two together. 

Daud met his eye and held the stare even steadier than his hands. Corvo's knuckles rapped against the table. 

“This is an awful lot of attention to give to a total stranger, a complete passer-by.” 

“Like I said. Just a feeling. Kindred spirits.” 

The bartender dropped the new bottle of wine off and bowed back out. Corvo, coming to terms with this, nodded and smiled, thanking the tender. 

“Well, then, I hope you make this worth my time, Barber Montague.” 

The Knife of Dunwall grinned so fiercely Corvo felt like a fly caught in a spider's trap.