As Martin fervently pulls the secrets from Campbell’s black book like rotten teeth, Corvo dreams. A great whale swims effortlessly through the blue around him, he can hear her mournful song. It is a haunting melody, that strikes too close to home; a young calf lost and alone, calling for a mother that shall never return, dragged away, and murdered by greedy men for the power of her oil. He cannot bear to listen to it, so he Blinks and Blinks and Blinks, until the void blurs and warps around him as he flits from edge to jagged edge. Faster, faster, faster, until there is nowhere else to go and he is falling down, down, down into darkness with no end.
And then suddenly, it is no longer that he is falling, but that he is being pulled. The Outsider’s depthless eyes meet his as the god drags him into the deep, smile wide, and teeth blade sharp. The world around him blurs until the only thing he can see clearly is his god’s black endless eyes.
Their fall ends with the gentle caress of blue-violet fabric embroidered in swirling gold; the same fabric that Corvo saw draped about the Outsider’s shrine, now cushions them and surrounds them. He meets the lips of his god with his own. The Outsider’s skin is cool against his hands as he cradles the ethereal face of his god.
“My dear Corvo…” the Outsider whispers against his lips, before tilting his head back and baring a scarred pale throat, “Drink.” It is both command and request and Corvo is powerless to resist. His lips close over the porcelain white skin of his god and his teeth sink in to stain it with black blood. The Outsider’s blood is as bitingly cold as he remembers and just as sweet. His mark flares as he suckles and he can feel the power of the Outsider flooding his veins, pulsing through him like an echo of his still heart’s once rhythm.
“ Enough ,” it is a whisper in his mind and the tightening of chilled fingers in his hair that stops him. He pulls back, and the wounds he left heal as if they were never there at all. The Outsider pulls him back into a kiss, licking his own blood from Corvo’s lips, before tilting Corvo’s head to the side and sinking his own fangs into the tan flesh of Corvo’s own neck. The drag of his pull from his body is different, there is no longer any pulse to fight the pull of the Outsider’s mouth and his blood seems to flow eagerly into his god.
The moment seems to stretch into eternity, the feel of his god’s arms around him, his lips sealed on his neck. Eventually, it ends and he finds himself, tasting his own darkened blood on the Outsider’s lips and tongue and teeth. The song that rumbles in his chest and slips from his lips between bloodied kisses is of devotion and awe; it is an expression of the strange yearning desire he feels for his god, the sadness and despair he feels at the loss of his Jessamine, the worry over the safety of his little Emily, and the strange beauty and sense of peace he has found in the strange feeling of the favor and desire of a god. It is a culmination of all the twisted feelings inside of himself, grief, love, hope, and despair.
“My dear Corvo,” the Outsider croons, “the world is never as it seems and the path you walk is littered with spiders, eager to trap you up in webs of lies,” the god’s hand caresses his cheek, endless eyes that see endless things filled with a well of things that Corvo cannot see, “Trust no one but yourself, my dear…”
Corvo wakes with those words ringing in his head and the sounds of the Loyalists moving about the Hound’s Pit beneath him.