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The Serkonan military trained their special ops in mental fortitude, particularly if they were candidates for the position of Royal Protector. As a result, Corvo had learned multiple methods of resisting extraction methods. His favorite was what they'd called the "box". Make a place in your head where you could stuff yourself until it was over. Corvo preferred the term Emily had used for her rampant imagination over the idea of mentally barricading himself, even if it was less professional-sounding.
Happy place. That was what she'd called it. Of course, given the early portion of his life, he wouldn't have understood the concept of a "happy place" over a box. What made him happy? He didn't know. He'd been alone as a child, orphaned and more concerned with surviving by himself in a harsh world than chasing ambitions. He supposed it was just lucky that he'd been eligible for military life, and had the logic to become a soldier.
He'd been young—thirteen, the minimum age for recruitment. But he'd gone very far very quickly thanks to natural talent and his complete self-immersion into his military life and training. There was nothing else for him, after all. No family, no past, and no future except whatever career he made of his station. His mentors claimed he had a "head start" compared to other enlisted because he hadn't had to learn the all-important rule of being made of stone. He'd begun that way, and all odds pointed to him ending that way.
When he'd turned sixteen, he was placed in a very exclusive program to train spec ops into potential Royal Protectors. It was a political move, assigning a Serkonan to the Empress of Gristol, and Corvo personally hadn't thought the idea a very sincere method of promoting national relations at the time, but the nobles disagreed.
He'd been picked over the three others, of course. His instructors had full faith in him in that regard. But Corvo had felt little pride in the situation. In fact, he'd been irate. The last thing he'd wanted was to be forced to live away from his homeland, and in Gristol of all places. Why would he leave the beaches of Serkonos for an island that smelled like wet dogs, where the sun was more of an occasional visitor than a presence? That, and the fact that as Royal Protector, his chances of having a family were reduced from plausible to zilch had made him seriously contemplate deserting.
But he was nothing if not logical about such things, and at the age of seventeen, the newly-appointed Lord Protector accepted his fate and was shipped off to Gristol with more than a chip on his shoulder. It was comparable to an entire potato, really. It had concerned his mentors, who'd thought his minor attitude problem had disappeared very quickly in the early stages of his training years before. Perhaps they didn't understand why he wasn't swooning at the honor. But why would he? He'd never been one to lust after prestige, and he had no father to make proud or a family name to uphold.
Upon his arrival at Dunwall Tower, Corvo had been introduced to his charge. Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, a girl no older than he was, who was recently coronated after the death of her father. He'd had to admit, even then, that she made an impression. She was practical, but not hard-assed. Kind, but strong. Respectful, without compromising her authority. And of course he'd noticed right away that the stories of her beauty weren't exaggerations.
Corvo hadn't been pleased that the young Empress was taken with him immediately. He learned later on that she'd only been trying to make him feel welcome, so that their future of being irreversibly tied together wouldn't be grating. And she'd succeeded in that regard, very easily. Corvo had little exposure to women or their charms, and even less exposure to anyone outside of the lowest rung of society, or the military. Jessamine, despite being a woman through and through, had the uncanny ability to make him feel as if he was with a friend. She wasn't afraid of vulgar jokes and stories, nor did she find his accounts of his life in Serkonos mundane compared to her infinitely more important duties.
He supposed it was unavoidable that he should warm up to her. It was a rare person that made him feel talkative, especially before a few rounds of hard liquor, and it was a singular trait of Jessamine's to actually make him conversational. Despite his every attempt to be reticent, he found her easy to talk to, and moreover, that words came easily to him when he spoke with her. Jessamine never judged him poorly or twisted his words, nor did she convolute their exchanges with ulterior motives.
In time, Corvo traded his strategy of being an ever-present but unseen bodyguard for keeping a place at her side most times. He couldn't hide from her, anyway, which infuriated him. Somehow, she always knew where he was. She'd learned his tricks quickly, far more so than anyone should. Even the Spymaster couldn't keep his eyes on Corvo for long. How could she?
She claimed, upon being questioned, that it was because she "knew him". He couldn't argue with that. She certainly knew him better than anyone else ever had. Part of him felt studied, with how much she prodded him for the most trivial details of his life and seemed fascinated with his motivations (or lack thereof). But he'd always opened up to her, first grudgingly and only because she outranked him, and then willingly. Eagerly, even. All he'd known before Jessamine was silence, and the pursuit of. The Serkonan military wasn't exactly a place to talk about feelings, even with comrades.
He hadn't liked the way the lines blurred between them, at first. Jessamine was his charge and superior, first and foremost. And yet, their personal interest in each other developed into what even Corvo knew must be friendship, in some shape or form. They confided in one another, snickered about things that grown people in their station shouldn't snicker about, and trusted each other enough to know that the other would never tell.
He was a bodyguard, but he was more. And he supposed, more than anything, it had scared him. It was against everything he'd been taught to get attached—to anything. The Royal Protector was bound against creating a family for a reason. Attachment meant weakness, and it was Corvo's lack of attachment that had made him the soldier he was. It was out of his fear of his feelings that he tried to distance himself from her, emotionally at least, becoming deliberately reticent in her presence and avoiding one-on-one situations.
Jessamine hadn't put up with it for long. She'd confronted him on the issue one evening as he tried to slip into his chambers (which were, logically, connected to hers by a hidden door). When she'd asked him why he was avoiding her, he'd stated that their behavior was unprofessional. The evident disappointment in her eyes had made him feel a horrible and unfamiliar pain in his chest.
"Aren't we more than that?" She'd asked. Corvo hadn't known what to say, but given the night to mull it over, he issued an apology to her the next day by way of teaching her his favored Tyvian chokehold. And several Serkonan techniques for breaking arms, which Jessamine didn't particularly need while he was around, but it was all Corvo really had to offer. He knew she understood.
Their friendship—which his teenage self eventually had to accept their relationship was—had taken a turn just before Jessamine's eighteenth birthday. She was about to reach her majority, just months before Corvo, in fact. He had, despite his clever attempts to escape, been roped into giving her his opinion on her potential outfits for that upcoming event. He hadn't understood why she would ask him, when she had a handful of available maidservants who actually understood the significance of different shades of the same color, and that not all dresses were the same.
Jessamine had been unfairly frustrated with his general indifference. Every time she asked his opinion, he simply told her that she looked fine. What else was there to say? She did look fine. It wasn't until she demanded he stop being petulant that he'd given her a flustered defense:
"What's the difference? You make the gown, Majesty, not the other way round."
It was only when Jessamine stared at him in shock, and then looked away with a rose blush on her cheeks and a small smile that Corvo realized he'd said something significant. He tried to convince himself that he was only stating fact, but he knew better. She did, too. What made things worse was that he found himself incapable of avoiding further missteps. Opportunities to flatter the Empress in small ways kept presenting themselves, and the words fell from his mouth before he could acquiesce. Jessamine always accepted his compliments gracefully, and he noticed over time that she was returning the favor. She was subtle and almost tricky about it, but the fact remained.
Things advanced that way until Corvo found himself failing in his station because of it. He became so fixated on Jessamine that his situational awareness was diminished, and she started to lose track of what others were saying if she caught sight of Corvo sneaking around her meeting room. They accidentally ran into one another while walking almost continually, and when they sat at opposite ends of the table in her study to talk or play games of logic, they leaned nearer to each other than was appropriate.
And yet, despite the obvious, it took Corvo months to work up the courage to kiss her. If he was honest, he'd have to say he was intimidated. This was, after all, the Empress. And while they were both young and inexperienced, their difference in station, background, and status, combined with Gristol's caste-like hierarchy, made him antsy. Not to mention the political repercussions that would rain down if they were ever discovered.
It was worth it to throw caution to the wind at last. He could still recall the way she'd felt in his arms as they stood close together in her chambers, the dark space illuminated by her fireplace rather than the electric lights. Her lips were so soft against his, and the kiss itself so tender that it had given him goosebumps. He couldn't remember every repeat performance, but he had retained the vast majority. He recalled many similar stolen moments between them, often at night and in the privacy of her rooms, but sometimes in more risky places like behind bushes in the garden or rooms of Dunwall Tower that weren't in use at the time.
He recalled the heated incidents very well, too. It was the natural conclusion, and one they were both too human to avoid. Despite the chance of discovery and the consequences they might face for it, they coupled regardless, bringing their physical relationship to fruition through intercourse as often as they could. Jessamine had, on multiple occasions, told him with a smile that he was "rough". He wasn't sure what she meant by it, but she applied it as a compliment. She certainly seemed less than delicate herself, considering how adventurous she was. Corvo wouldn't have imagined half the things she suggested in the bedroom, nor would he have expected to find her hands and slender fingers in all the places she put them.
As usual, though, he deferred to her authority, and it was a rewarding experience. Something he would share only with her, of course, given the fact that she was the only person he'd ever trust with something as closely-guarded as his heart. Even with all the risk involved, he couldn't complain. With how long he'd thought he'd never have a lover, the situation played out much to his satisfaction.
Even when Emily was born, and everyone knew without being able to prove that there was more between the Empress and Lord Protector than just a professional relationship, he was more grateful than anything. Yes, it was messy when rumors kicked up, but at the end of it all, no one could prove that Corvo had sired Jessamine's daughter (as opposed to a more noble-blooded individual), and even though she was a "natural" child, the nation celebrated the pregnancy. After all, Jessamine was nearly twenty by that time, past her birthing prime and nearing a stage of life too far along for child-bearing.
Corvo had never harbored dreams of children. First he'd been too young, and then he'd spared himself such painful and intangible ideas. But he knew without a doubt that he'd always wanted a family; something to fill the void he'd been saddled with since he was young. And despite the roundabout circumstances, his wish was granted. There wasn't much more he could ask for than that. Perhaps Emily wasn't a coveted eldest son, but she loved him, and was precious regardless.
It wasn't bad that her interest in combat exceeded her love (or lack thereof) for dolls and dresses. She loved her one doll, Mrs. Pilsen, but otherwise was disinterested with feminine pursuits in general. It was no way for the female heir to the throne to behave, but Corvo encouraged it anyway, and Jessamine eventually gave up trying to stop them.
Having Jessamine and raising Emily for ten years had been more than he could have asked for in life. It wasn't until he experienced his first love, and subsequent fatherhood, that he really understood happiness. And it was because of that happiness that he became even more powerful, because the Outsider knew he would tear anyone or thing that came between him and them limb from limb. And as far as interrogation was concerned, immersing himself in pleasant memories was far more effective than the dissociative "box" technique.
Especially since his interrogation resistance training in Serkonos had involved more trials than Gristol government could ever fathom. Serkonans had their own special techniques for breaking a prisoner, whether it was physically, mentally, or emotionally. Or all three. Corvo was hardly susceptible to pain, and he was more than capable of guarding his mind and heart.
It wasn't until the dizziness from the pain scattered his thoughts that he started to succumb. The burning was a more prominent sensation than before, the voices demanding confession more audible. Rather than seeing mental images, he became aware of the stone and metal room around him, of his bound wrists and ankles.
Still he managed, until his mind traveled back to the horrible, gut-wrenching memory of Emily being stolen from his arms, of cradling a bleeding, dying Jessamine in her final moments. The memory that tore him apart inside more than the Spymaster or his torturer ever could. His all-too-vivid awareness that he'd lost them because of his own failure.
That was when the pain became too much. He wanted to scream, to release it all, but he only grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He barely felt the white-hot poker digging into his skin; the pain in his chest dwarfed it in comparison. Then it was all gone, swallowed by darkness as his body fell slack in the interrogation chair and he lost consciousness. He knew it would begin again, once they managed to wake him up. He didn't mind. The moments he spent unconscious weren't an escape; they were a chance for his nightmares to plague him.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the voice of the Spymaster monologuing into an audiograph. He didn't catch the words; they were lost in his subconscious image of his blade sticking into the neck of the man who'd killed the Empress. Corvo didn't care about stopping the torture, so he wasn't about to give a false confession. But he was scheduled for execution the next morning, and all he really wanted was a chance to find Emily. He couldn't die without getting her out of harm's way, and yet, there was no chance of escape.
Corvo sank into a deeper sleep when no cold water was applied to rouse him, and he found himself in a world turned upside-down, surrounded by a silent void as he stared into the black eyes of a man he'd never met, but who felt familiar all the same. He could feel the man's words in his mind, and found a strange solace in them, despite knowing it was only a dream.