[Shattered Darkness]-A Fable II Fic-[Chapter One]
How many had he sent to them now? Hundreds, it had to be. At first he had remembered each and every one but now their faces blurred together, features meshing, and he could have sent a dozen identical to the man who now stood before him. It did become awfully tedious, though, going through the motions like a script as he first charmed, then persuaded the man to take the perilous journey into Wraithmarsh to deliver the seal.
“See that there?” he said, quite obviously bored, not moving to reach for the dratted thing. “See that little objet d’art?” The man looked at him, blankly, and he had to force himself not to rub his temples in irritation. Reaver was anything but a patient man and this cretin was far beyond the calibre of those he normally sent on this errand. Still… beggars can’t be choosers, and he didn’t have the time to wait for another Sparrow to come along. Bad seas and high winds had delayed his return to Samarkand, turning what might have been a leisurely search for an ideal candidate into a matter of poking his head out of the port-side window and hailing the first idle rogue that walked past.
“That, there, take it,” he snapped, gesturing towards the seal and watching with a kind of satisfaction as it was picked up and pushed into one deep pocket. From his own pocket he drew a leather purse, and emptied the contents onto the desk beside him. “Half now, and half when you return. However, if you return and I find you have not done as requested…”
“O’ course, Mister Reaver, sir,” the rogue replied, greedy eyes focused on the pile of gold. Reaver did not need to complete that sentence for the threat of death to hang. Even one so… underprivileged as this man would be able to hear it.
“Good,” the pirate and one-time Hero replied, the ghost of a satisfied smirk flickering over his face as he watched the man turn away, following him to escort him from the ship. As an afterthought, he paused on the deck, watching with narrowed eyes. He didn’t trust the man not to try and sell the thing as soon as he thought he wasn’t being watched – the amount of gold he had been given already was nothing to be scoffed at. It did beg the question of who would want something that gave off the aura that the seal did, but there were always people looking for some kind of bargain and it was a rare item. Once the man had disappeared over the crest of the path that led into Wraithmarsh he let out a sigh. He would know soon enough if the man had fulfilled his duty.
It was nightfall when the rogue returned, unharmed but for a cut or two and a brilliant bruise around his left eye. Though, it was not his injuries that concerned Reaver, but that the man was quite evidently the same age he had been when he left
“Explain,” he all but snarled, his hand on his gun. The man’s eyes flickered down to the weapon, then back up, and he raised his hands defensively.
“I couldn’ stop ‘em, Mister Reaver, sir,” he simpered, not able to grovel better had he been on his knees before the Pirate Lord. “There were too many of ‘em, they came from nowhere.”
Reaver was not a stupid man, and the realisation that his seal had been stolen was quick to dawn. Only a moment later he stepped forwards, fingers curling into the fabric of the man’s shirt as he lifted him from his feet, not pausing to admire his own strength or even to deliver a cutting comment as he snapped out a single word.
“Where?”
He had been a fool to trust this man, and being made a fool of made him irritable, and irritability often led to impatience. Impatience, on Reaver’s part, always ended with guns being pointed. A shot rang out, a body slumping to the wooden deck, and the King of Thieves vaulted over the side of the ship, landing easily and setting off at a brisk walk towards the location that the man had specified. That he had taken so long to return had not crossed Reaver’s mind – the threat of death often did hold out for longer than the temptation of money. As he neared the rise, he slowed, moving carefully up the hill path. If he was lucky, and he was often very lucky, the thieves would still be here and he would be able to kill them all before retrieving his trinket. To his dismay, he found the path empty, though he drew his gun and held it ready as he walked between the ancient crypts, the cave-entrance to Wraithmarsh a gaping hole in the dim light. Keen ears caught the sound of a twig snapping bare moments before he was set upon by a dozen men, grinning and leering, blocking his escape.
“’bout time someone put a stop to you, Reaver,” one taunted. They were mocking him! Reaver turned, gauging his position, wondering if he could fire off twelve rounds before they had set upon him.
“Don’t be tryin’ anything,” another of the bandits warned, taking a step forwards and rewarded with a bullet through the skull for his ‘bravery’ in being the first to approach. Bedlam ensued. A further three of Reaver’s assailants fell before a white-hot pain blossomed across the back of his head, quickly turning to a thick black that invaded his vision, his gun slipping from his fingers as he lost consciousness. Behind him, a bandit threw the now blood-stained rock he had used to finally fell the pirate, and nodded to the others still standing. Bodies were quickly disposed of, stored in the crypts beside those long since dead, and Reaver was unceremoniously hauled into a cart, taken with them as they made their way into Wraithmarsh.
The pirate came to with a groan, his head throbbing, silently cursing the son of a whore (and to be honest, that accounted for most of Bloodstone’s population) who had seen fit to hit him over the head. It was dark, cold, and Reaver was ashamedly shaky as he dragged himself into a sitting position, quickly realising that the clothes he was wearing were not his own. There was no time to be indignant, his dark green gaze focused on cages, and the mark of a recent occupation in the dying embers of a nearby fire. Slowly, he looked around, a chill running through his body as he realised where he was. Stumbling to his feet he backed away from the familiar landscape, finding cold metal against his back and groping for his gun, cursing as his fingers closed on air.
“By Avo…” he breathed, the old name slipping past his lips as easily as it had two hundred years previously. Certainly he remembered how to get out of this place, but unarmed, he was not certain that he wanted to attempt it. Still… Glancing about, he recognised the trappings of slave traders. To suffer that kind of indignity, or to risk life and limb escaping this hellish place?
A quick search of the camp threw up a passable sword and pistol, neither of which he would have touched had he had the choice, and he ventured forwards, through the broken land that had once been his home town. Under a wooden archway he paused, fighting an internal battle before he looked up.
‘Oakvale’, the sign read, in a rustic, cursive script. A flash of colour hit him like something tangible, the clear memory of the carpenter carving that sign, so proud of his work as he hung it for all to see. Reaver shook himself, chiding his overactive imagination and the likely concussion he had suffered at the tender hands of the bandits. He failed to keep his optimism for long, at first believing he imagined the laughter that played through is mind, but soon unable to ignore it. Memories assaulted him, drawing pictures in shining brilliance before his eyes. A mist-covered marshland turned to fields of golden wheat before him, the sky brightened to an unearthly blue, gone when he blinked and returned to the drab grey of Wraithmarsh. The thought began to occur that this was some new punishment, something devised by the Court themselves for his failure, and if that was so, then he was dead, and he was not escaping.
Something deep inside him faltered at that, the fierce light that had burned in him for so long flickering as if in a strong breeze. It died only briefly before it flared again, Reaver refusing to believe he had been beaten by a group of ruffians. He would get out of here, he would find them, and he would kill them all. He never forgot the face of someone who owed him a blood debt. One hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly as he ventured on, shuddering as icy water soaked through the fabric of his boots, eventually wading deep enough that it spilled over the tops.
“Wonderful…” he muttered, startling himself, not having realised how hard his ears were straining to pick up any sound. He hadn’t been here since that day, but he knew the stories, he’d seen the hoards of walking corpses that invaded Bloodstone from time to time. A neat headshot would usually do it, but somehow that didn’t reassure him. Even in the thick fog he could make out the shapes and shadows of buildings that he remembered, and he was sure that the goosebumps over his skin had nothing to do with the chill in the air. The fog swirled, making it hard to see, but Reaver knew where his steps were leading him, failing to notice the shift in the air, the distant wailing over the voices already battering his mind.
“Samuel…”
Reaver span ‘round, sword raised, eye wide as that name, a name he hadn’t heard in centuries, whispered through the marsh. His breath caught, briefly, quickly calmed though the racing of his heart was not so easy to temper. It could have been fear in those eyes as he resumed his course, gaze darting restlessly.
“Samuel…”
Frozen to the spot, the centre of Oakvale ahead of him, Reaver knew all too well just where he was, the screams and cries as the village burned echoing even now. The small stone well had not changed, but he had not expected the buildings to still be here, as dilapidated as they were by the damp air. This was the place of his birth, his childhood, his romances and adventures, the place that had fallen to his greed, selfish pride and deep-rooted terror of what came after death. Then she rose, a nightmare materialising from the fog itself, a blood-curdling howl pouring from the blackness beneath her hood. Even in that darkness he could feel her eyes on him, a presence so entirely malevolent that the chills running through Reaver finally gave way to his blood turning ice cold. Unable to move, the sword he held dropped from lax fingers into the murky water beneath him, making barely a sound. Not that he would have heard it, over the ghostly, whispering voice that ripped through him.
“So… you return, my love… you return to the place where you killed me.”
Stifled, Reaver found it hard to breathe, not able to look anywhere but at the gaping nothingness of the creature’s face. In the back of his mind he cursed and fought to regain control of his treacherous body, failing at every attempt.
“I was your lover and your child…” the creature hissed, something snapping in Reaver and forcing him to move, slowly edging around it. He had to pass here to finally get out of this cursed place, but already he was stumbling, his steps uncertain as the banshee probed into the deepest parts of his mind and drew them forth. “I was the one whose name you called at night. Look at me now, Samuel. Look at me.”
“No,” Reaver gasped. He didn’t believe it, he wouldn’t believe it. This thing was nothing, no one he knew, no one he had killed. He wouldn’t succumb to it.
“Look at me… Look what you have done…”
“No!” His voice was terse, cracking slightly as he broke into a run, almost immediately tripping and falling hard, flipping over and scrambling away as the banshee advanced, her head lifted as she screeched once again, forcing him to yell and cover his ears. Reaver would never admit to cowering, but it wasn’t far from it. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t Reaver, this was that pathetic, pitiable, delicate man who had so very bravely ventured into the Shadow Court all those years ago. This was he whom Reaver had fought so hard to be rid of, and now he lay, stricken with terror, before the one thing that could see into his soul and break him entirely.
“Why do you think you continue to cheat death? Not even oblivion wants you…” If he didn’t know better he could say that the banshee’s tone was almost gleeful, and for a brief moment in that haze of fear he hated the creature for what it had so easily reduced him to. The gun he had picked up still hung untouched at his hip, a stone wall blocking his retreat as the banshee continued to advance. As if it could protect him somehow, as if the familiar structure would shield him, he pressed as far back as he could, and a whimper tore itself from his desert-dry throat.
“What would Maria say if she could see you now..? Would she recognise the creature you have become..?”
“Do not talk about her!” the pirate snarled, that name sinking claws into a heart he had thought had long since turned to stone. “Do not mention her name!” In retaliation, the banshee screeched, the air growing cold. Reaver could feel his control slipping, all that hard won steel in his temperament melting to nothing in the face of this onslaught.
“You didn’t even try to save her… She was carrying your first child…”
His eyes grew wide and he suddenly felt a warm dampness on his cheeks that was nothing to do with the swirling fog. Lies. Lies! He had tried! He had run through the town like Skorm himself was at his back but he had been too late.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know… If I’d know…”
“This world will carry on without your parasitic presence… You destroy everything you touch…”
“Stop…”
“Was it worth it, sacrificing all you loved…”
“Please…”
“I am your sin…”
“No!” Reaver surged to his feet, gun in hand, letting off a volley of shots at the creature’s head. The banshee screamed, first retreating then charging back, the fog enveloping him, blinding him. The world might as well have been upside-down for all the sense he could make of it. This was it; he was going to die here. After over two centuries of his kind of life, he was going to die in the middle of the very place where he had killed so many. There was a kind of poetic justice in it. He dropped to his knees, feeling suffocated, pulse pounding in his ears though it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the banshee’s screech as bright orange flared somewhere to his left. He didn’t have the time to register the prickle of magic that ran up his spine, softly sobbing as he collapsed to the ground, darkness claiming him moments later.
He didn’t hear the voice that shouted his name in shock and surprise, the footsteps as the newcomer ran towards him, and remained unresponsive as a cold, canine nose sniffed at his cheek and a warm tongue licked once before the owner of it was called off. His body was limp and lifeless as he was picked up and half carried, half dragged out of the marsh, across the rickety wooden bridge and past the gates, towards safety, back towards Bloodstone.
Tags: fable 2, Fanfiction, reaver, sparrow