[Shattered Darkness]-A Fable II Fic-[Chapter Two]
“Is he awake yet?”
“No, sir, and if I may be so bold-“
“Of course, Max.”
“Thank you, sir. He was not awake five minutes ago, nor the five minutes before that. If he is awake five minutes hence, I will let you know.”
It was laughter that woke Reaver with a start, the quilt beneath him caught in a momentary death-grip. It only took a moment to recognise the familiar furnishings, and he relaxed, too relieved to be embarrassed. Slowly, the pirate sat up, curiously rubbing the fine fabric of the strange (not his) bedclothes that he was wearing. He felt… broken, as if something inside of him had snapped. The encounter with the banshee had poked a hole in a wall that had long stood firm, letting light shine through the cracks.
Reaver would work on repairing that, just as soon as he had sorted out the small matter of the person who appeared to have usurped his home. It did not cross his mind to think that it was likely to be the same person who had rescued him from the marshes. The laughter that had woken him rang out again and he frowned. It had been some time since their last meeting but he remembered that sound.
“Sparrow,” he muttered. “Always the hero.”
Apparently it would not be a simple matter of just killing said usurper. A thought occurred then, and he spat out a curse as he recalled the loss of his gun. A man like Reaver could become very attached to possessions… a house, a ship… a Dragonstomper .48… He would have sulked, had he not felt himself to be above such things. Instead, he made an annoyed sound, gaze flicking up as an elderly man opened the door and checked the room.
“Ah, Master Reaver, I see you are awake.”
“Clearly,” Reaver replied dryly, fingers itching for a gun. If anything, shooting someone would calm his frayed nerves. The elderly man, however, seemed entirely unruffled by the pirate glaring daggers at him from the bed.
“Quite. I shall alert m’Lord, he has been most anxious.”
The door closed again, and Reaver dropped back against the soft pillows, shutting his eyes and muttering darkly to himself. It was only a moment later that he slipped into sleep once again, his mind having taken far more of a beating than he would care to admit.
When he opened his eyes again, the imposing building that housed the Shadow Court at his back. The clothes he wore were rough, those of a peasant, but he felt at ease in them, and there was a sense of elation in his step as he passed between the two large trees and turned right, his home before him.
Oakvale had long lived in under the ‘shelter’ of the Shadow Court’s home. The building had simply appeared, as if constructed overnight, and few dared venture into it after seeing the fate of those who had first been brave enough to explore. It was pride that put that faint spring in the young man’s stride as he walked back towards the town. Amidst the children playing on the sun-warmed stone he saw her, she who had captured his heart. Calling her name, the sound strangely muffled, he waved and she looked up, meeting his eyes with a loving smile. A moment later, however, her smile faltered and her eyes filled with fear. Frowning, he glanced behind him, every trace of colour draining from his face at what he saw. From the Shadow Court, a burning darkness was rolling towards them, following in his wake. It could have been hours but it was only a moment before it spilled over him, choking him, filling his senses with the smell of smoke and the taste of charcoal.
Oakvale was burning, and all he could do was watch, as if he had no control over his own body. He could see her, trying to protect the children as they screamed in terror. She looked at him, and he knew in that moment that she knew what he had done. It was clear in her face, and for just a moment, the world stood still, everything else lost in that last look shared between them before her soul was torn from her body in that thick blackness, not even giving her time to scream.
“No…” He heard a voice shout out, realising it was his own, breaking from the spell that had held him to the ground and running to her body, falling to his knees beside her. “No! I didn’t ask for this. Maria! I didn’t agree to this!”
Tangled in the bed sheets and mumbling incoherently, Reaver sat up abruptly, a yell dying on his lips. One hand over his heart, he gripped the fabric of the shirt he wore and shut his eyes, trying to calm his racing pulse. That dream again. How many lifetimes did he have to lead before he was rid of it? How many more people did he have to kill, how much more blood did he have to have on his hands before he was finally free from the scene that had been emblazoned on his mind for the past two centuries? The banshee had left him weak, he realised, and he didn’t much care for it.
“That looked like quite a nightmare.” He heard a vaguely amused voice say from the far corner of the room. Dishevelled, wearing someone else’s clothes and most definitely not looking his best had not been how he had wanted to face the man, but that couldn’t be helped now. Glancing darkly to the source of the voice he snorted derisively and shook his head, pushing one hand through his hair, trying to regain some sense of order and realising quite quickly that he was in dire need of a bath.
“That is hardly any of your concern, hero.” The title was spoken with distain and to his irritation, Sparrow laughed.
“Not if you don’t want it to be, hero,” he replied. Reaver rolled his eyes.
“I would not claim the title of ‘hero’. I wouldn’t lower myself to that.” He watched the man with narrowed eyes as he got to his feet and approached, though he kept his distance, moving around the foot of the bed, taking a seat on a chair nearer to the door. His gaze was searching, calculating, and Reaver hated him for it.
“No, of course not. Only to save your own skin, hm, Reaver?”
No response. Reaver didn’t look away, holding the other’s gaze defiantly. It only seemed to strengthen Sparrow’s humour and he watched him for a while before letting out a soft laugh, finally moving over to Reaver, sitting on the bed beside him.
“Of course, King of Thieves is a far more admirable title.” Sparrow leaned back, looking momentarily smug, and Reaver scowled, finally looking away. Sparrow was a man who was near impossible for Reaver to argue with. He was a different kind to the people he normally saw – whores, contract killers, bandits, pirates – no. This one had a brain, a good head on his shoulders and perhaps if he were in better humour Reaver would engage him in a battle of wits.
“You could at least thank me,” he said then, raising one blonde eyebrow. Reaver frowned.
“For what?” The frown deepened as Sparrow laughed again, though there was a touch of disbelief in it this time.
“I saved your miserable life, Reaver. You were about to become a banshee’s next meal. If it hadn’t been for Rip-“
“Who in Skorm’s name is ‘Rip’?”
“My dog,” Sparrow responded, as if Reaver ought to have known that. “If it hadn’t been for Rip you’d be dead right now, and for someone who’s spent the last few centuries avoiding death, that doesn’t seem the best outcome.”
Reaver had to admit that the man had a point there, and he felt goosebumps rise over his skin as he remembered the blind terror that had come with being faced with that creature. Yes, the man was right – he would be dead if it hadn’t been for him, but this was Reaver, and he did not admit weakness.
“Hmph. I could have made it out of there.”
“Reaver…” That disbelief was clear now as Sparrow went on. “I know you’re a proud man, but there is a point where pride becomes foolish. You were unconscious when I found you. I had to carry you back here.”
Silence. Reaver looked down at his hands, knowing that Sparrow was right, and that all he wanted was a simple ‘thank you’, not any amount of grovelling or proclamations of owing a life-debt. A simple ‘thank you’…
“And you expect my gratitude in response? Alright then, I won’t kill you. Yet.”
He glanced up to find Sparrow smiling, like that had been the answer he had expected and of course it had, and Reaver felt an overwhelming urge to just hit the man. Forget the gun, forget swordplay, he could fight dirty if he wanted to. Instead, though, he sat and fumed silently. There was something so disheartening about being beaten by someone about one tenth of your age.
“What were you planning to kill me with? You don’t have your gun,” Sparrow quipped, idly toying with a loose end of thread on his jacket.
“What would you know about that?”
“I found it. Clearly the bandits who attacked you didn’t know its worth. When you want it back, I’ll be in the study.”
Leaving the man growing more and more infuriated, Sparrow stood up and headed for the door. As he reached it, the elderly man who had checked in before opened it and stepped back to let him out. The Bowerstone Hero paused, and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Reaver?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve probably guessed by now, but I own Bloodstone Manor. I look forward to receiving your challenge on that account.”
He hadn’t been able to sleep after that, his mind too full of what Sparrow had said and the re-emergence of those old memories. It was harder than usual to hold them back and he found himself going over and over those same few minutes, seeing that fear on his lover’s face the moment before she died. Before she was murdered. His strength came back slowly over the next couple of days, and despite his scathing attitude towards the elderly servant whose name, he soon learned, though never used, was Max, the man never once raised his voice, nor treated the pirate with anything but respect. Sincere respect was something that Reaver found he had become unused to, and soon the biting comments faded, a simple nod all the response he gave each time he was brought a meal. He could almost think, though, that Sparrow was sending this man to him on purpose – after all, he must have had younger servants in his employ, ones that would be far more susceptible to Reaver’s charm.
When he felt he was fit to get out of that room he rose to find that the clothes he had left behind were being kept in this room. Thoughtful. Dressing, he left and made his way through the house, to the study, where he found Sparrow sat, waiting, with a glass of brandy. He showed no surprise at the pirate’s sudden arrival, instead inclining his head and offering the man a seat. It was perhaps the feeling of being taken aback that made Reaver sit down without question, watching as a second glass was poured and pushed towards him. Sparrow cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, pushing his chair out a little and opening one of the desk drawers. Reaver’s gaze followed his hand as he drew it back, his beloved Dragonstomper .48 held in those sword-scarred fingers. It was with utmost care that Sparrow placed the gun on the table, and sat back, making himself comfortable in the high, wing-backed chair.
“I believe we have some things to discuss,” he went on. “About your house-“
Reaver was out of the chair, gun in hand, the barrel pressed solidly to the side of Sparrow’s head. The pirate smirked and rested his free hand on the desk, tapping his fingers on the polished wood.
“Ah yes,” he murmured. “About the house. I do recall I left a note detailing precisely what I would do with the person who bought it.”
“That’s right, you did.” Unruffled, Sparrow moved his head enough for those light blue eyes to meet Reaver’s, and the pirate faltered, frowning slightly. Not many men could take a gun pointed at their head without showing some kind of fear, and those that did were usually too drunk or too stupid to realise the danger they were in. Since Sparrow was neither drunk, nor stupid, Reaver could only surmise that he simply wasn’t afraid. Sensing his hesitation, Sparrow simply raised his hand and pushed the gun aside, getting to his feet.
“Come with me,” Sparrow told him briskly, turning his back on Reaver to head for the door.
“I don’t think so,” the pirate replied. “While I do want my house back, I would really rather not have to shoot you. Blood is a terrible thing to try and get out of wooden floors, and the smell tends to linger…”
Sparrow stopped, though he didn’t turn around, and shook his head, one hand lifting and a fireball sparking in his hand. Narrowing his eyes, the King of Thieves kept the gun pointed at him, watching him carefully as he glanced back.
“I’m sure. I have highly trained Will abilities and could set you on fire before you could pull the trigger. I think I win this one. Come along.”
Beaten yet again and not enjoying one moment of it, Reaver growled under his breath and followed, trailing Sparrow to one of the bedrooms in the back of the house. As soon as he realised where they were going, he smirked and let out a soft chuckle.
“Now, hero, if I’d known that this was what you were after I wouldn’t have put up such a fight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” was the reply after a few moments of silence. “There’s something I need to show you.”
“I bet there is.”
He couldn’t see the man’s face but he felt him roll his eyes, and as they reached the door Sparrow turned and fixed him with a stony look.
“Could you get your mind off sex for five minutes and pay attention? I’m sure there are plenty of whores in town who will be overjoyed to see you.”
“Sounds like someone hasn’t gotten laid in a while,” Reaver shot back, immediately finding himself pinned to the wall with a strong forearm pressing against his throat. He had never had the pleasure of experiencing Sparrow’s temper and he made a mental note to avoid it in future as the man spoke, his voice harsh.
“I lost my wife. I sacrificed her, and my two children, all for the good of Albion, for the right reasons. Can you claim the same, Reaver? I would appreciate no further references of that kind. At least have some respect for the dead if you have none for the living.”
Obviously he didn’t expect Reaver to verbally agree, so he moved away without waiting for an answer, leaving Reaver slightly stunned, rubbing his throat, thinking of the kinds of things he would do to Sparrow if he bruised and trying to ignore those words that spiked an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. Glaring at the man’s back he followed him into the room, pausing by the door as a cupboard was opened, and an ornament brought out. Sparrow turned, holding the object in his hands, and Reaver first flushed pink then paled, gun still raised as he closed the distance between them.
It was a pretty thing, glass, a tiny model village inside. Reaver looked at it for a long while, gaze flicking over the tiny houses and perfectly made wooden bridge, then he met Sparrow’s eyes.
“Just what is the meaning of this, Sparrow?”
“You know exactly what this is, don’t you?”
Reaver stepped back, shaking his head in immediate denial. The pirates action’s spoke more than words, however, and he was immediately defensive as Sparrow brought the glass ball closer, allowing him to clearly see the intricate town trapped inside. Again, he shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the trinket and shrugging slightly.
“I can’t say I’ve seen it before,” he said. Sparrow snorted, and turned away, placing the snow globe back in the cupboard, picking something else up that he shoved into Reaver’s spare hand. He felt his skin prickle, and he knew what it was, not having to look down to see the Dark Seal.
“I found that outside the Shadow Court, just before I came across you. It would seem that you got your sacrifice after all, Reaver. And you know precisely what that snow globe is, because you put them there. That was the curse of the Court. No matter, though. They’re at rest now, I saw to that.”
Silent, or perhaps speechless, Reaver stared at him, then slowly holstered his gun, put his back to the hero, and walked out. On his way back down the hall he passed Sparrow’s dog, who did an abrupt u-turn and trailed after the gunslinger, panting cheerfully.
“Tell me… Rip,” Reaver said once he had put enough distance between himself and that room. “Is Sparrow always so… complicated, or is today a special occasion?”
Tags: fable 2, Fanfiction, reaver, sparrow