Alright, this is my first Reaver fanfiction! I'm working on another as we speak but this one is very different from that. Action! Yeeeeeeaaaaaah. Please rate and review, pretty please! Well, anyway, I hope you enjoy! I apologize for any grammatical errors. I do not own Fable or any of its characters (I wish I did...).

Oh! Also, anything you read in ( ), read it as if Reaver is actually telling you. They're kinda like thoughts, but then again, they are not... It's weird... Yeah...

One more thing! This story does have a theme song. Sue me, I like music... But the theme song if you want to know is Hurt by Nine Inch Nails. Each chapter will have a song too! This chapter's song is Hurricane by Panic! At the Disco! Enjoy!

Villain

~o~

He reached out, long fingers stretching, gently brushing against its jagged edge. He caressed it, loved it, and only smiled as it drew a long taste of blood from the tip of his index finger. The fat bead glistened so perfectly under the dim candle light, the most vivid shade of red. It grew long under its own weight and fell, audibly landing on his pant, throwing lines of life and staining the dark material. His lips parted. "What a waste..." whispered he in his beautiful voice. Eyes, both black as night but clear as an early morning sky, flashed cunningly, their shade of blue nearly iridescent. All around, a thousand dancing shadows sang their praise, a silent chorus of voices rising and falling around him like a sea. He opened his arms to them. He welcomed them into his soul. This was his fate, his chosen path. An eternity of beauty and youth. He smiled so sweetly as the shadows scrambled for a scrap of his being. It hardly seemed a fair trade... He watched his reflection in the broken mirror as he was consumed beneath the rising tide of darkness.

Ch. 1

A Monster's Dance

It was a fine, salty day in the port town of Bloodstone. The skies were clear and brisk, the surf only mildly butted its head against the wharf, and mobs of people swarmed every which way, desperately trying to enjoy this rare sunny day. He watched them with a vague sense of disgust, like watching pigs wallow in their filth. Did they honestly think themselves happy? Hardly a handful out of the entire lot had more than a few coins to spare and none held any glimmer of beauty but there they were, smiling and chatting and buying and living life. Reaver sneered. What gave them reason to be so happy? It made no sense to him. Now he on the other hand, he was happy. A quick glance around could prove that, he was surrounded by opulence, his mansion practically oozing class and charm, despite the awful things that happened behind its deep mahogany walls and lush tapestries. He had wit, dashing good looks (the kind that would make anybody weak in the knees, he might add), wealth, and the Hero status didn't hurt, though he could hardly be considered anything close to a hero. He was happy. What did they have to be so peachy about? Poor, mindless slobs. He turned away from the window and strode back to his bed, where a maid had quietly laid out the day's outfit while he wasn't looking. What a shame. He had hoped she would break something, trip and snag his new rug, anything that would give him an excuse to kill her, but the girl was silent as a mouse and he only glimpsed her departing figure as the door slid closed. He was in a mood. He couldn't quite place what sort of mood yet, but it was indeed a mood and something about holding his prized pistol to someone's temple and watching them beg almost always made him feel better. With a disappointed sigh, he dressed. Despite what the masses saw of him, Reaver actually didn't dress so flamboyantly as they thought. It was a chore, all those buckles and ties and maids surrounding his nude body, helping him in and out of various articles of clothing, their blushing faces barely concealing their amazement... He grinned. Donning the simple white chemise, black silk vest (alright, he'll admit, he didn't dress so modestly, the back of the vest was colored a deep red with gold embroidered accents), black trousers and riding boots (his boots were his favorite, even if they were stained with numerous unidentifiable dark marks), Reaver flung open the door and glided out into the grande hall of his lavish estate. Servants scurried back and forth, dodging like roaches into darkened corners to avoid his gaze. "G-Good morning, Master Bloodstone!" Squeaked a young woman at the foot of the stairs. Reaver noticed that every morning he was greeted by a new face; he was beginning to suspect they took turns doing so and today was her's. He might have been angry if it wasn't so amusing. She bowed and held up her hands, proffering a small white envelope with a black seal. "T-t-this c-came for you, sir." Reaver yawned, lazily scanning the room before descending in long, loping steps. The maid quivered as he bent on the stair above her's, gently taking her hand in his. "My deepest thanks, ma belle." He purred, slipping the note into his vest while sneakily patting her rump. The noises these women make! Her eyes rolled back in her pretty little head and all the air came whooshing out from her lungs so quickly, she promptly fainted. Two servants came rushing forward and caught her with expertise delicacy. They obviously knew the order around here. Reaver smiled. Too easy. He snapped his fingers, watching as his staff quickly gathered around the staircase, all watching with wide fearful eyes. "I expect everything to be in order by the time I return," he said with a pleasant flair, accepting the coat another maid held out. Silence. Nervous shuffling. The two servants were fanning their aprons over his fainted maid's face. Reaver yawned. "Well, you know what to do. Nobody is to slack off, no breaks, no breathers, yada yada yada." He took a step, but instead jumped the last stair and landed before them with a loud thwack of expensive loafers on marble. The collective gasp that followed made him chuckle. "You there!" He flung a finger (of doom) at the crowd. It automatically parted, leaving a lone girl standing under his scrutiny. She whimpered. Reaver made a short, slow once around, inspecting her up and down, tutting. He stopped in front of her. "Hand."

She did as she was told, holding out a tiny white palm. "Shoot anyone who disobeys. I'll be expecting at least three," and he slapped a pistol (he was quite adept at hiding weapons on his person) in her fingers. He waited for her to beg, to cry, to annoy him further. His finger twitched around his hidden trigger. But she only nodded, holding the gun to her chest and crawling back into the mass. Reaver huffed. "Well then." He swept to the already opened front door, peering up into the sky with a faint scowl. He glanced back at his staff. A pause. "What do you say...?"

"Have a wonderful day, Master Bloodstone, it's a pleasure working for you!"

The (overly) enthusiastic reply was enough to send him off with a laugh and as he stepped out into the sun, he whispered "It's good to be the King."

He stopped at the edge of the wharf, away from the bustling main street. Sea breezes brought the smell of nostalgia and he glanced over to swaying galleons on the horizon. His sat depressingly unused in a hidden cove around the right side of the port, gathering dust and grime. He growled, tapping his foot. For five years he had been landlocked. Five years. The Pirate King sat on the disgusting dirt that was this rathole town and could only watch as the ships sailed by, grudgingly envious. But why he couldn't open his sails once again was a perfectly valid reason to stay away from any large body of water. Samarkand may be a place of uninhibited people, but law (he had learned the hard way) was still enforced. He had a hefty bounty currently on his head and quite frequently he had seen the massive prison ships from Samarkand's capital port stalking the waters. Luckily for him, they didn't have the authority to come ashore and thus he chose to stay on the rotting turf. It didn't mean he had to like it though... He sniffed, haughtily turning away from the waters. The people of Bloodstone continued on with their business but a slow sense of apprehension had settled over their heads. They weren't as loud, only smiling when it was downright nessacary, even the children hung back around their parents' knees, casting dodgy glances at the man standing on the wharf. Reaver could feel their eyes and a flick of annoyance caused his hand to move, pulling back on the butt of his pistol hidden just around his hip. Why was everybody being so good today? It was like they were trying not to get killed! A sudden relization hit him and his eyes grew wide. They were being so good because they didn't want a bullet in their brain! Ha! And here he thought they hated their miserable lives so much they actually planned to be shot by none other than him. Hm. Reaver mulled this over for a moment before chuckling and pushing away his hair with a flourish. It always did amuse him when he pretended to be human. He knew what those pathetic creatures thought of him, he knew their fear and he knew they knew his temper. Well, he didn't really have a temper, just a general disregard for life. His mind suddenly snapped back to the note tucked away at his breast. The black seal felt hot, almost like it were still drying. Reaver swallowed but made no move to inspect it. He patted the spot and walked on. Not again. I'm busy. He told himself.

Two hours later, Reaver found himself sulking in the corner table of the tavern, idly tilting his glass of wine and watching the opaque liquid spill across the wood, which greedily soaked it up. All around him, people danced and sang, tankards clanking together in cheer. Prostitutes glided as gracefully as they could from table to table, stopping when they got wolfish (mostly toothless) grins from the drunkards. Someone sang an old sailing tune up on the second floor and soon everybody was joining in. Reaver sank further into his corner. He found he was quite good at concealing himself when he wanted, the shadows clinging to him like a cloak. Not exactly surprising, considering his little "deal". Their whispers were barely heard beneath the roar of the tavern and he was thankful for that. He didn't feel like dealing with their sweet nothings right now. He took a sip, dragging a finger around the rim of the glass and listened to the soft chime. His thoughts began to wander...

They're getting persistent. Fourth letter this week. I'm running out of servants, people are starting to suspect me. Not good. Oh well... But why? I've held my end of the deal, only once did I slip.

He grimaced at the memory.

Why do they pester me so?

Another sip.

Perhaps... Perhaps it's finally... No. No. That couldn't happen. Not so soon.

Reaver shook his head, sighing into the glass as he downed the last of his liquor. He shouldn't be troubling himself with such depressing thoughts while a party was being arranged just a few blocks away. He smiled and checked the lowering sun; an hour before sunset. Yes, he should be planning on what wines to drink, what stock-holders to woo (maybe even their wives...), and generally living life the way he deemed best. In the moment. Reaver began to plan what outfi-

Click.

The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against his skull. The tavern went silent and all eyes turned in unison towards the sound, staring blankly at the hooded figure (when did that get there?) now holding hostage their unofficial mayor. "My, my, my..." he whispered. The tension piled itself high and not a soul moved. You could have heard a pin drop...or a gun shot. The hood, which was large enough to hide whatever face lurked within, took a step forward, shoving the gun rudely against his temple. Reaver chuckled, eyes hard like stone. And suddenly, he remembered his Hero heritage.

His hand flew, faster than the eye could register, and gripped the hand holding the gun, pulling hard while planting his feet and shoving against the table. The hood was dragged across the splintered top and flipped, landing on its back. The table crashed into three others, throwing them sideways to create a sort or ring. Reaver was quick, moving behind the figure and twisting its wrist. A cry, indistinguishable in gender. But just as fast as he, and with a growl, the hood spun, rearing its feet square in his chest and pushing. He let loose his hold, switching to the ankles and grunting as the air was shoved out of him. He snarled when strands of hair fell in his eyes. Bending its legs, the hood allowed him within reaching distance of its person but gave him no time to do so. With a powerful thrust, Reaver was thrown against the bar.

Black.

Gray...

Blotchy figures...

Voices...

Clarity.

He snapped back to reality. "That...was a good hit!" He called, breathlessly. The hood was now standing, hunched slightly, but otherwise appeared unhurt. Reaver coughed. His lungs ached and a blinding pain radiated through his lower spin. The bar-man nervously handed him a damp cloth. He took it (rather gratefully, he thought) and dabbed at the blood trickling from his mouth. A low murmur ran through the tavern. Had their oppressive ruler finally been bested? Reaver shot them a silencing glare. "A good hit. Yes." He brushed the dust from his vest, taking a few painful steps forward. He plastered on a wide smile, doing his very best to hide any weakness. He put a slight swagger (well, a little more swagger) into his step to hide the growing limp. The hood watched placidly. "Not many people can boast that sort of power." Reaver continued, edging closer and closer. "In fact, I know of only two." He kicked away a stray chair. "One, a hulk of a woman by the name of Hammer. But she is currently studying," he said this rather dubiously, "with the warrior monks far to the north. No reason to pay little old me a visit." He came to stand in front of the hood, looking down on it with a hateful sneer. "And the other. The other is a wild hooligan who, for the last ten years, has been the thorn in my side and only recently did I begin to think that I had finally been rid of her."

He leaned forward. "Sparrow. You have been a very bad girl."

The hood fell to reveal a (seemingly) young woman, chocolate brown eyes boring into his. Sparrow tilted her head. "Hello Reaver." She reached up and wiped a stray drop of blood from his lip. "You missed me," she added with a smile and a flip of her hair, taking a seat at the only remaining table. Reaver only quirked a brow. "Indeed."

"Really?"

"Yes. Garth sends his love."

Sparrow fixed him with an evil grin. Reaver swallowed the lump of shock and outrage that had formed in his throat over the last thirty minutes, working his mouth. I thought I had done away with that glowing bafoon! How did I miss!?

(ah, yes, a quick recap. After the Spire incident and Reaver's little expedition to Samarkand, his magical ally's homeland, the pirate king soon found himself bored and decided to leave the island paradise, incidentally killing Garth, or so he thought, in the process. What, the man was in his way!)

"Of course he does." He finally managed to grind out. Apparently in the years that had followed Garth's "death", Sparrow had apprenticed herself under the Mage. One result of this was that they had found a way to revert age, much like he had, except less costly and without becoming "a pawn to the Shadow Court", as she had so lovingly put it. I am no pawn... He thought sullenly. But he couldn't deny her obvious enhanced Will power. Lines of blue tattooed her cheeks, shimmering in the dying light and an aura of magic flickered in and out of his vision, there but not there. Sparrow had never held any interest for Strength or Skill (much to his dismay. It might have been...pleasant, having someone under his tutelage), but Will came so naturally to her, so easily, it wasn't a surprise she had wished to study with Garth. As much of a pain as she was, Sparrow was still a rather attractive woman. How old would she be now? Early forties, late thirties? Easily 23. He gave her an appreciative once-over when she turned her head. He made a mental list. Waist length brown hair that had the cutest curl to it at the ends, a well developed, shapely figure, a heart shaped face, and... her eyes. He never cared to look at eyes, preferring the many other assets of the body, but her's were different. They were old, but young. Alive, yet dead. Much like his. In away, he guessed, he connected with her on that. Everything else... Not so much. Reaver chuckled to himself. It's why he allowed her to live, they had the most interesting arguments. But tonight, amongst the sounds of (now subdued) revelry and while she sat only inches away, her blouse gapped just enough to let the mind wander, he knew something was wrong. The slow drawl in her voice, the way she held her body. Sparrow could've passed for a man any other day of the week, but now she was acting like...well, like a girl. She flirted and drank and cast him long, sideways glances. Perhaps she had just had a change of heart. Maybe the years under Garth's wing had something to do with it (he didn't believe that one for a second). Whatever it was, it unsettled him. The untouchable suddenly seemed within reach and he didn't know what to do, planning too much on the conquest and not the prize. Reaver's thoughts, again, ran away with him for a moment. He couldn't deny it, he had been trying (and for the most part, failing) to capture the wild Sparrow for some time now, a chase he began within moments of meeting her. She was aloof and manish and everything in him screamed to hunt her down and make her realize that he was the greatest thing she would ever know. It goes without saying, all past attempts had ended in blood, harsh words, and once, a week spent in the infirmary. What made her so immune to his charm? In all his years, she was the first woman to ever deny him, to actually call him on his faults (few as they were) and to scoff in the face of death that so paralleled his own. It was infuriating. Baffling. Intriguing. Reaver sighed. And even though it pricked a cautious nerve in him, he decided to ignore it, finally finding something enjoyable in this moody day. "You know, I'm hosting a party this evening..." he said with a smile.