A/N: This idea, like most of my good ideas, came to me at 1 am and demanded to be written. Like it? Don't? Review and tell me why.

Disclaimer: Fable is Lionhead Studio's. I'm just playing around with it.

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The Hero stared down at the sword clenched in his fist. The sword for which Jack of Blades had put him through so much grief: the Sword of Aeons. It glowed and sparked, a coruscating light show winding its way up and down the blade. And he had a decision to make.

His sister Theresa had given him an ultimatum; throw away the sword and all the power it represented, or kill her to keep it. She wouldn't accept any other outcome. And so he did what any man would do when presented with the choice of ultimate power...

He waffled.

With the Sword of Aeons in his grip, none would oppose him. He could feel the immense power of it; with it, he knew that he could bring order to the entire world of Albion. Hell, he could remake the world into the image of his ideal. And all it would cost him was a single act of murder, the death of his last blood-kin, who he had devoted his life to rescuing.

His Seeress sister smiled at him, the cockeyed smile she'd adopted from her time as the second-in-command of the notorious bandit boss Twinblade. "Having trouble deciding? Let me help you out, brother dear." She placed both palms against his face, and drew him down so she could see him eye-to-eye. Well... eye-to-blindfold, anyhow. As he stared at her, not attempting to break free, she reached out and enveloped him with her power, the odd magic unique to their bloodline that he'd never completely understood.

Reality shifted, tilting on its axis. Things blurred and spun, like he was on the third day of a week-long drinking binge. He closed his eyes, trying to find his balance as the world turned inside out. Gradually, he steadied. The ground under his feet stopped feeling as if it were going to rebel and toss him into space. He became aware that Theresa was no longer holding him, and he opened his eyes.

What met his gaze was something about as far from what he expected as it was possible to be. This was not the ruined guildhall, and the fluctuating portal of writhing energy that he'd been standing on the precipice of. Instead, it was a forest, the leaves turned the red and gold of autumn. It rather reminded him of Orchard Farm, and his first big mission that pit him against Whisper.

But there was something odd about this yellow wood. It seemed unreal, somehow. As if it were a picture out of a storybook, and not Albion as he knew it at all. He pondered the oddness for a time, painfully aware that this was Theresa's area of expertise, not his. If you wanted a monster slain, he was the one to call. Puzzles were more up his sister's alley.

Gradually, he became aware of two figures standing a ways off. Their features were oddly hazy, as though a localized fog had sprung up, just for them.

He walked towards them, gradually closing the gap. As he did so, their forms became more distinct, until finally, he came to a stop. "Who..." He swallowed. "Who are you?"

The figure on the left smiled at him warmly. He was a white-haired man with a truly grand mustache, old but in excellent shape. He wore platemail so bright it seemed to sparkle, even in the dim light filtering through the dense autumn foliage. He was leaning on a gold-banded club nearly as tall as he was that pulsated with a silver light. Butterflies danced and spun around him, and his bright blue eyes showed a man both incredibly wise and completely at peace with himself. As he turned to regard the displaced Hero, a halo of ethereal light encircled his head.

"I am called Paladin. The disciple of Avo and protector of the innocent. Evil will not stand as long as I exist."

The other figure was the shadow to Paladin's light. He seemed swathed in a darkness that had little to do with his dark red garments. Over his shoulder was a black bow of twisted design, dominated by a single ruby-red eye. His face was bone-white, and small horns protruded from his shaven head. A halo of flies buzzed around him, and he gave off a red miasma that even at this distance felt like evil intent made solid. His lips were twisted in a cruel smirk, and the devil danced in his eyes.

"I am the Necromancer. Skorm's apprentice. Listen to me, kid, and you'll go far," he said persuasively. "Power is the only true commodity in this world. And if you have to kill or betray a few people along the way to get what you want, well..." he grinned. "You know what they say: can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

The Hero licked his lips. "What is this place?"

Paladin shook his head and told him, "A place given form by the combination of Theresa's magic and your own. But that isn't important right now. What's important is what you're doing here." The Necromancer butted in with, "You're here to make a choice, kid."

Paladin frowned at the embodiment of evil, but nodded agreement. "We are could-haves and should-haves and might-have-beens. And there are many of us in this place."

He was apparently still looking bewildered, because the Necromancer said, "We're you. Or rather, we are what you have been and are and might become." There was a strong undertone of 'duh, idiot' in his voice.

"Go," commanded the old man. "See what there is to see, and learn what you may."

With that, they each placed a hand on one of his arms and propelled him forward. And when he looked back, they were gone.