Author's Notes: Another Fable 2 fanfiction to enter the fray. This is set AFTER the main quest of the game, so beware of spoilers.

This will be quite a long story; the chapters will seem short - that way, I can update more often. I'm still undecided on a pairing (if there will be any at all) - Garth, Reaver, or an OC? Let me know of your thoughts!

Disclaimer: Fable 2 belongs to it's respectful owners. The song 'Los', of which this story was inspired by, belongs of course to the brilliant band 'Rammstein'. I only own my take on Sparrow, any original characters and my theories of Necromancy in Albion.

CHAPTER ONE

She had no name.

Perhaps she did, long ago. Before the cold, the dark, the hunger, in those murky years of her early childhood. Perhaps Rose had called her by it, before she had found her younger sister fussing over that tiny bird that hopped so merrily on the ledge looking out at Castle Fairfax. Perhaps, perhaps she would one day remember it. Before Sparrow, before Lionheart.

It hadn't mattered then; life was hard enough without added complications. Scrabbling for breadcrumbs on the pavement, standing underneath the rain for a wash – there had been no need for names. You didn't need a name to find food. You didn't need a name to survive winter's frost. Rose didn't need a name when she was shot and bled to death on the ground. Sparrow didn't need a name when she died for the first time.

Sparrow was to be remembered for many things in the future - the purification of the wellspring in the Temple of Light, the conquering of the dreaded Crucible, and most notably the defeat of Lucien Fairfax and the ruthless soldiers of the Tattered Spire. Over the years, the details grew murky, stretched and warped by whispers of her less noble pursuits, her selfish goals. Of how she let thousands of innocents remain dead, even when she had the means of bringing them back. Of how she used one of the darkest aspects of magic known to man. Of how she was, in the end, human.

She was shameless. She was hopeless.

She was nameless.

-0-

Her story begins a month after the death of Lucien Fairfax.

It begins with Sam the bandit staring into the face of a snarling dog.

He was pressed against one of the seats of the carriage, squashed between worn leather and a vicious animal. Dark brown eyes, eyes that would normally look kind and warm, were contorted in canine rage, splitting the bullet-shaped scar above the creature's eyebrow. Sharp teeth were bared scant inches from his nose, and he could feel slobber dribble down his chin and neck.

He tried to reach for his trusty sword – one that had seen years of cutting off grandmother's heads, but the mutt had knocked it to the floor when he had entered the carriage. With the finesse of a sailor, Sam swore until his face was blue, feeling a lethal jaw drift closer every passing second. The animal was much stronger than he looked, and smart too. He had waited until Sam was preoccupied with the other occupant of the carriage before he leapt.

Desperate, Sam shouted out for help from his comrades, who had taken it upon themselves to deal with the driver of the coach, his valuables and his horses. But his words were drowned out by blood-curdling screams and the sound of gunfire, until they dwindled into whimpers and rasping gasps. What in Albion was happening out there? The commotion outside had become eerily quiet. Sam felt his stomach churn, his bowels turn to water.

Footsteps approached the carriage and the door swung open.

"S'alright Dog, you can get off him now."

The dog yelped happily, scrambling off his chest. For a fraction of a second, Sam was paralysed as air rushed through his lungs and blood pumped around his body.

And then he darted for his wayward sword, screaming.

A boot slammed down on his wrist, snapping the bone. Blinded by pain, he felt a hand grab his hair and force his head back. He blinked tears from his eyes, looking up into the barrel of a pistol, which was aimed at his forehead. There was a laugh, short and dry and completely mirthless.

"Looks like you're the lucky one today, love."

-0-

Sam the bandit was tied to a chair.

He had been gagged, blindfolded and dragged out of the carriage by the scruff of his neck. Desperately, he had tried to struggle, but the cold pressure of a gun to his temple ceased all his efforts. They had only walked a short time before he felt creaky wooden floorboards underneath his feet; roughly, he was pushed onto a chair with his hands tied around the back.

With no warning, the blindfold and gag were ripped from his face, and he squinted in the dying sunlight. When his vision had cleared, he willed himself to look at his captor, trembling.

A fair, graceful knight, with rippling muscles and a sickeningly lovely aura. At least, that was what Sam had been expecting. Or, perhaps, a wrathful monster, clouded in red smoke and dressed in obsidian armour, dragging mutilated corpses behind him.

Instead, it was a woman. Tall and dark haired, she couldn't have been older than thirty. Glowing blue lines patterned her skin, disappearing underneath her coat. A sword hung from a belt on her waist. Anxiously, Sam moved his eyes to her face, and started when he met her eyes. They were a bright viridian green, and were so intense and sharp that he had to look away. She looked like someone who not only could kill him, but would have no hesitation in doing so.

And by her feet stood that damn dog.

"P-please don't kill me!" He gasped out, "Please! Oh God, please don't! M-my wife and kids-"

"Would probably be better off without you from the looks of it." His captor drawled, hooking her pistol into her belt. She turned that unearthly gaze to him, "Still, I just want to ask you a few things-"

"Anything you want! Just please!"

The woman smiled, or was it a smirk? Either way, Sam felt his heart stop with fright. She looked half-deranged. With long, languid steps, she leaned over him, placing her hands over his own, her face mere centimetres from his. He tried to draw back, but only managed to bang his head on the back of his seat. She was cold, numbingly cold. His eyes flickered to her forehead. There was a round scar, seemingly from a gunshot wound. No one could've survived that.

"You bandits know everything that goes on in Brightwood, right?" A terrified nod, "And I bet you all sit around and brag 'bout the people you've attacked, yeah?"

Sam couldn't speak. He squeaked a 'yes'.

"So," she coiled her hand around his injured wrist, squeezing the bruised flesh, "have there been any strange people wandering around Brightwood lately?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"A man. Tall, thin. Wears a hood. He should be with a young girl. Sound familiar?" Her tone betrayed her frustration. Her patience was running out. Sam swallowed hard, meekly shaking his head. The grip around his wrist tightened. He gasped in pain.

"N-no one! There's been no one l-like that! Just travellers and traders, the usual lot. A l-lot less than usual, actually, 'cos of the h-heroes! Please don't kill me!"

The woman stared at him for a long moment, all traces of that previous amusement gone. Sam gazed back imploringly, trying to find a trace of kindness or empathy within those strange eyes. As the silence stretched on, she leaned back, the wood creaking underneath her feet. The pistol hung at her side, seemingly forgotten. His heart flickered with hope. He wasn't... going to die? He wasn't going to die!

"Thank you!" Tears of joy sprung in his eyes, "Thank yo-"

His words were cut off as a bullet shattered his jaw. Blood splattered the chair.

Sparrow didn't even spare a glance at the dead bandit as she let the door of the abandoned barn swing shut. Just another scumbag. Just another nameless man who had tried to kill her. She slipped her pistol back into it's holster.

Dog bounded up to her, licking her hand as she stroked him behind the ears, light fingers massaging the animal's furry crown. "Thank you for earlier." she gently brushed the scar that marred his eyebrow, similar to the one on her forehead. Both were presents from Lucien weeks before. Both times they should have died. But fate had something else in store for Sparrow, and the hero couldn't bear to live without her precious Dog.

Hammer had a few things to say about that, just before they had departed. The warrior monk couldn't understand why she had given up the opportunity to resurrect the thousands that had perished in the making of the Tattered Spire. It seemed she shared that opinion with the rest of Albion. Despite the fact that Sparrow had saved them all from utter destruction, they still scorned her whenever she ventured back to civilisation. Which wasn't very often. Everyone wanted, expected her to be noble and selfless.

Idiots.

It was a shame that Sparrow and Hammer had parted on bad terms. Despite the larger woman's incessant chattering and her qualms with Sparrow's speciality in necromancy, she had remained a good friend over the years. Perhaps one day in the future, they could meet again and set things right.

She looked up above the treetops to the sky, which was dyed a vibrant magenta. "Time to make camp, don't you think?"

Garth had understood her decision; perhaps because he was older and wiser. The mage had always seemed to see right through her, where no one else would bother looking. He had left for Samarkand with a promise to meet her again in the future.

Reaver, of course, couldn't care less if it didn't affect him. It was a good job the slimy git had left with Garth, otherwise Sparrow would've put a bullet through his head. He had attempted to betray her twice, nearly turned her into a decrepit old woman and had stolen the revenge she had yearned for twenty years. He better be able to duck quick the next time I see him.

A campfire now burned in a small alcove within the forest. Sighing heavily, she dropped her saddlebags to the floor and settled beside the flames, Dog rushing for her lap. She slipped off her belt and scabbard, lying the sheathed weapon next to her stretched body. Chewing on a piece of bread and handing Dog a treat, she dug into the pocket of her coat with one hand, drawing out a letter.

It was an incredible lack of foresight on her part when she only expected Dog to come back to life.

Dear Sparrow, it read, I woke up today in such a peculiar place. It's like a great big forest, with lots and lots of trees that go on forever...

"Apparently not any in Albion."

I was scared at first because I couldn't find you, but there's someone here who says he knows us, says he knows our family. He told me his name, but I keep forgetting it. Weird. I think he's a king or something. He's very thin and wears a hood and looks scary, but he's nice and I feel safe with him here. I hope you're okay Little Sparrow. Somehow I know that it's all going to be alright, and we'll be together again one day. He promised me.

"Who promised you?" The letter crinkled under her vice-like grip, "Who is he?"

Love,
Rose

"Rose." She whispered. Rose. The same Rose who knew her name. The same Rose who had perished all those years ago.

Rose, who's dying scream still haunted her little sister's dreams even now.

Ever since she had received the letter, Sparrow had done nothing, thought of nothing else besides finding her sister. She had spent weeks crawling through the forests of Albion, trying to find any trace. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. What if Rose was in danger? What if she was held hostage by this mysterious man? The possibilities were endless, and it only served to fuel Sparrow's determination. This was a precious chance to be reunited with her only family, to put right the events of that terrible night twenty years ago.

Plagued by those thoughts, Sparrow stood and extinguished the flame, before settling down beside Dog and prepared for another restless night.