A/N: A story I'd started quite a while ago and only just rediscovered. What's written of the second chapter will be posted, just for the sake of it being there, but it is incomplete and will remain as such unless I find there is any interest in this story. Ta-ta.

Warnings: Evil!Sparrow swearing, vague sexual references, and incompleteness. Un-beta'd.

I don't remember their names anymore.

It's been bothering me for some time now. I feel, feel as if something very important has been robbed from my memory. Maybe the disobedience in the Spire is having more long-term effects than had been anticipated. The other day, I tried to call on Theresa for help, to ask her why I couldn't remember these things, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out why there was no ghostly presence in my skull. I panicked. But after a while, I realized: I haven't been able to talk to her since we all parted ways, have I? Of course not. She couldn't reach me in the Spire, why should it be any different now? It's astonishing what little things come back to me, and what else stays away. Almost... Well, I'm not quite sure. I want to say "endearing", but of what? I have to be loosing my mind.

Berice. Bernie. Beverly. Bee ee, it started with that. Had an ell, too, and an arr. Be-, Beryl? Beryl, that sounds familiar. Easy on the tongue, I remember that. Yes, Beryl must have been her name.

Do you know why I married her? I felt guilty. That's clear as day, the guilt- of seeing my home, our home, my sister's and I, our old home- of seeing it in an even worse state then when I'd left it. Theresa said something about choices, right? About how they effect the outcome of the future? It must have been with those arrest warrants. I gave them to the man that propositioned my sister. I don't remember why I gave them to him; it's all so blurry. But I remember the disgust, the resentment I felt towards him. Maybe I'd hoped he'd leave us alone for I while. I didn't know that music box would actually be of any use. I didn't know what would come to transpire. No one could. Except, perhaps, for that damned blind seerest.

When I came back to Bowerstone Old Town, and saw the state it was in, I was in shock. I couldn't move. And that man, he came up to me, told me what happened- I wanted to slit his throat, punch him in his smug, gap-toothed grin, kill him for the appreciation he showed me for helping him build this. There was an overweight whore in the background, fuzzy lip frowning as she repositioned the constricting pieces of string that neglected her lumpy rolls of body fat. I remember the nauseating discomfort. And the anger. And the disgust. But most of all, the guilt.

Later on, I'd find a decent maid and bring her over to the the Bowerstone Market, buy her the Silk Moon, marry her quickly. She'd be happy there, no matter what I brought her. It was so much better than Old Town. And she didn't even seem to mind that I had no romantic interests in her. She realized that she'd be used, but she also seemed to realize that it was, by far, a better life than she would ever live in her home.

After that, I'd try my best to stay away from Old Town, as much as I could.

That was Beryl. Beryl, not Berice, not Bernie- Beryl. She was my old stability back then, I should remember her. But I never loved her. So maybe it's okay if I forget.

I don't forget the kids, though.

I remember, we had a few. Two. No, not two, no- three. We had three kids. Two boys and one girl. Yes, very good. I don't remember their names, though. I think the youngest was Matt, but I can't be sure. The first was a girl. Two more boys. The last one Matt.

I'd wanted a boy the first time. Beryl wanted a girl. Maybe she got her choice because they would be her children. She'd take care of 'em- I'd be away. I'd only wanted children for the sake of having children. If I'd never enjoy sex with my wife, at least I'd get some kids for the bloodline out of it.

I was disappointed with the girl. Even so, I'd stayed with her for the majority of her first year. It was just after that I went away, I think- to the Spire. That must be it, because the next memories I have of her are of a ten-year-old girl. She was a terror. The town crier, he said she was a darling. The next month, he was telling me what a brat she was when I was away. I'd laughed. (At least, I think I did. I don't find it funny now, but I think I did then.)

The Spire wrecked me. It took a lot of recuperation after that, but Theresa only gave me a few weeks of peace. There was work to be done. I couldn't be allowed to heal while Lucien was killing the world.

I think we made our second child, around then. Beryl was trying to heal me and I was disgusted with her (why are you touching me why are you it's so suffocating leave me alone this isn't welcome STOP IT oh shit I'm sorry I didn't mean to hit you really really I'm sorry I swear don't cry I know I'm sorry) for trying to lay with me, but after a while, I gave in, because waiting for all those years alone, raising the child of your unrequited love- it must have been hard. I let her take me and I hardly even felt it. Then suddenly, boom, there was a child, and she was so happy and I didn't even know what to do with myself (oh does the old crib would it work is it too old maybe maybe oh I have to raise the budget someone remind me to do that what will it be).

It was a boy, and I was absolutely beside myself with joy. My love for either of the girls dwarfed considerably in the troll-like size of my adoration for the boy. He was perfect. I could see the future in his eyes and oh my lord how I loved him.

When the two weeks were up, I started on my quest for the Thief. Thief, Thief, Reaver. Reaver, oh yes right, the Thief, Reaver. Thinking of him stirs something strange inside me. I don't think I'll dwell on it now.

After he'd sent me away to gain more renown ("oh you minx"), I'd touched base to check on my boy after an unpleasant (but very financially fortuitous) run-in with Captain Dread and the Marianne.

He was dead.

My boy.

He was dead.

I'd seen the future in his eyes, but he was dead, gone, oh dear lord what happened to him, Avo you sonuva bitch bring him back you bastard.

Beryl hardly seemed phased. She couldn't even give me a solid answer. (Where is my son oh you don't know silly girl oh he's dead yea that's right what did you do how did you lose a baby why aren't you crying you sobbing you little whore he was the only thing that I loved no I'll take you if I want to you are my wife and you lost my son.) I'd been violent, I'd been angry, I'd forced her to bare me another son. But when she did, I was no happier. From then on, she'd tried her very best to please me, but there was nothing she could do. I resented her for loosing my son, resented the little girl (traumatized by the sudden death of her little brother and my rough treatment of her mother ("oh daddy what are you doing oh mommy ow she's screaming oh daddy stop it you're hurting her")) for living, and I resenting the second little boy (Matt, Matt, his name was Matt) for not being my first son. I hated them all. But the soft adoration that had built for Beryl stayed and kept me from being cruel. The budget was high, the children were schooled, I came home often with presents in hand, and I even let Beryl have me when she wanted, though I never enjoyed it. To all that looked on, we were a happy, well-off family, still mourning the loss of a baby boy.

I don't remember what took him, but even now my gut burns with the knowledge that he would have been great, that I would have loved him, that the ways of the Hero would not be as lost on him, not nearly, as with his siblings. Not nearly.

Those were the children and Beryl. They kept me grounded. But with the exception of a dead son, I did not love them, not in the slightest.

There was a man, though. He broke my heart.