A/N: Hello dear Readers and Happy New Year! I meant to write a little note for the last chapter but I was so relieved to have actually finished it that I just straight published it. So a shout out to everyone who has followed this story, new and old, and for continuing to read this massive thing. Honestly, it has grown so out of proportion to the vague inklings I once had for it nearly six years ago (shit, right? that was forever ago). I'm much more confident now in where it is going but I can't say how many chapters it is going to take for us to get to the end. Thank God at least I know how it ends. We'll be butting up against the third game by then.
On a personal note, I work at a library now which affords me so much more time to write. I work on this in between weeding and grad homework while I'm on desk. Also I'm kind of tempted to move from here to ao3 because I looked at the formatting for the first time (bizarre I know) and it now drives me crazy. I indented that dialogue you heathen html text editor!
Alright! Let's join back up with our heroes as they get out of the frickin cave. I apologize for that but sometimes you have to quite literally trap your characters together get them to bond. Especially when it's these two.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Sparrow had entertained thoughts of asking Reaver questions about the details of their shared vision, but the hero quickly dropped the idea in favor of consuming everything in reach. Reaver's stomach may have been louder than hers but she was every bit as famished as him.
"When you fire your cook at the Cow and Corset," Reaver wiped milk and bread crumbs from his face with the back of his sleeve. "Please, Hero, hire this woman."
Sparrow shook her head, chuckling, "I'm not firing the cook."
Reaver leaned back in his chair, "Of course you won't. You probably don't even have a cook anymore."
Sparrow paused and set a roll smothered in fresh butter back on the scarred oaken tabletop. "No, I probably don't."
"It isn't your fault." Reaver's confident voice cut through the waft of dark thoughts that had begun to surface in Sparrow's mind. He held her gaze steadily with his own.
Is he...comforting me? Sparrow wondered more than a little surprised at the action. Reaver had become less of an enemy over the last string of days but he had not moved from her list of antagonists. He was still the antithesis of everything that she stood for, even if his path was not initially as deliberately evil as she once believed.
"Actually," Reaver leaned his head to the side, still watching her, but his gaze was more thoughtful now. "It is your fault because Arfur was trying to kill you in the surest sense of the word. We both know that falling, getting shot, stabbing, are hardly surefire ways of killing a hero."
"Okay." Sparrow groaned and took a bite of her roll. Nope, of course not. Silly me.
Reaver did not take the hint and continued his stream of consciousness. "Though I suppose it would go back further to the beginning of your blood feud with that weasel of a man. Killing him in infancy would have been a saintly act. He had terrible skin and the most heinous nose."
"That's enough." Sparrow barked.
Reaver half raised his hands in a placating gesture and then turned away from the table to cough.
"So is that part of your deal too?" Sparrow wiped her mouth and then leaned her arms on the table. "Do you get weaker the longer you don't pay or something?"
Reaver gasped and turned back to face her, beads of sweat clinging to his temples. "Weak? Me?" he flashed a perfectly charming smile at her. "Never. Susceptible? Yes. Mortal, perhaps if I delay long enough."
"They won't steal back the years they have given you?"
"In truth, I have never tested the limits of my unique condition. My bill comes due and I pay it without fail. The Court of Shadows is not an enemy I would like to make."
Sparrow shook her head and rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead. "But they have not sent you the Seal. The court, how do they send it to you?"
"A macabre parade of skeletons lead by a banner man astride a six legged black stallion with glowing red eyes."
Sparrow grabbed another roll from the basket and threw it at Reaver's head.
"It appears nearby. I always know when it is close." Reaver dodged the roll. "What a terrible waste. I shall mourn your loss, dear roll."
Sparrow chewed absently on her bottom lip while she thought. Was it possible that the Court was no longer interested in their deal with Reaver? She had held the seal herself, it was obviously a thing of dark magic. If it had not appeared for Reaver yet and he was already feeling the effects then it was unlikely that the Court forgot or it was misplaced while on route to him. It was a magical seal with the power to strip the youth from one person and bestow it on another, it was not something you just misplaced. How it appeared and disappeared on its own kind of reminded her of the music box that Rose had bought. It had been an Old Kingdom artifact, unbeknownst to them at the time, but Theresa had known and so had the trader.
"We need to find a trader!" Sparrow declared and stood quickly from her makeshift chair.
Reaver blinked at her, "Pardon?"
"Pack up your things." Sparrow waved at the food basket as she began to tear through the pile of missives her traveling family had brought with the food for her and Reaver. "We've spent enough time in this bloody cave." She flipped through appeals for eradications of beetles, bandit bounties, the letter that was addressed to her using full title, three letters from Bowerstone (probably begging her to stay away), but the flyer she was looking for was not there. "Where did I put it?" She looked over the cave, padding silently over to the rickety bed and tossing through the blanket.
"It appears, Hero that you have come to some sort of decision but neglected to tell me?" Reaver asked.
"We need an expert," Sparrow was now patting down her dress. She could feel something…there! She reached into the pocket and pulled out the brightly colored flyer she was looking for. "We need an expert on Old Kingdom Artifacts. There is a woman in Fairfax gardens who claims to be one but she has never seen anything outside of those gardens in her life. Garth," Sparrow briefly considered trying to send word to the old mage and then shook her head. Samarkand was too far for any word to reach him in time. In time for what? Sparrow stared at the flyer, eyes unfocused, the colors seemed to darken and morph before her eyes. The tips of her fingers went numb and she could feel the prickling of gooseflesh down her arms. The ink pooled in the center of the parchment; the ink bubbled and swirled until it seemed as if it would boil off the page and stain the whole world in black.
Sparrow blinked and the flyer was once again just an obnoxiously designed advertisement for Murgo's Marvelous Trading Post. She walked quickly over to Reaver, pushing the ominous vision away for later, and added a little bounce to her step. After all, there was no better feeling in the world than the one before beginning a quest. She held up the colorful flyer for him to see, a rare heartfelt grin spreading over her face. This felt right. In her heart, Murgo may not have answers but he would have clues for them to follow.
Reaver viewed the letter and then Sparrow's sudden surge of enthusiasm much as one would puppy trying to catch a butterfly, adorable but foolish. "Murgo? He is a conman. A purveyor of cheap fakes."
"Not everything." Sparrow countered as she folded the paper into a neat square and tucked it into her pocket. She moved to the table and started packing up the food that Reaver had not touched. "He was in Old Town. He was hawking all sorts but there was this music box among it all. He said it could grant wishes. It worked." She didn't elaborate further about how it worked
Reaver watched, piecing together Sparrow's thoughts aloud. "So because he occasionally has genuine artifacts that he may have come across the seal? That is-" He flicked an errant lock of hair from his eye. "That is actually not the worst idea you have had, Sparrow. An artifact like that could exchange youth for old age would fetch a high price in the right market. Besides, we know the seal has left a trail."
"If anything he might have heard something. This is the only lead we have other than going to Theresa." Sparrow tied the leather tongs that kept the handspun basket closed and then set her hands on either side of it, bracing herself against the table. "I don't think she'd help us. You, actually, she never liked you."
Reaver shrugged, he was hardly surprised. Theresa was pragmatic woman. She had seen his purpose and tolerated him for as long needed. No more and no less.
With the food safely stowed for later, Sparrow gestured for Reaver to lead the way out of the cave. She may not have all of the answers as concretely as she would have liked from him. She did know that Reaver was trying to manipulate something with the Court of Shadows. There was more going on than he lost the seal. He had said, before the vision, that he was playing a long game. Whatever it was, she was important in some way to him. It. She was important to it.
Either way, she was sick of sitting in the Guild Cave as Reaver.
"Ah, at last!" He stretched the light in the mid-morning, clearly delighting in its heat. A sharp contrast to the cold, dank of the Guild Cave. He followed it up with an exuberant and exaggerated breath of Lake air. It resulted in only a minor coughing fit.
Sparrow wiggled her bare toes in the cool, loose dirt outside the cave entrance. She rolled her shoulders and her neck, relishing in the loud pops her joints made. The sun did feel glorious.
"We should see Lotus before we leave." She jerked her head toward the little jetty where an old but sturdy row boat was moored. "She likely took our gear to Amber the smith for repairs while we healed."
"As long as it is away from here," Reaver stretched once more, his movements reminiscent of a cat waking up from a long nap, then winced a little at the strain it put on his side. "I am yours to command."
Sparrow side eyed him as she busied herself with untying the boat. "Are you sure you want to do this? Our interests may not exactly," she paused as Reaver leaped into the boat and she pushed them off into the lake. "Align."
"We can discuss the finer points of our alliance on the road, little song." He grinned at how Sparrow sat up straight and the color rushed to her cheeks. "Not many walls in that cave."
"You were listening?" She pulled quickly on the oars and the little boat shot forward.
Reaver scoffed, merrily, the fresh air had put him in a good mood. He could almost forget everything that transpired in the cave, but for the soreness in his ribs, the lingering wheeze in his lungs, and the slight chill of fear that Sparrow knew everything there was to know about the night he sold his village to the Shadows.
"I was trying to sleep. I could hardly rest with you nattering away in the corner."
"Eavesdropper."
"Blabbermouth."
They traded insults and laughter all the way to the shore and half the way up the hill to the Gypsy camp. They probably would have continued all the way to Lotus's little caravan but Sparrow's attention was captivated by the army of swarthy, dusty, brightly clothed children that met them at the bridge.
"Sparrah!" Several of the called for her and she rushed ahead to meet them.
They climbed all over her and pushed and pulled her away from Reaver and into the camp.
Reaver's path was not so clear. A girl, dressed in dusty patch worked pants that ballooned to her ankles and a short, sleeveless blue and red top that seemed to composed of tied together handkerchiefs blocked his way. Her hair was dark and braided in a style very similar to the Hero's.
"You like the last bloke she showed?"
Reaver hesitated, taken aback by the vehmence of the child's tone. "Pardon?"
The girl studied him, sniffed loudly, unimpressed with his answer. "Ye try anythin' an I'll cut yer." She patted the sheath at her waist that was nearly the length of her thigh. She sniffed again, spat at his feet, and then was gone in a cloud of dust.
"Where have you been?" Sparrow asked him when he finally joined her outside a violet and green wooden caravan in the center of the camp. They stood on the edge of the crowd surrounding the little hovel. A man in red and yellow clothes with a white pointy beard was working the crowd.
"Being interrogated and threatened by your number one fan." He scanned the gathering for the girl. "That one over there."
The girl sat on the ground, three kids jockeying for her lap and a heavily tattooed man patiently re-braiding her hair.
Sparrow's mouth quirked up fondly, "That'd be Rain. She's Storm's girl. The one braiding her hair? He's the best artist in the camp." Sparrow glanced at Reaver. "What did she say to you?"
"She wanted to know if I was the at all similar to the last, and I quote, 'bloke' you brought here. Threatened to cut me if I 'tried anything.'" he tilted his head lazily towards Sparrow. "Little brute."
Sparrow groaned and covered her face, "She did not! She doesn't even have anything to cut you with. That sheath is empty." It was common knowledge that the gypsies were maybe a little sticky fingered but overall peaceful. They could and would defend themselves when needed but children were never allowed to keep weapons. Rain had been her tagalong in Sparrow's younger hero years, when she still frequented the camp in between jobs. She made a mental note to warn the girl's father.
"Don't bring many men home, do you Sparrow?" Reaver grinned, his eyes mischievous. "I'm honored.
"Shut it." Sparrow lifted a rucksack from the ground. "Or don't you want your precious pistol back?"
"You are the pinnacle of purity! A light in this dark world, Oh Great Hero." Reaver bowed low and with great flourish.
Sparrow swung the bag into his middle, "Oops!" she said when the impact made him gasp and stagger back a step. "Come on, I'm not leaving you in the open alone." She turned away, her expression playful and her eyes light. Her loose hair softened the angles of her face.
He stared, maybe a little too obviously and for a little too long. It was like she was a completely different person. It was like the Hero just melted away. The her lips had curved into something other than a disapproving frown and the shadows under eyes (while not entirely gone) had retreated after a week of forced rest. Suddenly, Reaver wondered how old she was. he tried to do the mental calculations himself, routing through the rumors and little slips that Sparrow herself had made. She couldn't have been more than ten when Theresa found her and then she would have needed to grow into womanhood before the seer would have thrown her at Lucien. Then there was the small matter of her imprisonment in the Spire. How long had that been? Five? Ten years? Sparrow was tight lipped about herself but she had literally never spoken of the Spire or her time there under Lucien's rule in his company.
She beckoned for him to follow and he did, carefully picking his way through the now large throng of brightly clothed people.
Sparrow walked towards her caravan, Theresa's caravan, with little trepidation. After all, it was just a place where the woman had lived and not the woman herself. It looked no different than any of the other wagon like dwellings in the camp. It was compact with a rounded roof that stuck out an extra foot or so from the house to provide cover to the driver as they managed the horses during travel. The built in driving seat also acted as extra storage. There were little round windows on each side and a large rounded door at one end that was split so the lower half could be closed and the top stay open to let in air and light. Unlike the other caravans, Theresa's caravan was decorated simply. The bulk of the wood was stained a rich brown and the roof was painted red with only a few swirling designs in gold and purple.
Sparrow hesitated at the beginning of the short, three stone path that lead to the door. Here was where she healed from Lucian's first attempt on her life and where she learned what Theresa believed it was prudent for a young girl to know: to read and to write and to fight. She remembered the first day she had walked out of the caravan, her dog supporting her and gasped. Everything was green! The air had smelled like a noble ladies that sometimes came to gawk at the poor in Old Town, only without the cloying stench. She had never been outside of Bowerstone Old Town in her life (that she remembered) and at eight years old it was dumbfounding. Who knew that the air could be so fresh? The world so full of colors? The nights so quiet? Everything had changed for her, the whole course of her future altered. She had liked to imagine that Theresa had taken her in out of pity and taught her and kept her out of love. Sparrow had certainly expected to be tossed out as soon as she could take two steps in a straight line, but Theresa had kept her and fed her and clothed her and taught her but she had not loved her. That, out of everything, was probably what stung the most.
"Just wait here." Sparrow gestured at the solid oak steps as she bypassed them completely and hopped onto the small porch. "I need to change out of this dress before we leave."
Reaver followed her up the stairs but he did not sit, instead he leaned against the supports and watched Sparrow curiously through the open door.
"This is your home?" He asked, a little of his usual disdain showing in his tone but mostly his voice was clouded with something else. Something Sparrow could not identify.
The caravan was unlocked, as she had expected, and well looked after. Lotus or one of her apprentices likely came in here to clean once a week. Relying on muscle memory that she had not used in three years at least, Sparrow picked through the various cabinets and doors, all cleverly carved and placed within the small home so that they used the least amount of space but offered the most functionality.
"It is, or was, Theresa's." She replied as she threw and extra pair of breeches, shirt, and vest onto the narrow bench/cot that had once been her bed.
Reaver was silent, she could feel him thinking almost. Like there were great big cogs in his head turning slowly and then more quickly as he realized something important. Instead of pestering him about it, as she would have done only a day ago, Sparrow let him be. It was odd and very counter to the persona he wore about him like a second skin, but Sparrow was beginning to trust that if Reaver had something he wanted to tell her he would.
"This is where she raised you." He almost sounded like he was in awe.
She waited for the inevitable dig, "it's so small" or something equally demeaning about the little home to follow. It didn't. Sparrow turned her attention to him though she still flitted through the caravan packing little odds and ends into her old rucksack.
He was framed by the door, the late afternoon sun shining down on him through the tall trees. A gentle reminder from the universe, it seemed, that Reaver was very, very attractive. Even with a week old beard, the fresh scar on his hairline, and the slight hollowness about his cheeks. What was once a god of seduction (not in Sparrow's mind of course but she couldn't deny the sheer number of men and woman who had chased Reaver in spite of his murderous tendencies) was now human. He was vulnerable. He could be hurt. He could be killed and truly? That vulnerability was far more effective on Sparrow than she cared to admit.
"Yes." She answered him. She could tell he was studying the interior from his vantage point on the porch. There wasn't much to see. Anything important Theresa had obviously taken with her to the Spire. There were empty spaces on the bookshelf, her crystal ball was gone and the ornate wooden box that held her tarot cards was also missing.
There were a couple of other things missing too that, if Sparrow had had more time, she would have noticed. For instance there was one tome of fairytales missing from the series displayed on the middle shelf. The same tome that Theresa had taught Sparrow to read with; though, it held something more precious than stories. Her first year in the camp, Sparrow had been obsessed with flowers. She had spent hours hunting all over for new specimens, which she always brought back to Theresa. The seer would then patiently name the flower and describe it uses, if there were any. Sparrow listen, enraptured, and then shyly tell Theresa it was a gift. It was in that missing tome that Theresa had pressed each flower Sparrow had given her.
But, Sparrow did not notice and thus missed a rare show of her adoptive aunt's affection. Instead the hero shoved a health potion (those didn't go bad right?) into her pack and stared at Reaver, her mouth open a little and her ears waiting to pick up the familiar cadence of a left handed compliment. Maybe he wants proof? She thought, though it was a little strange.
She pointed at the porch where he stood. "I used to sit there and read to Theresa while she spun. When she told fortunes I used to sit on the roof and make scraping and scratching noises." Then she pointed to the roof.
"Sometimes I'd hang over the edge and look in through the window to scare her clients." That was a fond memory. She had scared one, a fat baron with a guilty conscience, so bad he'd thrown his gold at Theresa and run screaming from the camp, his palanquin left in the dust.
The corner of Reaver's mouth quirked up, "I knew you had a little thief in you."
Sparrow shrugged, "Hardly counts. I don't think he ever missed a meal cause of it. Turn around, would ya? I need to change." She held up a bit of her skirt to emphasize the point. She had scavenged anything of use or possible use from the caravan.
"Close the door."
"I don't want you peaking through the window."
Reaver turned with a wink and a wistful sigh.
Sparrow closed the door and carefully removed her linen dress. She folded it well as she could and then placed it in the drawer that she had gotten her old clothes from. It seemed silly to treasure a dress, especially one from a man who spent his whole life making people act and dress to his own personal standards. It was silly, but it was also a pretty dress. With the dress safely stowed, Sparrow worked quickly to dress herself. The clothes were old but only by a few years so she had no trouble with fit. Once her pants were tucked into her boots she grabbed a coat from the hook by the door and then pulled it open, relieved to see that Reaver was still standing on the porch and dismayed to see that Rain was trying to glare him to death from the path.
"Says 'es a 'ero." Rain grumbled from her place on the path.
Sparrow dropped her bag on the porch and stuffed her arms through the old coat. It was bigger than the one she had lost to the explosion but it would do. She couldn't remember where she had gotten it. Theresa had had no male "visitors" who could have forgotten it after a rendezvous and Sparrow would've remembered inheriting a coat like this from one of the men in the camp. The length was perfect, the hem just brushing against her ankles, and the long slit in the back meant even if she buckled it closed she her legs wouldn't be restricted. The color was somewhere between dark brown and black and that suited her just fine.
"What're you sneaking around for?" Sparrow asked the girl. "He's with me and that's all that matters." She ignored the surprised look that Reaver flashed at her.
Rain turned this fact over in her mind for a minute and then nodded. "Whatcha doin' with 'im?"
"Saving his life." Sparrow elbowed the pirate. "You ready?"
Too stunned for words, Reaver simply nodded and followed Sparrow mutely from the caravan. His mind now no longer preoccupied with gleaning as much information from the rare intimate setting of Sparrow's childhood home. Instead, he was trying to figure out if saving his life actually meant just that.