A/N: I'm back and I now live in South Korea! I'm here teaching English for the next year or two so that's quite the adventure. I won't waste much time here other than the usual massive thanks to anyone and everyone who has reviewed, fav'd, or put a watch on this story. I love every notification that I get. Also massive tears and RIP to Lionhead Studios who just closed their doors after Fable: Legends was canceled by Microsoft. I still hope that maybe we will see a Fable 4 (highly doubt it)!
Theresa was going to begin running out of options very soon. There was a nation to preserve, bloodlines to strengthen, and none of that was possible while the dear Hero of Bowerstone was out cavorting with the failed Hero of Skill. Theresa sank into the softly cushioned armchair behind the mahogany desk that occupied one side of her private chambers. There were few things left in the Spire from Lucian's tenure but this chair was one of her few comforts. The desk was covered with carefully laid maps and papers covered with notes written in the Seer's small, neat print. These were her plans, her machinations, at least a century of work steering the world away from a path of certain destruction. She stared at them, seemingly lost in a vision. Though her eyes were scarred, her bloodline had rescued her from true blindness. It had taken one lifetime for Theresa's sight to expand beyond fragmented visions and foreboding nightmares, but she had mastered her gift and turned it to a finer purpose.
"Do you understand now?" The voice, masculine and full of memories of simpler days, asked from the depths of her crystal ball.
Theresa shifted in her chair, propping her hands under her chin as she moved. Did she? What she understood was that eliminating the darkness from the world was a much slipperier task then she had first envisioned.
"I will succeed. I have seen it."
"At what cost?" the voice was desperate but soft, defeated, as though this were an argument long since lost.
As Theresa placed one delicate, pale hand on the cool surface of her crystal ball her expression was one of unending determination.
"At any cost, Brother."
Garth's tower was surprisingly clean despite years being left uninhabited by the will-user; however, much of the space was dominated by piles. Piles of books, piles of papers, piles of clothes, piles of blankets, just piles and piles and piles of things.
Once a space had been cleared, done in record time after Reaver had persuaded Sparrow to repeat her "little trick" from their escape of Bowerstone, the mood was drastically improved. A table had been sacrificed to the fireplace and Reaver had found a bottle of Hobbe's Water behind a stack of books on the creatures of Albion.
Sparrow took a tiny sip from the bottle and then grimaced, squirming as the alcohol burned its way down her throat.
"Ugh!" She coughed and passed the glass bottle back to Reaver. "Ale is one thing. I can at least pretend to understand why people drink it, but that," she coughed into her elbow. "That is vile."
Reaver accepted the bottle with a fond smile, "I'm honestly almost convinced that you truly are as pure as they say, Sparrow."
Sparrow arched an eyebrow at his comment but she couldn't hide her distaste. "Please, don't go into that. I hate that." She stretched over to the fire where she had a simple soup simmering. "I'm not perfect and I'm not the angel they say." Satisfied with the state of the soup, Sparrow relaxed back into her seat, drawing her left knee into her chest as she moved.
"Is that so?"
"I'm not like you if that's what you're implying, but I'm not what the people think I am either." Sparrow rested her chin on her knee and stared thoughtfully at the man across from her. Reaver was tipping back the bottle of Hobbe's Water for another swig. Some of the fog of exhaustion had cleared from his eyes and now they were back to their usual mischievous glint, almost. She was a little surprised with herself at how comfortable she felt at this moment. Alone with Reaver, traveling with him and relying on him to watch her back, she never dreamed she would find herself in this position again. Yet here she was, staring at him and wondering what he was thinking. Again. It was becoming a bad habit at this point.
He was staring with a little smile turning up the left corner of his mouth. "What? You mean you are not the angelic Champion of Light sent to save Albion?"
Sparrow scoffed, "The ones that say that would be fallin' over themselves tryin' to take it back if they knew I used to eat from slop bins."
"The great hero from the humblest of origins. There are heroes with worse beginnings. Edwin Two Eyes, for example-"
Sparrow rolled her eyes, "Spare me, please!"
"That is exactly what he said before I killed him." Reaver laughed and set the bottle of alcohol within Sparrow's reach. He looked up into the darkness of the tower, letting his fall back as he reminisced. "The fool actually thought he had hero's blood in him. A hundred years after the burning of the Guild and all the remaining heroes were hunted down. Ridiculous!" The man had also taken to pilfering villages along the coast. Villages that had paid Reaver to turn a blind eye during his own raids.
"Do you remember it?" Sparrow asked, it was something she had been quietly curious about since their very first meeting. A man over 200 years old? The histories and stories he could tell! Sparrow had learned quickly (within 5 minutes) that Reaver was only interested in telling stories that put himself front and center. She had dropped the notion of learning about the time when Heroes, true Heroes, walked the streets of Albion, until now. Sparrow nudged the bottle of Hobbe's Water back towards him with her toe. Drink always got the best stories out of Cloud the Storyteller. As a kid, Sparrow had snuck the storyteller mugs of sweet fermented milk in exchange for Whisper and the Hero of Oakvale or Wheldon and the legendary sword The Avenger.
Reaver paused, cocking his head to the side, eyes watching Sparrow with an equal amount of curiosity, "I remember everything." He said seriously, his expression becoming stiff and unreadable.
Sparrow opened her mouth to apologize. Well not apologize, but to at least backtrack or turn it into a bad joke. Unlike Reaver's hallucinations that nearly got them both killed in Bowerstone or his dealings with the Shadow Court, the tale of the Fall of the Guild was not one that was vitally important. It was just amazingly interesting.
Reaver cackled gleefully, like a naughty child. "Oh you should have seen your face!"
Sparrow rolled her eyes and gave their soup another stir. And then reached casually towards him with sparks crackling at her finger tips. Her target? The bare bit of calf where the cuff of his pants had pulled out of his boot.
"Ow!" He cried out as Sparrow brushed her fingers against his calf.
"Ha!" She let the lightning dance over her fingers for a second longer, enjoying the pout that had settled over Reaver's face. The last leg of their hike had been filled with tension (bred mostly from the both of them being tired and Reaver's feigned dislike of nature which he was obviously fascinated with, his pack was likely mostly leaves and rocks now from all the ones he'd picked up) and they needed a healthy outlet for it.
"Oh how mature." Reaver rubbed at red mark that was starting to show where the hero had stung him. He remembered her affinity for fire but he had forgotten this particular trick.
Sparrow gave him a toothy, childish grin before she stood and picked up two bowls she had set aside for the soup. She had managed to dig out of Garth's mess of a kitchen. The small space had consisted of a rusted out sink tucked beside a heavy cupboard with a crooked door. There had been plenty of eating utensils in the cupboard, but also a curious amount of left socks. Sparrow flicked her braid over her shoulder. Strands of hair had begun slipping out of it since she had let it down from the bun earlier.
She ladled soup for them both and then took her seat again passing Reaver his bowl silently before digging into hers with gusto. She glanced up at him when she noticed that he wasn't eating.
Sparrow licked a drop of soup from her lips and gestured at his bowl with her spoon. "Go on."
"What happens when we discover the seal?" He asked Sparrow, his grey eyes studying her intently. There was nothing there, no hint of fear or suspicion. It was like he was asking her about the weather.
"I can't let you use it." Sparrow answered quickly and honestly, her green gaze rising to meet his. "What I saw in our vision," she shuddered and pressed her hands against her soup bowl, as if the warmth she leeched from it could hold off a sudden chill. "Was evil. Not like Lucian Fairfax who was good once," though it was difficult for Sparrow to imagine the insane man had ever known the difference between right and wrong, "The Shadows are evil and always were and always will be."
Sparrow set her bowl down on the ground before her and braced her hands on her knees. She stared fixedly at her bowl. The shadow she had seen unleash death upon Oakvale was unlike anything she had seen in her years adventuring. Sparrow had met the Shadow Court (thanks to Reaver) in person but that encounter had felt nothing like Reaver's memory of that monster in the woods. The Shadow Court was contained, their evil governed and dictated by a specific set of rules.
"I have to destroy it, for the good of Albion."
Silence filled the room but they both knew what Sparrow was really saying. Sparrow had been nothing if not clear in her intent. Reaver could almost admire that in a way, knowing your own mind well enough to be plain with others.
Sparrow chewed her lip, uncomfortable with the growing tension between herself and Reaver. She could feel him revving up, gathering wits and words for battle. That was par for the course with them, she somewhat relished their fights now (exhausting as they could be) because for once it felt like she was fighting an equal. Reaver could match her mind and her body in a fight, and that was rare occurrence.
This was different. She was effectively looking Reaver in the eye and telling him that she was going to kill him. He deserved it too, probably, he certainly had lived long enough, gambled long enough with the lives of others for his own personal amusement to warrant death, but Sparrow wasn't sure that death was the solution to the problem that was Reaver anymore. As if that wasn't enough emotional and moral complication for Sparrow, she was beginning to doubt if Reaver's fate was even her responsibility.
"And if it kills me? A pleasurable side-benefit?" Reaver asked, his tone soft but no less accusatory. He may want his deal done, the Court was a headache, but he was not ready to give up immortality. The pirate watched the Hero shrewdly, his grey gaze reading death in every twitch, every hesitation.
Sparrow hesitated, and looked up at him, her gaze moving slowly to meet his. The corner of her mouth twitched and there was a barely perceptive narrowing of her eyes.
I will lose, Reaver thought, swallowing hard as he had a sudden flash of what it would be like to fight her. Her tall frame wreathed in the blue light of her Will lines and red flames blossoming at her fingertips, a goddess of destruction and vengeance.
She spoke, her words launching out of her mouth before he could ramp up any sort of righteous indignation. The vision was dispelled and all Reaver saw before him was a copper haired young woman with green eyes and too many freckles at war with her emotions.
"Don't get the wrong idea!" She said holding up her left hand as if to stop Reaver from lunging across the space between them. "I don't want you dead. Or to kill you, anymore." She deflated just a little, like she was losing by admitting that to him.
If there was one person with the wrong idea here, it was Sparrow. She couldn't want the Dark Seal destroyed and Reaver not to die, and Reaver wasn't about to let the Hero blast her perspective at him like it was the only One Great Truth of the matter. "I hardly think that's true. That seal is my life, Sparrow. It's not your definition of a good life but it is mine. I don't kill for it, in truth, the vagabonds and wastrels I send to the Court are the very same bandits and pirates you protect Albion from."
Sparrow rolled her eyes, "No, they just die of premature old age."
"Since when did you, all touched Lady Hero, start two pence about a couple of vagabonds?" Reaver spat back. Sparrow was a powerful (if infuriating) ally and if they were going to go forward on this quest thing, he wanted some guarantees that he would come out the other end alive. That wasn't going to happen as long as they kept dancing around the issue that the Dark Seal was very integral to his long lifespan.
Sparrow almost rose to her knees, "So their lives don't matter because they are bandits and murderers?"
"Do you think my life matters, Hero?" He surged to his feet, ignoring the protest of his tired limbs, and stared down at Sparrow demanding an answer.
She held his gaze, unflinchingly, and answered simply, "It matters to me."
Across the small Western Sea and in the thickest part of the woods, far from the dull gazes of Knothole Island's only human inhabitants, a man stepped out of his house. He was tall, taller than any man on the Knothole Island, and taller still than any in Albion. He stared off into the distance, seemingly at nothing, but he looked in the same direction that he always did in the evenings. The man looked South and a little to the East towards the land that he once called home. Sighing, as if the inevitable had just arrived on his doorstep, the man returned to the depths of his house.
When he reemerged he wore a thick leather tunic with shining silver mail peeking out from beneath. He had no coat, having left it somewhere long ago, but he did have a beautiful, ethereal sword strapped to his back. The man paused and glanced down at his feet. A chicken bobbed its head and looked dumbly back at him. With an annoyed grunt, the man kicked the chicken from the steps of his porch and then left, moving in smooth strides towards the coast.