The Breaking
Chapter 2
The spire stained everyone. There was no one who had not been affected by the monstrosity in any way.
Sparrow struggled to think about something else but he had let himself think about the tragedy and… it would haunt him for the rest of the day. Like it did everyday.
He missed Sable immensely. He missed Rose immensely. But for the … *greater* good, he chose to save everyone else; he saved every innocent life lost to the spire. A tremor of self-loathing rippled through his frame as he closed his eyes, trying to push his anger away. Yes he made the choice but he loathed himself for denying himself his loved ones. He coughed instead, trying to get the bitter temptation of revenge off his tongue. What he really wanted to do was bring Lucien back to life to give him a more befitting death, one prolonged by slow torture. The damned man took his family away and he had an easy death. Unjustified punishment. It was thoughts like this that tainted his mind and heart resulting in the bloodshot eyes and pale skin. Hammer had once advised him not to give in to bloodlust. But bloodlust was what gave him release.
Sparrow hissed, jumping out of the tub in shock. The broken glass pierced smoothly into his palm and he dropped the crushed shards on the floor. Another wineglass shattered from gripping too hard. He cussed at the pain, the rivulets of dark red blood dripping onto the floor. The crimson swirled into the puddle of bathwater forming around his feet. It swirled like the thick fog had swirled at the top of the spire. Sparrow picked up a washcloth and bound his wounded hand in it. Now that he had spoiled his bath, and his drink, he decided to just get on with the business of the day. Sighing, he tied the robe around himself, letting it soak up the bathwater before moving on to his bedroom where Alex usually laid out his clothes for him.
Reaver sat on his bed, looking a picture of luxury as he fingered the deep red wine stain on the sheets. Sparrow growled at the intrusion. His pistol lay on the desk beside the bed.
"You don't look a day older, Hero. Then again, I don't look ANY older," Reaver said, taking in the sight of a damp and dishevelled Sparrow. Sparrow tightened the knot on the sash and moved to the desk to tend to his wounds. He picked up his pistol as well. "I thought we were past this nonsense." Reaver grinned. Sparrow briefly wondered how he could continue speaking even without eliciting any response from him. He reminded himself that Reaver just loved the sound of his own voice. "Tell me, Sparrow. What was the last word you said to anyone?" Sparrow gave him a sidelong glance, picking out the last of the broken glass from his hand. "Was it when you requested Alex to give you backrubs? I assure you, that man has magic fingers." Sparrow snorted. The washcloth was discarded onto the floor, bloodied and soaked. He then sauntered to the medicine cabinet beside the door to the bath. As he took a tiny sip of the potion he wanted, he could hear Reaver shifting around on the bed – his bed. "Or was it when you said goodbye to Hammer? Oh. No, no. You did not bid your farewells to anyone." Sparrow glared at him. Reaver smirked in return. Sparrow noted that the .48 was not anywhere on him; in fact, the holster was absent as well. Of course it might mean that Reaver preferred to have a good scrap instead.
Trusting his instincts that Reaver was merely in his room to… distract, he turned away from the man and untied the sash so that the robe hung loosely around his naked frame. He sat on the edge of his bed, shivering because it was cold, really. The fabric of his pants offered a little comfort as he pulled them on. Then in a split second, he stilled.
"I think I know what you said last, my dear Sparrow," a deep, dark, sinful voice breathed into his ear. Sparrow shivered. "What I mean is… I KNOW what you said." Skilful hands tugged the robe off his shoulders, caressing scars from old battles. "Would you like me to refresh your memory?" Sparrow felt a surge of heat travel up his spine at the closeness. "You were calling out my name. In pleasure."
Sparrow found himself snarling, back pressed against the wall, a steady hand aiming his pistol at Reaver. His heartbeats pounded violently against his ribs. Already, a flush had washed over his skin, the remaining heat from ghost touches fluttering on his flesh. Sparrow swallowed. His throat was dry. The other man just smiled at him…almost endearingly as he resumed a kneeling position on the bed.
"I took the liberty of emptying your weapon," he informed as he calmly placed the bullets onto his sheets. Sparrow cursed inwardly at his own stupidity. With flamboyant grace, Reaver reached out and pushed the weapon down, fingers brushing his. Sparrow turned his face away. "So beautiful when you blush," Reaver hissed the familiar words. Sparrow winced. When Sparrow heard the thud of his door closing, he let out the breath he had been holding. Slowly, he sat down on the floor and covered his face, recalling the events of that particular night, shuddering in both want and disgust. The bitter thoughts he had in the bath returned and he wanted nothing more than to cause destruction. Those memories combined left him shaking for a much needed release of pent-up frustration. After many moments spent trying to contain a passionate outburst, Sparrow lifted his face off his hands.
There was blood on his left palm from the still unhealed cuts.
There was blood on his hands.
