Garth was having such a pleasant dream. He was in Samarkand with his two brothers. It was hot, and they were playing in their village's spring, splashing and dunking and laughing at each other until a decidedly un-Samarkand-like voice cut into their fun.

"Mage, you have a visitor."

"Fuck off," Garth said in his native language. His father used it so often, so it must be okay to say…

"Get up!"

Something struck the side of the bed hard, and Garth sat up so quickly that his head spun. He flopped back against the pillows and blinked. Reaver was beside his bed, his shoulders shaking as he laughed quietly.

"What'd you throw?" Garth asked groggily. He was definitely not a morning person.

"Nothing, I simply kicked." Reaver was chuckling now. "Our little Sparrow-friend is outside; he has your belongings that he stole from your Tower in Brightwood. They'll have to go in the cellar. Now get up, or I'll have his men bring everything up here. I want that little bird to fly away as soon as possible."

"All right, I'm getting up," Garth grumbled. He sat up, the bed sheets falling from his torso and pooling at his hips. He waited, but when Reaver didn't move, he sighed. "This is the part where you leave." he said pointedly.

"Oh, really? What's the matter?" Reaver looked at him, the smile on his face slowly growing - not a good sign. His eyes blatantly scanned Garth's bare torso.

Garth felt his face heat up at the attention. "Just leave, Reaver," he growled.

"Do you sleep naked, Mage?" Reaver asked mischievously.

"No," Garth replied, and it was true - he wore pants to bed. "Just get out."

"How far down do those blue lines go, I wonder?" Reaver asked - and he licked his lips in the most obscene way.

"Out, Reaver!" Garth lobbed a weak Fireball at him angrily, sure that his face was bright red. Reaver ducked the attack easily and practically skipped out of the room, laughing all the way to the foyer.

Garth groaned and massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Couldn't that rotten sex fiend at least give him his space in one room? Garth wondered if he should have a lock fitted into his bedroom door. Damn Reaver and his arrogance, his nymphomania, his charisma, his charm, and the way he made Garth's heart skip a beat every time he grinned.

This was not a good way to start the day.

He finally managed to change and went downstairs. There was an entourage of carriages in the front yard, getting unloaded by a dozen or so men at whom Reaver was barking orders. Sparrow was sitting on the roof of one of these carriages and, just as Hammer had said, he didn't look a day older than he did five years ago. Though he was easily the richest man in Albion, he was still a gypsy at heart. His long blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, with random sections of it twisted into small, tight braids sealed with different coloured beads. His necklace and belt were made up of different assortment of trinkets, and Sparrow had once said that each trinket had a story. While Garth hadn't asked him to elaborate, it didn't take a genius to guess the story behind the one at the end of the necklace - it was a tiny, carved rose.

His dog sat beside him on the carriage roof. Garth struggled to recall its name. Sparrow had named the poor mutt something ridiculous in his youth, back when he still had some semblance of a sense of humour left in him.

"Sparrow," Garth greeted warmly. "It's good to see you."

Sparrow nodded in reply, the corners of his lips tweaking into a smile. His dog jumped down and bounded over to Garth, snuffling at him as if to demand a pat.

Garth chuckled. "And how are you?" he asked, scratching the dog behind his ears. "You must be getting on in years now." The dog barked. "Still as lively as ever though, I see."

The dog stood up on its hind legs and barked again. Sparrow's smile widened slightly.

"Break anything and I'll put a bullet through your sorry face!" Reaver snapped at the men, his head raised high as he personified authority. Garth cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Do you really think threatening them is the best way to motivate them?" he asked.

"You're right," Reaver regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps I need to shoot one for them to see I'm serious."

"Don't kill my men," Sparrow said suddenly, fixing Reaver with a dangerous look. Garth blinked at him - it was always startling to hear Sparrow speak. His voice was deep, and his once strong lower-class accent had thinned, probably because he spent most of his time in Fairfax Gardens these days, where the Albion nobility gathered. His voice now had a posh lilt.

"Have it your way," Reaver chuckled and followed two of the men inside.

"I don't like being around him," Sparrow said quietly, his blue eyes fixed on the front door.

"An odd way of putting it," Garth pointed out, intrigued by his wording. Sparrow shrugged.

"I don't like him, either, but I'd be able to put up with him if everything he did wasn't so…" he struggled to find a suitable word. "Practiced."

Garth frowned. Sparrow had noticed it too, then. Reaver's every mannerism, his every emotion was practiced to perfection, and his words were so closely monitored that Garth was able to sense the uneasiness that lay beneath his surface. He wondered if Reaver had to force himself to appear relaxed at times, and why he felt he had to build up a wall around himself like that.

"My oldest son fancies him," Sparrow said suddenly, and Garth nearly choked.

"How old is he?" he asked.

"Seventeen. Old enough to know better, like my daughter." Sparrow sighed, though an amused smile played on his lips.

"And your daughter?" Garth asked.

"Eighteen."

Garth had guessed right - they were the two children that Lucien had murdered. He recalled there was another one, but that child had only been a toddler at the time, and probably didn't remember the attack on its home. Garth felt a pang of sympathy for the other two.

"You have another child, if I recall."

"Yes. A six year old son," Sparrow's smile was glowing now; he clearly adored his children. "And I also have a three year old girl."

Garth shook his head in amazement. He wasn't fond of children, and he couldn't imagine having to put up with that many on a daily basis. "You've been busy," he said. Sparrow chuckled, though, as always, there was an emptiness to it.

"Sparrow!" Reaver appeared in the front doorway again, looking indignant. "You should teach your men the importance of interior decorating! You can't just put any old thing anywhere! And Mage-" Garth cocked an eyebrow. "-why do you have such a dingy old bed?"

"It's an Old Kingdom artefact," Garth said quickly. He had forgotten about that nightmarish thing.

"Oh. So I probably shouldn't sleep in it, then?" Reaver's grin was impish.

"Not if you want to live, no."

"Pity. I do love spending the night in decrepit, painful excuses for beds, after all."

"Your sarcasm is masterfully hidden," Garth said dryly.

"As is yours, my dear Mage." Reaver winked at him and went back inside. Garth chuckled.

"Garth, be careful."

Sparrow was looking at him solemnly now. Garth stared back and didn't reply.

"He's taken a shine to you," Sparrow elaborated quietly. "But that don't- doesn't mean anything." He corrected his speech halfway through, Garth noted - those snobbish Garden dwellers were influencing him. "You're a toy to him, in that when he gets sick of you, he'll kill you. It's what he does."

Despite knowing that Sparrow was only concerned for his wellbeing, Garth felt a pang of irritation. "I can take care of myself, Sparrow." he said tersely.

"I've seen him kill people because they haven't painted him right, or sculpted him, or-" Sparrow paused then, and cleared his throat. His voice shook when he next spoke. "Or because a picture of him would take three months to develop. You're a brilliant man, Garth, but sometimes you let your morals cloud your judgement."

"Sparrow-" Garth began, his irritation growing. But Sparrow cut him off.

"He's nothing short of a devil. Has been from the moment he gained immortality." Sparrow gave him a sharp look. "That won't change just because you like him."

He had spoken so coldly that Garth decided not to reply, lest an angry response inflame the situation further. They remained in silence for the time it took the men to finish unloading Garth's old studies. Sparrow lazily tossed a rubber ball for his dog to fetch, and Garth still couldn't recall the wretched thing's name. Finally, Reaver emerged and announced that they had finished.

"Did you have fun?" Garth asked.

"Oh yes, it was like captaining my ship again!" Reaver said, enthused. "Only without the water, the ship… the profanities…" he chuckled darkly. "You should use the cellar as your little study now, seeing as everything is in there. What do you think of that?"

Garth couldn't keep the grin from his face. "Thank you," he said, elated. Reaver laughed and shrugged.

"Modesty doesn't suit you." Sparrow, who had previously been watching them silently, was now eyeing Reaver with a strange look.

"And bitterness doesn't suit you," Reaver replied pleasantly. "Really, Sparrow, you're a handsome man, you should try to smile more. Smile and be happy and skip through the meadows, or whatever it is that happy people are wont to do."

"You confuse happy with insane," Sparrow said flatly. He leapt down off the carriage roof, and his dog - what was the blasted thing's name?! - barked excitedly. Sparrow allowed himself to smile. "Yes, boy, we're going to see Hammer," he said. The dog barked again.

"Wait!" Garth said quickly. "While you're here, I need both your permission for something…" He explained his book idea to them both, as he had with Hammer. Sparrow listened thoughtfully, but Reaver's face was unreadable.

"All right," Sparrow said when he had finished. "But you'll have to give me some time to prepare myself up here-" he tapped his head pointedly "-to talk about some things." Garth nodded in understanding.

"My permission, you have." Reaver said, that strange look still on his face. "But my cooperation is another matter." He turned away. "I like my secrets, Mage, and though I welcome you to try your hand at discovering them, I promise it won't be fun for you, in any case."

"You are a prick," Sparrow said, though curiously his insult didn't hold its usual bite. He looked at Garth. "One final thing: burn that bed. It's evil."

"Did you use it?" Garth gasped. "You foolish man, I left a letter explaining to anyone who read it that it was dangerous!"

"If anything, that was my incentive." Sparrow smiled grimly. "I'm like a moth to a flame, it seems. Would you like to visit Hammer with me?"

Garth shook his head. He had long suspected that Sparrow and Hammer's friendship may have been something more, had Sparrow not married just before they met. There was always a strange sense of longing between the two, so strong that it made Garth uncomfortable whenever he was in their company.

"Suit yourself," Sparrow said simply. He told his men to take the carriages to the Sandgoose and wait for him there, and with that, he left.

"Mm, Sparrow, I don't mind watching you walk away at all!" Reaver called after him, a mischievous grin on his face.

Sparrow flipped him off, and his dog growled, and just like that Garth remembered its name.

"He does have a nice arse," Reaver said to Garth lightly.

"It's Woof!" Garth exclaimed triumphantly, not paying Reaver any attention.

Reaver stared at him blankly. "No, it's an arse," he said slowly, and Garth didn't bother to explain himself.

**

Reaver had arranged the cellar neatly, as though it were any other room. Garth had worried that it would be cramped, but everything had fit in quite nicely. There were still a couple of crates of books and other equipment that the men hadn't bothered to unpack, and for that Garth was grateful - he disliked his equipment being touched without his close supervision.

Reaver was at the foot of the stairs, watching Garth run around with an amused look. "You're an odd man," he said bluntly.

"Pot, meet the two hundred year old kettle," Garth replied simply, as he went through the drawers in his desk. Everything was still there, he was delighted to discover.

Reaver chuckled. "Touché," he said.

Garth stopped in front of a floor-length mirror that was against the wall. Though he hadn't seen most of this stuff in well over ten years, he couldn't recall ever having any sort of mirror. He looked at Reaver questioningly.

Reaver shrugged. "I had nowhere else to put it." he said. "Mage, about your silly book-"

"It's not silly," Garth interrupted, affronted that Reaver would think such a thing when he apparently valued knowledge highly.

"I didn't say it was."

"You did just a second ago!"

"Regardless," Reaver cleared his throat pointedly - time to move on. "I'll cooperate with you, but only if don't ask questions concerning the time before I became a pirate. Understood?"

Garth stared at him blankly. "Why?" he asked.

"I told you, I like my secrets." Reaver shrugged and turned away. Garth hurried over to him before he left.

"But it seems odd to me that that entire period of your life is off-limits, and that you'll speak candidly of the rest," he said. "You must have been what, thirty when you became a pirate?"

Reaver cleared his throat again. "37," he said. "That's when I became immortal, and it's when I turned to piracy too. That's where my story will begin."

"So you can ask me about a personal matter-" Garth pointed to his monocle "-but I can't ask you about yours?"

"That was one incident," Reaver spat, his temper flaring. "You're asking me to recall things that didn't even happen to me. I was born when my body became immortal."

Garth stared at him in shock. There were a number of reasons a person changed their identity, and all of them had to do with distancing themselves from the person that had once been, for whatever reason.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

The next moment the wind was knocked out of him as he was slammed up against the stone wall. Reaver had pinned him there by his throat, pistol to his temple, and for a split second Garth swore he was looking at his father. He gasped for breath as his mind struggled to catch up.

"Last warning, Mage," Reaver growled, and Garth had only seen that murderous glint in his eyes once before - when they had been facing Lucien, after he had transported them to the Spire.

"Get off me," Garth choked out, and he threw Reaver back with a Force Push spell. He summoned his protective Blades just in time for Reaver to fire a shot at him.

"Enough!" he growled, and Reaver climbed to his feet, watching him savagely. "I don't take kindly to being attacked, Thief!"

"I warned you," Reaver growled darkly, though he tucked his pistol back in its holster - he must have realised he couldn't shoot through Garth's Blades. He snarled when Garth didn't dismiss the Blades.

"I don't trust you," Garth growled, shaken to his core. "Though I suppose I should thank you for being kind enough to warn me, as opposed to simply shooting me like you would with anyone else unfortunate enough to get on your nerves."

Reaver stared at him a moment longer, and odd mix of fury and dejection on his face. Then he turned on his heel and stormed back upstairs, slamming the cellar door behind him.

Garth slid down the wall onto the floor miserably, still trying to catch his breath. He knew he should have stayed in bed this morning.

**

The excitement he'd felt at having his old equipment back had waned quickly. Though he'd tried to check and catalogue everything, his mind kept dwelling on that infuriating prick of a man with whom he had the misfortune of sharing a house. Finally, he gave up and decided to go for a walk, knowing that unless the house was robbed by a criminal with a particular interest in the Old Kingdom, his things would be there when he returned.

Spring was still a little way off, and so he figured the coastline would be all but deserted. He received a couple of curious stares from a group of builders who were putting the finishing touches on a house, but he ignored them easily.

He had no idea where Reaver had gone. He hoped that some poor sod hadn't lost their life just because he'd pissed Reaver off. Garth sighed.

Deciding he didn't want to walk onto the beach, he trudged up the hill and stopped on the small cliff that hung over the water. He leaned against the tree there and looked out across the ocean. The Spire loomed ominously in the distance, a constant reminder of his long imprisonment, and Lucien. In his darker, most desperate moments, he had considered rejoining Lucien's cause, throwing himself at the madman's feet and begging for forgiveness and freedom, but he had held out. Perhaps he would have done anything to get out of that tiny cell, but Sparrow's presence helped him cling to his sanity, helped him remember that it was Lucien in the wrong, not he. And so he'd waited, gathered his Will, and cursed Lucien's existence.

He shuddered involuntarily. Had he been given a wish in the Spire, he would have had his memory of Lucien erased. Instead, the man haunted his nightmares.

Reaver crept back into his mind, and he chuckled humourlessly. He was predisposed to keeping unhealthy company, it seemed.

Voices, getting louder - he glanced over his shoulder and froze. Reaver was accompanying a small group of men as they walked down the path towards the beach. Judging from Reaver's bored expression, and the way they tried to make themselves look as important as possible, these men were part of the town council. One of the men pointed down the coastline, and Reaver nodded. Then he looked up the hill, and stopped when he saw Garth. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Leave." Reaver ordered the men.

"Sir, we've not finished discussing the port," one of the men protested.

"Now," Reaver said firmly.

"Sir, we insist, this will only take a few minutes-" the official changed his tone when Reaver drew his pistol. "Oh, you meant now? Of course, my mistake." And with that, he and the other officials left so quickly that it made Garth wonder if Reaver had actually shot one of them before.

Garth briefly considered summoning his Blades again, but thought better of it when Reaver tucked his pistol away again. Reaver walked up the grassy hill leisurely, his face unreadable as he stood next to Garth.

"What are you looking at?" His voice was demanding and his eyes were trained on the horizon. Garth snorted.

"Take a guess."

"That old thing?" Reaver scoffed. "That whole thing was rather anticlimactic, wouldn't you agree? I'll not deny it hurt like hell, but from the way that blind woman was banging on I expected an epic battle of some sort."

"You should be thankful that was the extent of your experience there," Garth muttered. "Sparrow and I spent ten years in that thing."

"So I hear. Though I understand Sparrow had it considerably easier than you."

"Not so. We suffered equally, though in different ways."

"How noble of you to say," Reaver said lightly, a wry smile on his face now. "I'm sure Sparrow feels validated now that you've claimed that."

"It's nothing to do with validation," Garth snapped. How the hell had no one shot this arrogant man yet? He was quick on the draw, of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't be taken by surprise…

Reaver cleared his throat. Garth was pulled from his thoughts. Reaver was holding out a small piece of oddly coloured rock, and looking at Garth impatiently.

"What is that?" Garth asked. It looked familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"A piece of that evil floaty rock that attacked us," Reaver said simply. "I picked it up when you zapped it into a thousand pieces. I must thank you for that, by the way, I've always loved a good dodging game, especially when the thing I'm dodging could shred me into pieces-"

Garth all but snatched it from his hand, ignoring his rant. "This is a piece of the crystal orb itself," he said in disbelief. Reaver shrugged.

"Every other piece that almost hit me was a sort of dull greyish-black colour. Naturally, that piece caught my eye." He paused, and then chuckled. "I suppose you could say it's a shard of a Shard."

"Yes, you could." Garth replied distantly. He rolled the stone in his palms. It was a foggy cream colour with odd, raised veins criss-crossing it. He had never had a chance to examine Lucien's Shards - their partnership ended long before Lucien gained power over them. "It's been cut directly from the Spire, and infused with Will." It felt warm in his hands.

"You think so?" Reaver replied, mildly interested. "It's a shard of a shard of a shard then. Or something." He shook his head when Garth tried to hand it back. "You touched it last, it's yours. I don't want it anymore. I keep it in my pocket, and it digs into my leg. Anyone who didn't know any better would think I'm simply pleased to see them."

Garth stared at him blankly. Reaver shrugged.

"You take it or I use it as target practice. It's up to you."

Garth stared for a moment longer before pocketing the shard. "All right."

Without another word, Reaver turned on his heel and walked back the way he came.

"I honestly thought you were younger than thirty," Garth called after him, unable to stop himself.

Reaver paused and glanced back at him.

"Physically, I mean." Garth clarified quickly.

Reaver regarded him thoughtfully. "I try, Mage." he said simply, and Garth grinned when he began to laugh.