Garth felt sick, his body ached and his head swam. The Commandant's attack had been powerful, had broken through his Blades and forced him to his knees. Sometime during his transportation by the Shard, he had passed out.

He wished he could pass out again now, if only to dull the blind terror that was rising up inside him, but his body seemed determined to stay awake. He was back. The Spire - that cursed place that had stolen his lord's sanity and had taken the lives of countless innocent men. Lucien wanted him, for what he wasn't entirely sure, but escape this time seemed more or less impossible.

"I had hoped-" Lucien began, and Garth looked around frantically. He was alone with this nutter. "-that you would join me on my crusade for a perfect world. I so dearly wanted you to be a part of it."

Garth scoffed, though he felt like he was going to throw up. "And your family?" he asked. Lucien descended the steps slowly, his eyes trained on Garth. He looked awful, like he hadn't slept in days.

"They at my left side, you at my right." he said simply. "I had it all planned, and then you had to go and betray me. Do you know how much that crushed me?"

"I can imagine," Garth replied cynically. "You're causing the very thing you're trying to eradicate. Have you any idea how many have suffered, how many have died?"

"Casualties were to be expected," Lucien replied loftily.

"Maybe so, but not by the thousands." Garth retorted. He desperately needed to sit down, to get away from this madman. The most disturbing thing, perhaps, was that he could still see his old sire behind those senseless eyes. He had to look away, before he was sucked back in.

"You're missing the bigger picture, Garth. I'm surprised at you." Lucien stopped right in front of him. Garth trembled, desperate to get away. "Why won't you look at me?"

"Get away from me," Garth growled, stumbling backwards. Lucien followed him.

"Say you'll join me again, Garth. I would be overjoyed to have you at my side again."

"No," Garth snapped. He felt dizzy.

"You still have so much more to offer."

"I don't care," Garth felt weak now. He had to hold his ground…

"Garth, look at me!" Lucien seized him, and Garth woke with a start.

He lay still for a moment, waiting for his racing heart to calm down. Despite the chilly air, he felt hot and sick on the stomach, and he threw the sheets off of him. He sat up and opened the window by his bed, and leaned against the sill. The cold breeze dried his sweat-covered face.

The Spire loomed against the horizon, visible even in the dead of night. Including the time he spent as Lucien's associate, he had lost almost twenty years to that thing. That was half his life, gone. He wished he could have that time back.

For the past few days he had been gathering his thoughts, mentally planning the book he was going to write, and it had only truly sunk in that he was going to write about himself, he would have to be absolutely honest. About the Spire, about Lucien, about his guilt, everything.

He sighed and rested his chin on his arms. His family would be hard enough to write about, Lucien was something else entirely. For the first time, he understood Reaver's odd request (well, it had been an order, really) for privacy. It would be far less painful for Garth to omit that crucial part of his life entirely.

He put on his monocle and climbed out of bed to get himself a drink of water. His throat was parched.

**

Reaver was tired. It wasn't the usual weariness he felt, which stemmed from over two hundred years of life. He had slept even less than usual last night, simply because he had heard a single, despairing cry from the Mage. Had Reaver not been drunk off his arse, he would have gone to see what all the fuss was about.

Garth had been having a nightmare; of that, Reaver was certain. It was startling to think that there was anything hidden deep within Garth's mind that disturbed him enough to make him dream of it. Reaver wondered why he was surprised, as he himself had regular nightmares. One couldn't judge these things based on appearance alone.

He had stayed awake after that, listening, wondering if he would hear anything pertaining to dreams. But Garth had gone downstairs for a while, then returned to his room a little later, and Reaver had sat in a silent house for the rest of the night.

His mind was wandering; he knew he shouldn't let it, given that he was in a council meeting at that very moment. But who could blame him, given that these meetings were so boring, and that he had a very delightful distraction waiting for him at home, begging to be ravished? Not that he had actually gotten around to propositioning Garth yet, but it was on his to-do list! 1. Continue fixing Oakfield. 2. Fuck Garth. 3. Buy new outfit. 4. Fuck Garth.

Perhaps he would even need to buy another outfit after that, were he to ruin the first one by fraternising with Garth. Maybe he could buy an outfit specifically for canoodling with Garth? He would call it his Mage Fucker outfit. Yes, that would fit snugly in his closet, right next to his Shooty Shooty Bang Bang outfit, and his I'm Greater than You outfit, which he was wearing today. It was his favourite, after all.

He began to laugh at his own thoughts. Unfortunately, seeing as he was in the company of a dozen or so men, and seeing as they had been thoughts and not words spoken aloud, he soon realised how mad he actually looked. He tried to calm himself down, but the bewildered expressions of the councilmen only made him laugh harder.

"Any questions?" he managed to ask finally. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. Sometimes it truly was fun to be him.

The councilmen glanced at each other sidelong. Clearly, they thought him insane.

"Sir," one ventured finally, a balding, stocky man with two - no, maybe three chins. "The, ah… About the port-"

"This again?" Reaver exclaimed loudly, his funny mood causing him to be far more exaggerated with his utterances. "Have I not explained it enough to you? This-"

He stood up and pointed to the large diagram hoisted onto a stand. The diagram had been beautifully mapped - Reaver resolved to give the artist a cookie.

"-is the bay. This is where the docks will go. And these are the pillars that will hold the docks in place, pillars that will be replaced by your dead bodies if you dare ask me anything more about this damned port!"

Oh, how he hated Sparrow. It was bad enough that the man had found and read his diary. But to emotionally blackmail him into fixing Oakfield, to impose all these rules and restrictions on him, and to insist that his efforts be accompanied by a council full of old buffoons… it was too much. But he could do nothing about it, because Sparrow could kill him with a flick of his wrist and a muttered Will spell before Reaver had even drawn his pistol. Reaver could easily kill him in a shootout or a swordfight, but magic was his downfall. And Sparrow knew it.

The men stared at him wildly, and Reaver itched to reach for his Dragonstomper, to kill each and every one of them for daring to bore him with their mediocre existence. But he could not, and so he exercised his self-control.

"Any more questions?" he asked, his voice forcibly calm. One man began to speak, and Reaver cut him off. "It was rhetorical. I don't care." With that he walked out, leaving the baffled men in their seats to gossip about him.

He had come down from his earlier high quickly, leaving him in a foul, brooding mood. He ignored the greetings of the villagers as he marched home; his trigger finger was too damned itchy for him to pretend to be pleasant with the commoners.

He found Garth sitting in the yard, under an oak tree that overlooked the ocean. He was reading, and as Reaver grew closer he saw that it was one of his own - The Tale of Twinblade. Garth must have raided the cellar to find that old thing; it had never been one of Reaver's favourites, and had been out of print for a long, long time.

"Enjoying that, are you?" Reaver asked sullenly. Garth hadn't even noticed him approach.

Garth stared up at him. "Hello to you, too." he replied, unappreciated of Reaver's testy mood. Reaver scowled.

"Don't start with me, Mage; I'll have none of it." Caring little for grace, he flopped down beside Garth, glowering out at the ocean without actually seeing it. "Tell me, dear Mage: have you ever hated someone?"

Garth looked surprised. "What's this about?" he asked, closing his book to give Reaver his full attention.

"Just answer the question," Reaver growled. Garth cocked an eyebrow.

"I've disliked many," he answered carefully. "But I can count the people I've truly hated on one hand. Now, will you answer mine?"

"Who are they?" Reaver asked.

"Reaver, enough." Garth looked frustrated now, and Reaver decided he liked the way Garth said his name. Samarkandan accent with a hint of Alban nobility; he had spent a lot of time around Lucien and his ilk, or so Reaver was led to believe. "What's this about?"

"I hate Sparrow." Reaver confessed through gritted teeth.

Garth looked surprised - if both eyes were visible, Reaver guessed he'd be blinking. "Truly?"

"Very much so." Reaver growled. "I want nothing more than to march up to his little castle and put a bullet in his skull."

Garth was silent for a long moment. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked finally, his voice heavy.

"I was rather hoping you would talk me out of it."

"You're an adult, show some maturity. How old did you say you were?"

At that, Reaver gave a decidedly ill-bred snort. "Two hundred." he replied. "Though in truth, it's much closer to 250. It's just easier to say two hundred."

"But far more accurate to say 250," Garth pointed out flatly. Reaver laughed now, amused.

"All right, from now on I'll say I'm almost 250, just for you." he said. Garth looked surprised for a moment before chuckling and turning his head away. Reaver caught sight of his pink cheeks, and suddenly felt a little better.

He wondered if he had been forgiven for his outburst a few days ago. Probably not - that look of utter panic on Garth's face in that split second after he was slammed against the wall had made Reaver falter. When Garth had thrown him off, Reaver had fired out of reflex - of course he didn't want to shoot Garth. He'd given his Shard fragment to Garth as a peace offering, but while Garth had accepted it, he was still on his guard around Reaver.

Reaver was angry at himself for losing his temper at Garth. He wanted Garth on his side after all. Sparrow would be no match against both of them, and Reaver would be able to tell him to blow his 'rules' out of his arse.

He needed to be gentle with Garth. Gentle and subtle and everything that Reaver was not. He resisted the urge to sigh loudly.

He could remember meeting Garth vividly. How could he not, given that his beloved ship had been blown to pieces by a flying pointy rock moments later? He was certainly something to look at, with his dark skin, white hair and creepy glowing blue lines all over his body. He showed no remorse for the dozens of men Reaver and Sparrow had killed as they escaped Bloodstone - Reaver liked that. Not like Hammer, who had bitched and moaned about all the killing. He was also smart - why that blind woman hadn't sent Garth instead of Sparrow to meet Reaver was beyond him. He certainly wouldn't have sent away a man that intriguing.

Garth was staring out at the sea now, content with being in his own world. Reaver couldn't understand that; long periods of silence made him uncomfortable. He was about to make a cheeky comment when he noticed how still Garth was. Barely breathing, even. Reaver followed Garth's line of sight - he was looking at the Spire.

Ah, perhaps that was the thing that gave the Mage nightmares? Spending many years trapped in that thing couldn't have been good for Garth's mind. And if his thoughts were lingering on it now… Blasted thing. If only Reaver could shoot it-

He paused. An idea crept into his mind and he grinned.

"What are you looking at?" he asked as innocently as he could. He scooted closer to Garth, all but resting his chin on the man's shoulder. Garth's reaction was to jerk away in shock. Reaver chuckled.

"Is that mean old bit of rock giving you funny looks?" he asked, unable to keep the condescension from his voice entirely. "Well, why don't we teach it a lesson?"

Garth stared at him blankly, though Reaver could see a hint of sadness in his face. He wondered what had happened to Garth in that thing.

"I could shoot it, if you like." he suggested lightly.

Garth's expression changed as he looked at Reaver incredulously. "You're going to shoot the Spire?" he asked dubiously.

Reaver sighed. He was two hundred- no, almost 250 years old, surely he was allowed a little bit of insanity. Insanity was what made life fun for him at the moment, seeing as he had been placed on an indefinite killing-ban by Sparrow. He drew his pistol and stood up.

"That's right," he replied cheerily. He aimed at the far-distant structure. "Do you think I'll hit it?"

"I was under the impression that you never miss," Garth replied. He was beginning to play along now. Reaver liked that.

"True enough, and it is a rather large building." he said, wondering if his bullet would cover even an eighth of the distance. He fired, and after a moment of stillness, tucked the pistol away again. "I'm not sure what I was expecting to happen," he admitted, grinning.

"It was a nice thought, in any case," Garth said, and there was a hint of humour in his voice. "You need a larger gun perchance."

"Which gun do you refer to?" Reaver asked cheekily as he sat back down, and Garth's face flushed. "I imagine you're not as crude as that barbaric woman, but one can never be too sure about these things." Reaver disliked Hammer - he didn't hate her as he did Sparrow, but she was all brawn, without a hint of femininity in her being at all. Yet Garth was friendly with her, and Sparrow seemed to love her… it was baffling.

Garth frowned; Reaver knew he disapproved of the bad-mouthing. "No, not nearly as crude," he muttered. "I haven't the confidence to be so."

"Nor the obscenity," Reaver added, and Garth chuckled again. "But really, Mage, if the big pointy Spire upsets you so much, I can simply cover it up."

"Cover up the Spire now, is it?" Garth's voice shook with amusement, and it made an odd warmth blossom in Reaver's chest. "Tell me, how do you plan to do that?"

"I'll just toss a sky-blue sheet over it."

Garth was laughing now, and Reaver was finding it difficult not to join in. "And what would happen on an overcast day? There would just be a giant pointy blue thing on the horizon."

"Why are you trying so hard to put a damper on this?" Reaver demanded, though he was smiling. Garth laughed again.

Reaver watched him; Garth looked much younger when he smiled. Reaver wondered how old he actually was - he had thought Garth was in his thirties, but judging from Hammer-troll's tirade, and Garth's subsequent reaction, he was older. Perhaps he was in his forties? He couldn't be older than that, surely.

"Mage, you should smile more." the words had left Reaver's mouth before his brain had a chance to process them.

"Should I just?" Garth replied mildly, opening his book again. He was humouring Reaver. Well, Reaver wasn't going to have that!

"Yes, you should. You would get far more than a passing glance if you did."

Garth looked up again and cocked an eyebrow. Reaver liked that little quirk of his - he found it charming.

"I get far more than a passing glance now," Garth pointed out. "You said it yourself: nothing about me is inconspicuous."

Reaver chuckled. "Has that observation of mine been weighing on your mind?" he asked.

Garth smiled wryly. "A little, yes."

"Well, you shouldn't worry. Despite your peculiarities - or perhaps, because of them - you're very easy on the eye." Reaver smirked and leaned forward, into Garth's space. Garth jerked away automatically. "Not to mention your accent," Reaver purred. "I told you before, I do like it."

"You said that you liked accents in general," Garth replied, his face red. He closed his book again, sighing. "I can never enjoy a good book when you're around," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course not. Woe befall me if I were ever to let you," Reaver said, and Garth chuckled.

**

Booze was awesome. Unlike most people, Reaver didn't drink it at parties - he had learnt his lesson long ago, when he had gotten completely hammered and woken up tied to a table, blindfolded and gagged and at the mercy of the craziest bitch he had ever known. No, Reaver drank because it helped him sleep. He would get a massive burst of energy, then he would crash with exhaustion and be up at the crack of dawn the next day, without fail. Unless he had bedded someone, of course. Then he would stay in bed, hoping for the possibility of a round two when his fuck-buddy woke.

Spirits were the greatest thing ever, beside himself. They got him drunk faster than any other type of alcohol. Why didn't Garth like grog? It made Reaver feel damn good. Perhaps some drunkard had done something to him? If that were the case, Reaver hoped Garth had killed the fool.

Garth hadn't even gone to bed yet. He had shut himself up in his study late afternoon, and hadn't emerged since. Without his entertainment, Reaver had been forced to work, and it - as some members of his old crew used to say - had sucked nuts.

What the hell was Garth doing in there, anyway? Having a wank, Reaver thought, and he looked down at himself thoughtfully. Perhaps he could have a tug too?

He paused and sighed, realising that he was completely drunk. He set the bottle of alcohol aside for the night reluctantly, knowing it would always be there tomorrow. He would wait until nightfall to have a nip too - after making that strange promise to Garth, he felt weirdly obligated to keep it. "Fuckin' Will user," he muttered, and paused. That wasn't such a bad idea.

Not now, he scolded himself. If he was going to sleep with Garth, he would have to wait. He needed Garth to trust him, at least more than he did Sparrow, and drunkenly propositioning him would probably do more harm than good. Reaver laughed as he imagined Garth's reaction, and paused when he caught sight of himself in his full-length mirror. No wonder the Mage is always blushing, he concluded. Even dressed down as he was, in his night pants (emerald green, the best kind of green) and loose white night shirt, he still looked damn good.

He laughed again, but this time without humour. Hell, maybe the Mage blushed all the time because he was in love with him. Reaver reached for the bottle and took another deep swig, before remembering he had actually stopped drinking for the night. Oh, but he was a brilliant man. A brilliant, idiotic, tired, immortal man. Being drunk was awesome.

Where the fuck was Garth? Reaver should have heard him go to bed by now, surely. Maybe one of his Old Kingdom doodahs had exploded in his face, though Reaver dismissed that idea quickly. He would have heard the boom.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he climbed out of bed and padded downstairs. Sure enough, beneath the cellar door (study door, you fucking fool) was the strip of light that told him Garth was still awake. He pushed open the door and walked down the stairs.

Garth was at his desk, brow furrowed as he concentrated on whatever he was writing. Reaver guessed he was planning that book he kept mentioning. He already had a pile of notes - how big was this book going to be? Then again, Reaver was two hundred years old (no, almost 250), so it was always going to be lengthy.

"Make sure you use the word 'surreptitious'," he said. Garth jumped, and Reaver felt a thrill of pride at knowing he could even drunkenly sneak up on the man.

"Surreptitious, you say?" Garth asked inquisitively. Reaver nodded enthusiastically, further descending the stairs.

"It's not used enough," he elaborated. "And it's such a marvellous word."

"Ah. Well, I'll see if I can work it in. Nothing about you is surreptitious though, Thief, so don't hold your breath." Garth's nose wrinkled then, and Reaver knew he could smell the alcohol.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you tonight, so I thought I could have a snifter," he said, holding his hands up in surrender, not knowing why he felt the need to explain himself. Garth shook his head.

"You've had more than a snifter," he pointed out, and Reaver shrugged.

"Didn't drink around you, didn't break my promise," he said stubbornly. At that, Garth chuckled softly.

"All right, I'll let you get away with that." he said, and Reaver grinned.

"You writing about me?" he asked curiously. Garth shook his head.

"Not yet. I don't quite know where to start with you." he admitted.

"Start with how brilliant I am," Reaver said, lifting his chin proudly. "Then just go from there. You'll find it writes itself!"

Garth didn't answer, and it took Reaver a few moments to realise he was getting stared at, and another few to realise why. Garth had never seen him dressed down like this. He grinned, and did a silly twirl on the spot.

"Do I look good?" he asked eagerly. Garth laughed, his cheeks turning pink, and Reaver decided he liked that combination.

"Don't you always?" Garth replied simply, and Reaver found that he couldn't disagree.

He began to look around the cellar (study, damn you) curiously, and found himself staring at that old bed. Sparrow had called it evil, though Reaver didn't know why. Maybe because it was so ugly? No, that wasn't it - if Sparrow hated the evilly ugly, he would have killed that barbaric woman a long time ago. Maybe it ate the soul of anyone who slept in it? No, Sparrow still had his soul, that much was apparent. Maybe brains? Yes, that was most likely it. Brains. It would certainly explain a few things.

He turned back to Garth. "So it ate Sparrow's brain, did it?" he asked. Garth looked at him in complete bewilderment, and Reaver couldn't figure out why- Oh, right. He was drunk.

"I don't think I want to know," Garth muttered, and Reaver laughed. "At least you're a happy drunk, I suppose."

"Only because I'm talking to you, dear Mage," Reaver replied, not entirely lying. He took to Garth's side, staring down at the plethora of notes sightlessly. "You know, it's late."

"How late?" Garth sounded surprised.

"Sleep-time late."

"Oh." Garth looked up at him closely, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Then why aren't you asleep?"

"Because I needed to inform you of the time!" Reaver said, and laughed bitterly in spite of himself. "And get drunk off my arse too, it seems."

Garth looked surprised, before his expression grew closed - a sure sign he was upset about something. Reaver frowned and, refusing to let Garth withdraw into himself, touched Garth's face, underneath his monocle. Garth's visible eye widened.

"You shouldn't wear this clunky all the time," he said, in what he hoped was a low voice. He was rather drunk, after all.

"Why?" Garth's answer was merely a breath.

"You hide behind it, and that annoys me." Reaver said plainly. "I've told you before, my dear Mage - I enjoy looking at you."

Garth's face flushed a brilliant red, and Reaver couldn't help but drag his thumb across Garth's cheek before he pulled his hand away. He wagered he was the first person in a long, long time that made Garth look like that. He smiled. Garth was an incredibly brilliant, yet socially awkward man. Reaver knew he would have to be careful with him.

"Why did you come down here?" Garth asked suddenly.

Reaver laughed, remembering his drunken theory about exploding Old Kingdom artefacts.

"I didn't hear a boom," he said simply, and laughed harder at Garth's bewildered expression.