Secrets

By Lindsay R. Honosky

Chapter Four: Tit for Tat

Morning announced itself via the cries of seagulls fighting over the remains of fish unlucky enough to be washed ashore after last night's storm. Sparrow yawned, gazing out the windows from the second-story deck, holding her night-robe clothes to her body. She assumed last night was one of the first of many storms that would grace Bloodstone as winter set it; it sent a chill up her spine. Sparrow could weather monsters, but those migraines of hers were terrors all their own. She gave her arms a stretch, still slightly weakened from the previous night's illness. It would be noon by the time she had fully recovered; she grimaced, not looking forward to half a day lost due to noodle legs.

Jack was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her pleadingly with those big brown eyes. He gave her his usual good morning lick on the hand, then rushed over to the door, scratching it lightly. Sparrow rolled her eyes, "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't a cat in disguise." He barked at her, then returned to his scratching. By the time she got to the door Jack was whining, hopping on impatient feet. Sparrow laughed, patted his head, and opened the door, watching as the mutt disappeared in a golden flash.

Sparrow stood on the porch for a while, breathing deeply of the salty sea air. A cool breeze caressed her cheek, causing her hair to dance about her face, lost to the whims of the wind. Bloodstone really was beautiful, if you only took into account the visual aspect of it. From atop the hill you could see the sun rise beyond the end of the world, the sea a sparkling field of diamonds, gently whispering sweet nothings like that of a young lover. The cobblestone streets wrapped their way around the various houses and businesses like a speckled snake curling around and under rocks to find shade from the sun that would soon shine down upon the sea-battered buildings. People began to emerge from within these buildings, looking still half asleep and remorseful of the previous night's drinking binge. She smiled a little to herself; some people were going to have one hell of a day. Deciding it was to cold to stand outside any longer, Sparrow turned and went back inside, closing the door behind her gently.

The house was to cold for her comfort, the floor hard and uninviting beneath her feet. With a low grumble Sparrow walked into the study, noticing with a sigh the muddy trail of both dog and human prints left behind form last night. She frowned, wondering why Reaver hadn't bothered to take his boots off? She guessed he thought somewhere along the lines of, "it's alright if I leave tracks"; Sparrow left them their and continued to the fireplace. Most of what was left of the fire from the previous night hand burned away, a stream of explosive cursing pouring from Sparrow's mouth as she made her way to the "basement door". The bookcase concealing the hidden entrance looked just like any other in the room, which is why it had annoyed her to no end trying to find the right book to pull to open the damn thing. Looking back on it, she couldn't understand why it took her so long to find the switch; the book which opened the door was titled "The Many Faces of Reaver". It was basically an artbook full of sketches he must have collected over the years (which for him counted for a lot), but when put in the right place the lining fit into a tiny switch at the back, and the door would open. The stairs above shook as the door unlocked before her touch, a blast of air coming up from the caverns beneath. Igniting a tiny flame at the tip of her finger, Sparrow descended down the stairwell, cursing again when she found the stone floor was much more chilly than the wooden one.

The wet, musty smell reminded her of why she didn't come down here often. The sound of the sea echoed further down the cavern, giving the place an eerie, unwelcoming feeling. Her tiny flame reflected upon the untouched wine bottles as they rested in their shelves, a healthy layer of dust resting on the bottom-most bottles. Giant barrels of mead cast shadows that looked like a troll were about to stand and fight her, the tiny flame's flickering making the dark shapes dance along the stone walls. Crates, dressers, tables, old book-shelves, and countless amounts of discarded furniture rested in these dark halls, collecting mold and dust. She knew she should really clean the place out, but she rarely came down here (unless she needed firewood) and she didn't know what to do with all the items anyway. So there they sat, untouched and unused; she gave them a mournful sigh and walked to the pile of cut firewood in the corner.

By the time Sparrow made it back to the study she was sure there were at least six splinters embedded in her fingers, and the silk gown she had underneath her robe was sure to be picked to little pieces. She threw the wood into the opening, quickly turning the pile into a blazing inferno. With a satisfied smile Sparrow watched as the flames consumed the dry wood, warmth instantly seeping into her body. Looking outside, she found that the sun had risen quite high, yet as far as she knew Reaver was still asleep in the guest room. For a second she wondered why she should care if he stayed in bed late, but found herself climbing the stairs anyway. Maybe if she were lucky she'd find the room empty, and she wouldn't have to deal with him at all today.

The second-story hallway was always so dark; Sparrow often thought of installing a window in the small sitting room, however she had the sinking suspicion not much sunlight would reach the new addition, thanks to the cliff resting behind the house. What little light that came in through the doorway was enough to keep her from breaking a leg on the table and chairs that lay about, however she still had to feel her way to the third staircase. She was grateful that the walls were so close together, giving her something to help guide her up the stairs. She'd wanted to put some paintings or something on these bare walls, but with no lights, it seemed like a waste, so they stayed bare and boring, poor things. The floor creaked as she stepped onto the third floor, pale light gently illuminating the empty hall. The only sounds were that of her own breathing, the door to the guest room still closed tightly. She walked quietly towards it, placing a hand on the cool doorknob, and turned it gently.

In the darkness she could hear a faint, almost panicked mumbling coming from further inside the room. For a second Sparrow hesitated, then stepped further inside, keeping to door cracked. The small sliver of light landed across Reaver's face, a mask of nightmarish pain. Sparrow moved closer, finding herself transfixed on his face. His eyes darted back and forth behind closed eyelids, watching some unseen horror play out behind them. His lower lip trembled, mouthing words that came out as indistinguishable mutterings. Sweat beaded upon feverish skin, and his hands clutched at the bedding in a vice grip. She remembered the tortured words of his final journal page, and concern suddenly filled Sparrow. She reached a hand out, hoping to wake him gently.

She cried out, her hand locked in an unbreakable grip. Before she knew what was happening Sparrow found herself being flung onto the bed, something heavy pinning her down. She looked up and found wild, terrified green eyes piercing into her, the barrel of a pistol resting on her temple. His breathing was haggard, and his arms trembled slightly. A fog seemed to rest behind those eyes of his, and Sparrow found herself afraid of him. She licked her lips and tried to keep the fear from her voice, "Reaver-?"

"Dead. They're all dead."

"I know," her hand reached up, touching his face.

"I didn't want them to die. I didn't know." The gun fell from his hand, though his eyes still held their dazed look, "She cried out my name..." Reaver lifted his hand from Sparrow, then quickly rolled off of her, resting his head once again on the pillows. Sparrow stood, slightly shaken, As quickly as she could, Sparrow darted from the room, closing the door behind her. She felt something warm trickling down her cheeks, and as she lifted her hands to her face she found tears had fallen from her eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was well past noon by the time Sparrow heard anything from upstairs. Jack could sense her anxiety; he walked over quietly and rested on his mistress's feet, keeping a protective eye on the door in front of him. The heavy footsteps stopped on the second-story deck, and she could hear a deep yawn from behind the wall. After a few more moments the footsteps began again, this time much louder as they descended the last flight of stairs. The door to the study opened, revealing a shirtless, unkempt Reaver. A note of surprise was in his voice as he said, "Why, Sparrow! I had forgotten you were here."

"How could you?" She sighed, looking at the fireplace, "Nevermind; do you know what time it is?"

He walked across the room, sitting across the table from her, "I find mornings boring. Nothing to do during them, save read a book or eat." He ran a hand through tangled hair, "As I had neither interest in either subject, I chose to sleep in."

Sparrow gave him a mocking grin, "I wonder how you'd fair at an honest day's work?"

"Please, honest work is rather boring, don't you think? The tedious act of doing the same thing, over and over again until your mind goes numb from unrelenting repetition."

"Some people put a lot of pride in their work," she countered, eyeing him flatly.

"And I don't?" He laughed heartily, "My dear Sparrow; one does not become the King of Pirates without putting a little of themselves behind it."

"I'm sure being alive for almost three hundred years helps."

He laughed again, "Yes, that helps too."

The room grew silent, time passing awkwardly between them. Sparrow traced the tip of the table, her mind absently returning to earlier that morning. It seemed strange to her, to see him look so happy, well, not really happy, but not what she would expect him to look after such a dream. To have the same dream, over and over again for almost three centuries; it baffled her that he hadn't gone mad. Perhaps he had, which is why he acted the way he did. Throwing away his old name, even his old ways seemed, at least to her, like small hints of insanity. Reaver woke her from her thoughts as he chuckled from across the table, "Hm?"

"Your face makes such a delightful look of pain when you think, my dear. It makes me wonder," he laced his fingers together, leaning his head to rest upon them, "what are you thinking to cause such a face?"

She narrowed her eyes, "Why the sudden interest?"

"Because I assume your thoughts are on me, and to be perfectly honest," he gave her a grin, "I find anything concerning me of the utmost interest."

"That's pretty vain of you," she looked at her fingernails, pretending to be bored, "why on Earth would I be thinking of you?"

"I hate repeating myself, Sparrow."

She sighed in annoyance, "Alright, perhaps I was thinking of you."

"And?"

"And I find it hard to grasp just how you could get away with being alive for so long. How did you do it? Surely someone would have caught on to your little secret," she pointed an accusing finger at him, "though I'd assume you'd quickly put an end to them, once they knew the truth."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they reopened they held a strange emotion, "Yes, most of those who figure out my secret are buried in some grave, either through my hand or that of time's. As to how I 'get away with it', as you so crudely put it, I simply change my appearance once I grow bored or it becomes to long in the teeth."

Sparrow waved her hand, "Simply changing how you look every few years isn't enough to keep imortality a secret. I could change my appearance right now; that doesn't mean people would mistake me for a completely different person."

"Indeed, that takes a little more of a creative air." He shrugged, "My title, Reaver, is simply passed down from one man to another, after I 'die', of course."

She raised an eyebrow, "Die?"

He laughed at this, like he was the only one privy to a hilarious joke, "Yes, ironic, isn't it? A man who wished to escape death must, from time to time, stage his end to keep up the illusion." He rubbed his eyes, sighing haggardly, "It get's rather tiresome, if I do say so."

"And how, if you don't mind me asking," she smiled again, "which I know you don't, did you manage to convince people you'd died?"

Reaver leaned back in his chair, and he said with contempt, "Luckily, pirates haven't evolved much over the years. They're still the same superstitious idiots who will believe anything they see and ask little to no questions afterward." He read the curiosity on her face, "I simply dressed some poor soul in my clothing, disguised myself, and shot him. The title remained mine, along with my belongings, the only difference is my hair and style changed."

"Yes, that, and the loss of an innocent life."

"And how many of those have you taken? If I'm not mistaken, I heard some say that a certain young man named Alex threw himself off a cliff, to heart-broken to carry on."

"It's not my fault the fool felt the need to take his own life," she slammed her fist down on the table, "had I known what he would do, I wouldn't have listened to that ghost in the first place!"

"Oh? And here I thought you were just a little heart-breaker," he looked at her mischievously, "it would explain the lack of a wedding ring around your finger."

"That is none of your business, and for your information, I would have explained more to Alex, had he not ran of crying into a sea of people."

"Oh, well, you deserve a stronger man than that, anyway." A seductive smile shown between his fingers, "I just happen to be a strong man; what do you say, Sparrow? Shall I show you what you've been missing?"

She sighed, rubbing her temples, "Why is talking to you so tiring?"

He shrugged, "I honestly don't understand you; most women would be stammering and tripping over their own feet had I said that to them."

"I'm not like most women."

"Indeed?"

"Yes," she barked, "for one, I know you for what you are, Reaver."

"And here I am, knowing little to nothing about you." She shot him a glare, "Now now, no need for such harsh looks. Of course I know about your career as a hero, however, I know next to nothing about your previous life." Sparrow was surprised to see genuine curiosity in his eyes, "I feel it a bit unfair, for you to know so much about me, yet you remain a mystery."

"There's nothing mysterious about my life, so just stop wondering."

"Consider it tit for tat, then."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me about your past, and I'll forgive your rude intrusion upon my own."

"I-!" She could feel heat coming into her cheeks, and bit back an insult as Reaver flashed her his teeth, "Very well. Consider us even after this."

"In one aspect."

"Fine!" She sighed deeply, "Get comfortable, and I'm not repeating myself so listen carefully." Her eyes locked onto the fire, and she began her tale, "I don't remember much of my childhood, least not until we left for Bowerstone."

"We?"

"My sister and I. Now don't interrupt me again, or I won't tell you anymore." Getting a confirming nod, Sparrow continued, "Our parents either died or abandoned us, I never really found out. Rose never talked about them much; I think it hurt her to think back on them. However, I hardly even remember my family, so it didn't affect me as much. We were very poor, and it was hard for us to live on the streets, but somehow Rose always found a way to take care of me," she laughed sadly, "one year she even convinced a family of traders to take us in during the winter. That was..." Sparrow tried to keep the tremor from her voice, "that was the year before she died." For a long time the room was silent, and for a moment Reaver thought she would not continue. Then Sparrow took another deep breath, and began again, "The year she died was the same that I found Jack. He was with me since that night. Looking back on it now I wish I would have made Rose stay, but she wanted to live in a castle, and that damn wish we made..." Sparrow reached up, wiping tears from her eyes, "Forgive me."

"Please, take your time."

"I haven't talked to anyone about this," she laughed between a hiccup, "and I never thought you of all people would be the one listening to my tale."

"Tit for tat, my dear. But if you don't mind my asking, what is this wish you refer to?"

"Oh, yes," she looked at his face then, her voice sounding stronger, "do you remember the music box I had in the Spire, the day Lucien died?"

"You mean the day I shot him?"

"Yes," she said angrily, "the day you denied me my revenge."

"The look on your face, ah, if only I had an artist's hand, I'd immortalize it for you." He purred between an impish grin, "Now, what about that music box?"

She fought back the urge to shoot him, "Well, it just so happens that that very same music box that helped me stop Lucien is also what helped take my sister's life. We were told it was magic, and it was, just not in the sense that the vendor suggested." Sparrow began to twirl a piece of her hair, "My sister and I spent a whole day earning enough gold to purchase a magical box that could grant wishes. My sister wished that we would live in a castle..." Her eyes grew distant, like she was watching something far off, "She was always so worried about me; she tried so hard to make a life for us." She laughed sadly, "I wished for her to be happy; I didn't care where we lived, just as long as she was happy. After we made our wishes, the box floated up into the air and disappeared in a flash of light. Rose was so upset, she stomped back to our little shack, and told me we might as well just go to bed.

Somehow Lucien found out about us purchasing the music box, and had the guard come and escort us to the castle. Oh, Rose was so happy," her voice trembled again, and she took a moment to collect herself. After a moment she started again, "That was also the first time I saw Garth, though, he only stayed long enough to pass us going down the hallway." She laughed ruefully, "He told me, after Theresa told him what happened that night, he would have tried to save us. At the time that had only made me angry; wouldn't he have realized what Lucien had planned? But now, I guess it was sweet of him to say, considering what would have happened to him had he indeed intervened." Jack whined at her feet, and she gave him a comforting pat, "Anyway, my sister and I were escorted to Lucien's study, and he began to ask us questions. He even promised my sister that we could live with him, then he told us to stand in this circle on his floor. Rose was the first, and a blue light lit up beneath her feet. I was to frightened to move, but Rose told me not to be afraid, so I stood next to her. That was when Lucien found out that one of us was the Fourth Hero, but he didn't waste time in figuring out which of us it was. Instead he..." she bit her lip, fighting back tears, "he simply shot both of us. Rose fell to the floor before me; I was to scared to move. I wanted to go to her, but then Lucien pointed his gun to me, and I remember backing away from him...then I...I think I must have fallen out the window or was thrown out by the force of the shot."

"How on Earth are you alive now?"

"Thank Theresa for that, she was the one who found me." Jack growled, and she laughed, "And of course you too, Jack. I don't quite understand what it is that allows me to survive such high falls, I simply assumed it was because of the Hero Bloodline, but I've never really cared to look to far into it."

"So, what happened then? After your miraculous survival from a fall of at least six-stories and a bullet wound?"

She shrugged, "Nothing, really. Theresa trained me as I grew, then when I was old enough I set off to kill Lucien." She shot him a rueful grin, "Which you so marvelously did for me. I think you owe me something, for denying me my life's purpose?"

"Oh really," he cocked an eyebrow, "alright, I'll bite. What do you want?"

"Your name, before you became Reaver."

"I hardly think-"

She held up a finger and winked, "Tit for tat my dear."

His form grew rigid, his face an unreadable mask. The room held an awkward silence, but Sparrow would not release him from her gaze. His eyes grew darker, and for a moment she thought he was going to storm out in a blind rage, or worse. However he simply sighed, crossing his arms over his bare chest, "Adrian."

"What was that?"

"I told you I hated repeating myself, dear." He looked at her with an almost bored expression, "I used to be called Adrian. Now, if you don't mind," he stood abruptly, causing the chair to squeak across the floor, "I'm going to make use of that lovely new bathroom you've installed upstairs."

"Reaver?"

He stopped at the doorway and turned towards her. He found her smiling sweetly at him; the first time she had ever given him a genuine, "Thank you." He left quickly, shutting the door behind him.