Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time they meet Reaver almost didn’t realize who the man, soaked to the bone due to the heavy storm season of the port and ruining the rugs with the rainwater that dripped off of him, was mostly because the description he had heard didn’t really fit the man before him.

With the description of Sparrow (and really, what kind of name was that? It did nothing to strike fear into the hearts’ of enemies and it certainly didn’t fit a man who was whipcord lean and quite handsome) that he had been given, Reaver had been expecting someone half mad after having been in Lucien’s iron grip for ten years and through Wraithmarsh, someone who would have a haunted look in their eye from whatever horrors they’d seen.

Instead what he got was a man whose storm grey eyes flashed like the thunder outside and seemed to be incapable of speech. Well, that was what he had gathered once he had seen the evenly spaced burn marks around Sparrow’s neck, figuring that whatever Lucien had done, he had taken away his ability to speak. Once again he was surprised and proven wrong by this man.

”Are you Reaver?”

The words came to his mind and they most certainly weren’t his. No, they subtly slipped into his mind and once he realized that they came from the man darkening his doorway he knew exactly who it was. He knew when to recognize another Hero.

“You’re back! My men are positively buzzing with interest,” Reaver says, ignoring Sparrow’s question, from where he poses for the painter. “’Who is this person?’ they ask. ‘Have Heroes come back to Albion?’ and blah blah blah, and so on and so forth and I really don’t care.”

Sparrow crosses his arms over his chest and gives him an unimpressed look, though it’s tinged with some amusement, perhaps ready to say something – more like force his words into Reaver’s mind to communicate, whatever – but Reaver doesn’t want to hear it so continues on.

“You see, while you were out making your name a hou—a hovel-hold word, I discovered that you recently waltzed right out of Lucien’s Spire. So unless I miss my guess – and incidentally I never miss – you want me to help you waltz back in there and take him down.”

He waits for the man to add or deny anything if he chooses to and takes the moment to rake his gaze up and down Sparrow’s form.

“Hmm… Tempting,” Reaver says before turning his head back to the correct angle for the painter, “Who knows what lovelies he has secreted away in there. But here’s the problem: you’ve done all sorts of impressive things, and yet you haven’t really done anything that benefits me.”

He lightly taps the barrel of his Dragonstomper .48 against his chin, thinking of how he could profit from this situation. The Dark Seal sits on the mahogany table behind him, radiating a cold hunger. Ah yes, he still needs a sacrifice for the Shadow Court. Perhaps he could get Sparrow to unwittingly give up his youth? Should be simple enough, the man looks determined to get Reaver’s help for whatever it is. It’ll be a pity about his pretty face though. Then again there are plenty of pretty men and women in the world for him to choose from, though none he’s ever come across have the look of thunder in their eyes.

However maintaining his youth and life is far more important than bedding someone with pretty eyes.

“But wait. Perhaps there is something you can do for me,” Reaver continues, looking at Sparrow thoughtfully. Hmm, if Lucien wants to get his enemy back in his clutches, it should be much easier to do so when said enemy is old and frail, and Reaver is betting that there will be a reward for turning Sparrow over to the old loon.

“There’s a certain item I need returned to its rightful owners in Wraithmarsh. They live in an enchanting place called the Shadow Court. I’d do it myself, but my relationship with the owners is… complicated. And while my associates here have their uses, most aren’t terribly reliable. So how about this: you run this little errand for me, and then I’ll assist you in your quest for… vengeance, or… or riches, or whatever it is that floats your particular boat.”

“Very well.” comes the answer in the form of a sudden intrusive thought. What an interesting, if somewhat unsettling, trick. Sparrow must be a Will user; Reaver vaguely remembers hearing or reading something about Will users being able to communicate through projecting their thoughts, but that had been the only slightly interesting tidbit he recalls. The rest had been too dull to retain.

“The item I need returned is just there, see? See? See that little objet d’art?” He points to the table holding the wretched thing. Reaver remembers when it had shown up a few days ago in the middle of one of his sleepless nights, suddenly popping into existence on the small table next to the large chair he keeps in his study in front of the fireplace, startling him so badly he nearly dropped his glass of wine.

Sparrow uncrosses his arms and moves over to the item in question and picks it up, arm tensing at the touch, no doubt feeling its aura of dread and unnatural chill.

“There’s a good lad,” Reaver croons at him. “Just come back and see me when you’ve dropped it off at the Shadow Court. Tatty-bye.”

Sparrow turns and strides out the door, dark seal in hand. Truly a pity that such a pretty man will be ruined with age, but oh well. Reaver has already made his choice, long, long ago. Letting out a quiet sigh at the inevitable loss of such gorgeous aesthetics, he turns his attention towards seeing how his portrait is coming along.

His face pulls into a scowl at the sight of the painting and he raises his pistol to the painter’s head.

“Are you really suggesting that my cheekbones are anywhere near that low?”

---

For whatever reason, he dreams of Oakvale’s destruction that night, after sending Sparrow to the Shadow Court and disposing of that ghastly painter. He wakes, sweating and his lungs shuttering violently, the scent of burning wood and flesh stuck in his nostrils, the sounds of screaming – of her screaming – rattling around his skull. Tossing aside the covers he rises from bed and heads downstairs to his study; he knows he will not get anymore sleep.

Once there he pours himself a glass of wine and pulls his journal from the top shelf next to the fireplace, flipping it open to a blank page, Reaver sits himself in front of the blazing flames and puts his thoughts to paper in the hopes that perhaps it will clear his mind of all lingering unpleasantness from his dream.

It doesn’t. It never does when he dreams of Oakvale.

But that is what the wine is for, so he can forget the ghost that still haunts him after all this time, if only for a little while.

He made his choice.

I am Reaver, he reminds himself.

---

Reaver notices Sparrow’s return as soon as he puts a bullet into the photographer’s head. He hadn’t been expecting the man to look as young and handsome as he had the day before, to still see the thunder in his eyes, but c’est la vie. At least his own youth and looks hadn’t been compromised.

“And looking as youthful and spirited as ever! Aren’t you a tricky one? Good for you. You have my eternal thanks for delivering that troublesome seal. Now I have a confession to make. While you were away, it occurred to me that Lucien is probably a bit miffed that you wandered off without his permission.” Reaver smirks at the scowl on Sparrow’s face. “Maybe miffed enough to part with a large heap of gold to get you back. And you know what? I was right.”

The thunder in Sparrow’s eyes has changed into a full on storm at sea, and Reaver finds himself distracted by it, but only for a very brief moment.

“So, as fun as all this has been, I’m afraid I must now return you to the Spire. Lucien’s men will be here at any moment…”

As soon as he finishes speaking the earth quakes with the sound of an explosion.

“All right, what exactly was that?” he asks to no one in particular, irritation lacing his voice.

“Reaver, the city’s under attack!” one of his underlings calls out. “By a bloody army! Lucien’s men, dozens of the buggers! And the guy in charge is yelling at his men ‘Find this Reaver!’”

“Me? Lucien and I had a gentleman’s agreement! How dare he betray me?” Reaver complains as he moves over to the bookshelf that hid his escape route. “And just when I was in the middle of trying to betray you! How inconvenient.”

When he looks over at Sparrow, he scowls at the smug look on the man’s face.

“Did Lucien not turn out to be the honorable man you thought he was?” Sparrow says in Reaver’s mind with sarcasm and a hint of vindictiveness.

“There’s no need to be petty. It’s not a good look on you. Now, I recommend we flee down this rather handy escape tunnel.”

---

Their escape through the tunnels was interrupted several times by Lucien’s men, but they were quickly dispatched between the two of them and the mutt that followed Sparrow around. Apparently, not only was Sparrow gifted with Will, but also Strength and Skill, which made him far more formidable than Reaver initially thought.

Sparrow seemed to be a bit taken aback by how well they fought together.

If Reaver was being honest, he was as well.

It’s a good thing he’s never honest aloud.

---

“That is up to you,” the blind seer tells him. “I can send you anywhere from here. What do you wish?”

“I wish to return home. To Samarkand.”

“Ooh. I’ve never been to Samarkand. Hot nights, exotic substances, and… uninhibited people.”

The Will user – Garth, he thinks, not that it really matters – gives him a pained and exasperated look. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Trust me,” Reaver says with a sly grin, “I’ll find the exciting bits.”

Garth sighs heavily.

“Fine. But stay out of my way. Hammer?”

Ah yes, Hammer, that’s the brutish woman’s name. Well, it certainly fits her.

“No, I’m done,” Hammer says before she turns to face Sparrow. “I know why we got attacked in the cave, the day we met. You brought those hollow men in with you. Two monks would have found nothing. But a warrior finds battle. Always.”

She turns to face the blind seer now. “I want to go north, study with those warrior monks. I was so sick of avoiding violence… now I’m sick of causing it.”

Well, this has been boring and dragged out for far too long as far as Reaver cares. Turning towards Sparrow he takes in the sight of the man one last time.

“Goodbye, Hero. I simply can’t thank you enough for dragging me into this mess. Oh-- I should tell you, I do have to make the occasional sojourn back to Albion. I have an obligation to some friends in Wraithmarsh,” he says, shooting a wink at Sparrow before the seer’s magic sends him away.

Away from the Spire, away from Albion, and away from those pretty eyes that have the rolls and flashes of thunder trapped in their irises.

“Goodbye, Reaver.”

---

He inhales deeply as he stands on the deck of the ship he stole when he left Samarkand, the salty air settling pleasantly in his lungs, as he looks at Bloodstsone’s silhouette on the horizon. Never thought he’d actually miss the sight of the crusty, gutter-dirty port town, but well, he did. Shoving aside the unnatural feel of sentimentality, Reaver already knew the first thing he was going to do when they docked.

He was going to kill whoever bought his mansion, which someone undoubtedly did, the utter fool, and resume being the most feared and desired pirate king Albion has been lucky enough to have gracing its shores.

He’s returning much sooner than planned or anticipated, but Samarkand had been a bust. It had barely been interesting for about 3 months before it became unbearable. Of course most of that had been spent traveling with that insufferable bore, Garth.

Well, until he killed the man.

Probably killed the man.

Truth is, Reaver didn’t stick around to make sure if Garth had died or not since he had a ship to steal.

He will, however, make sure that whoever bought his house gets a bullet in their skull.

---

“Who bought Bloodstone Mansion? Hey Mick, who was it that bought the place on the hill a few months back? His name is Lionheart or something, yeah?” The bartender of The Leper’s Arms calls out over the din of the crowd.

“Nah, his name is Joker. You might want to steer clear of him, mister, the bloke is mad he is. He goes into Wraithmarsh willingly, just comes and goes as he pleases and never has a scratch on him.”

“No, you’re both wrong, he’s called Gunslinger and he sails around on that ghost ship of his, the Marianne,” one patron says. “Comes back all the time with Old Kingdom treasures.”

“You’re all wrong, he hasn’t got a name,” a fourth voice – Salty Jack, if the groans of the name is any indication – speaks up, “but he does go through Wraithmarsh often and he does have a ghost ship. I know because I’ve met the man unlike any of you.”

“You know the man who stole my house do you?”

“Aye, I do. He has no name but everyone’s heard of him, given him names since he hasn’t one to give himself. I’d heed that Mick’s warning if I were you; he is mad, he’s got that ocean thunder in his eyes.”

“Mhm, interesting. And by interesting I mean completely boring and irrelevant. Where can I find him?”

Salty Jack shrugs, before tipping his head in thought. “Saw him come in from Wraithmarash yesterday, should be up on the hill. Better hurry though, he’ll probably be gone again in a few hours. Never stays in one place for too long, that one.”

Reaver already has an idea of just who stole his house.

---

Breaking in was easier than he thought it would be; the front door wasn’t locked.

Looking around, he notices that the décor hasn’t changed at all. Same furniture, same rugs, same layout. This felt too easy, there should’ve at least been a lock, it’s almost as if Sparrow is asking for someone to stroll in and kill him.

Ah, speak of the devil, there he is.

Reaver finds Sparrow in the study, cleaning a gun he recognizes as Red Dragon, seated in front of the fireplace. Hadn’t that pistol belonged to that arrogant man, Wicker, who had the audacity to insinuate he was a better shot than Reaver and tried foolishly to challenge him to a duel? Oh, that had to have been many years ago. How did this usurper come into possession of it? Well, no matter.

“Knock, knock.”

Barely any surprise on the man’s face as Reaver strode into the room.

“You’re back sooner than I expected. Thought you would’ve been in Samarkand a little longer. Not adventurous enough for you?” Sparrow projected into his mind, a smirk growing on his face. “Perhaps too adventurous?”

“There’s no such thing as too adventurous for me. Samarkand simply didn’t live up to expectations. Now that I’m back, I plan on taking my house back,” Reaver says as he lifts his gun, aiming at the other man’s head, “I did leave that note and I make good on my promises. No hard feelings, hmm?”

He pulls the trigger and then those storm eyes turn unseeing as blood drips down his face. That’s that. Time to go get someone to clean up this mess, because he’s certainly not going to go dump the body himself. Not on his first day back anyhow.

Halfway out the door and Reaver stops when he hears a wet popping and the sound of a bullet dropping to the floor.

“That was unnecessary, you’ve ruined a perfectly good chair.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m fairly certain I’m not, but didn’t I just kill you?” he asks as he turns to see Sparrow pick up the bloodied bullet from the ground, turning it in between his fingers.

Sparrow grins.

“Trust me, if Death was able to keep me I’d have died long ago.” There’s laughter dancing in his eyes as he projects his thoughts once more. “Don’t you know, Reaver? Not even the bone orchard wants me.”

---

“So I’m stuck with you now, hmm? Like some sort of annoying pet zombie?”

There’s a strange crackling sensation in his mind - it reminds him of a storm brewing out at sea - that he thinks may be laughter if the expression on Sparrow’s face is anything to go by.

“Not necessarily. I’m usually gone more often than I’m here, and when I am here it’s not long before I’m headed out again.”

“So what’s to stop me from changing the locks then? Maybe even put out a standing order on your head?”

“New locks won’t keep me out.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Reaver says as appraises the other man.

“And taking my head won’t do much, just make it difficult for my body to find it.”

“Hmm, now that’s something I could get a few laughs out of watching.”

Sparrow arches an eyebrow and shoots him an unimpressed look.

“You’re a real arse, you know that?”

“Me?” Reaver asks with dramatic mock hurt, one hand clutching at his chest. “Why I’m nothing short of charming.”

Chapter Text

It was the year of his sixth winter when fate – or destiny, or maybe it was Theresa all along (he wouldn’t truly know until after everything was all said and done, many years later) – set its gaze upon him and Rose, the two street rat orphans of Old Town.

That morning he woke from dreaming of the memory of the previous day when he had asked Rose (by writing in the snow as best he could with what little skill he had) why she always called him “little sparrow” instead of by his name.

Of course, up until recently, he had thought that was his name, but then he had overheard one of the neighborhood’s mothers call her own child “little sparrow” and then he had wondered why that was. Apparently it was a term of endearment, not his actual name.

“Well, mum and dad never had a chance to name you before the plague got them, and it never seemed right to name you myself. I guess you’ll just have to find your own name someday. One that fits you perfect,” she told him, ruffling his hair with freshly fallen snow to clean the buildup of grease from it as best she could.

That had been one of the last gifts Rose ever gave him, the freedom to choose himself, to find out who he was on his own.

He never got the chance to thank her for it.

Because the unwavering gaze of fate was watching them that day, and it came in the form of a blind seer, a music box, and a man already driven half mad with grief.

---

Although Lord Lucien shot Rose first, he knows he died before her. The first shot wasn’t aimed well, wasn’t enough to kill her immediately and she had to watch her little brother be shot out of a window and fall in shower of broken glass and snow.

He knows because he had heard her scream of “No!” as he plummeted to his first among many deaths.

He had died when the bullet pierced his heart.

He sucked in a desperate breath of air when life suddenly returned to him only moments later, when he heard another gunshot go off.

He died again when his skull cracked against a stone-shingled roof.

He lived once more when he came to briefly on a cobbled street, the dog from earlier panting in his face and the blind seer the only vivid points in his vision before all went dark again.

---

During his time recovering, he found himself wondering what had become of Rose, of her body. Was it burnt? Buried? Hidden in a long forgotten tomb or catacomb, never to be found? Dumped in an alleyway or in the harbor?

Even as a six year old, he knew dwelling on it would do him no good, that it was morbid, but he couldn’t help but think of it as he watched the rest of the winter pass by slowly from the inside of Theresa’s caravan, his small hands combing through the dog’s warm fur.

He can’t help but think of his parents (some faceless beings he can’t remember) buried in one of the many plague pits in Bowerstone’s graveyard, and Rose dead and lost somewhere, probably to never be found, and of himself, a boy with no name save for that of a bird he’d have to use until he found himself, left twisting in the wind.

Maybe if he and Rose had left Bowerstone behind and came to live out here, maybe with the wandering caravans, or just as wild children in the forests, maybe she’d still be alive and he wouldn’t have become so well acquainted with the sensation of dying and reviving multiple times over the course of two minutes in one night.

But what he thinks of nearly as much as everything else is destroying Lucien. For a man with the world at his fingertips he could have done anything he pleased, and he had decided to kill children who had never done anything to him.

He wants Lucien to suffer as he has.

But the problem is, the man has, and he has nothing else to lose.

But he – Sparrow for now – has nothing else left to lose either.

So Sparrow heals, Sparrow grows, Sparrow waits.

---

The summer he turns sixteen, Theresa gifts him with an old sword and crossbow and what she calls a Guild Seal and tells him to swim out to the middle of the lake to the small island and clear out the old Heroes Guild.

The first time she speaks to him through the seal he nearly drops the damn thing. It sounds like she’s behind him, in his head, not there at all yet is. He wonders if she could teach him to do that, speak to people in their head rather than trying to speak to them through hand signals that most don’t understand.

As if reading his thoughts (honestly, she probably was due to the Guild Seal) she immediately says “No” and that is that.

(He does learn how to do it eventually, but not until years later, after he escapes the Spire and Garth offers to teach him how.)

---

Sister Hannah’s sobs and grieving wails echo throughout the domed building as she holds tightly onto her father’s body that has long since gone cold. The other monks tried to take the corpse away, but Hannah snarled wordlessly at them and Sparrow immediately put himself between them and her, becoming a silent sentinel.

After that the monks periodically try to get close, but Sparrow intercepts them each time. They try to explain that they need to prepare the body for burial before it starts to rot too much, but Sparrow only gives them a neutral stare and a shake of his head.

He knows the pain of losing the only family one has and he won’t let them take away Sister Hannah’s time to cry and curse over her dead father. He never had the same chance to mourn over Rose this way; he won’t let anyone take it away from anyone else.

They try to tell him that they must have the body prepared and buried with the sunrise as is their custom, that the Abbot would have wanted it that way, but Sparrow still shakes his head.

He knows the dead cannot want anything because they are dead.

He knows because he has died himself. Died by Lucien’s hand, by hitting his head on a roof from the fall, by drowning in the lake that one summer when he was ten, by Thag, and by Rookridge bandits. He knows the oblivion of Death’s embrace, that once the soul flickers out of the body there’s nothing.

He idly wonders if the reason dying never sticks for him is because Life rips him from Death’s boney grasp, or if because Death does not want him and forces his soul back into his body.

He receives no answer or epiphany, only the quieting sounds of Sister Hannah’s crying.

When dawn breaks over the horizon she finally allows the monks to take her father away.

---

The Spire drains the life from everything that touches it; everything except him.

He noticed nothing at first save for the heartbeat in the walls that matched his own when he listened close enough or how the vibrations seemed to yearn for him whenever he placed a hand on the walls, causing something in his blood to sing like the whale songs he heard on the ship ride here.

The early days in the Spire seemed relatively normal, days passing listening to Bob talk of his wife Lil back home, how the money he earns here will benefit Lil and their newborn child (if they hadn’t been so desperate for money, Bob wouldn’t have even bothered with joining up, with going through the Crucible at all. Sparrow wishes Bob hadn’t, if only so that the man wouldn’t be devastated later to learn that no one, not even the guards, leave the Spire alive. That when they die, the corpses of slaves and guards alike are either buried in the walls or tossed to the bottom of the ocean; he knows because the Spire shows him in his dreams.) and that he misses them both, but the contract is only for a few years.

“Three years will go by in a flash,” Bob says with a toothy grin, “and then I’ll be back home with them. You should come stay with us awhile after our jobs are done here.”

Sparrow somehow manages to smile and nod at Bob, and does not tell him the truth.

It is a lie, but he cannot bring himself to tell his only friend here the heartbreaking truth.

---

Only a scant 38 weeks later does Sparrow finally notice.

Bob no longer speaks of his family, but Sparrow didn’t question it, thought that it was too painful for his friend to speak of them when he could not go to them. Only when Bob mentions that he had been forced to torture a recruit for saying that he missed his family and that Bob was glad he didn’t have one himself does Sparrow finally see what the Spire has done to the others.

He hadn’t noticed sooner because his own memories remain intact. The Spire does not take from him, only shows him the horrors that have gone on within it and matches its heartbeat to his. It shows him the Old Kingdom ruins at its base that lie beneath the waves, whispers old songs in an old tongue in his ears during the day, keeps him warm while others are cold.

It is an ancient thing rejoicing in finding another like it, another being of a bygone era, one that cannot die, only sleep in the salt fields beneath the waves.

Not even Death wants the Spire.

---

Week 137 and Bob dies.

The Commandant wanted him to kill his friend and had foolishly given him a weapon. Sparrow lashes out at the grey skinned man, barely nicking his cheek before being shocked into submission by the collar. His mouth opens in a silent scream as he claws at his burning neck.

Sparrow doesn’t notice the Spire’s heartbeat getting faster, matching his.

He watches helplessly from where he’s collapsed on the floor as the Commandant picks up the dropped blade and cuts down Bob.

Sparrow’s body writhes in anger and pain and the Spire begins to shake and tremble to match him. The Commandant looks around at the quaking walls before hitting Sparrow over the head, knocking him out. The Spire’s heartbeat regulates a few moments later.

---

After week 137 Sparrow no longer keeps track of time. There’s not much point since his only friend in here has died. Now it’s just him and the Spire’s hushed whispers and quiet songs. It comforts him, reminds him of his time with Rose (so brief and long ago; he’s lived most of his life without her at this point and that hurts to think of sometimes) on the streets of Old Town.

Sometimes the Spire speaks to him with Rose’s voice, though it’s still in the Old Kingdom’s tongue, words he doesn’t understand save for the vague meaning behind them.

The only word he does understand is the name it’s given him, the name it calls him. A name that does and doesn’t fit, makes him feel like he’s finally found himself yet still that nameless child left twisting in the wind. A name that is his, yet isn’t.

The Spire calls him Archon.

---

Ten years later finds him, Garth, and a boatful of new recruits escaping the Spire.

It wails in its long forgotten language for him to come back, to not leave it stranded alone as the ancients had thousands of years ago, that it will be lonely without anyone to whisper to.

Its heart beats erratically, and Sparrow can feel his changing pace to match it, but the further they get from it, the quieter it becomes, and his heartbeat becomes his own again. He stands at the end of the ship’s quarterdeck, staring at the Spire as it becomes smaller and smaller. He stays that way until Garth finds him, placing a hand on his shoulder as if he knew of the strange bond he had with the place.

“I knew the moment you set foot in that place,” Garth projects into his mind. “The Spire felt as if it came alive, became conscious, when you arrived. I’ve heard it call you Archon, and from what I’ve read of it from Old Kingdom texts, it attaches itself to Archons, or those with the blood of the Archons, becoming a hive mind of sorts, for lack of better wording. It would talk to me too, though only occasionally.”

Sparrow turns to look at him, pulling a book filled with his messy scrawl from his bag, and writes “Can you teach me to do that? Talk in peoples’ heads, project my thoughts to speak?”

Garth smiles.

“Of course.”

---

It’s the autumn of Sparrow’s 26th year when they finally reach Albion’s shores; Sparrow has mastered the ability to speak with his thoughts and has gotten over most of the phantom sensation of the Spire in his mind, though he still hears its songs from time to time, quiet and mournful over his departure.

He and Garth are having a conversation about some of the stranger artifacts found in Old Kingdom ruins when he hears a familiar bark he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear again. Sparrow drops to his knees and holds his arms open for his dog, which barrels into his chest, nearly knocking them both off Oakfield’s docks.

Theresa shows up not long after, going at a much more sedate pace than his dog had. Sparrow gives her a quiet smile before returning his attention to the furry animal in front of him while she speaks with Garth. Before Theresa and Garth leave, Sparrow is told that Hammer is at the inn in Rookridge waiting for him.

---

Somehow their plan of using the Cullis gate to get to Bloodstone got botched and now he and his dog were stranded in the swampy ruins of Oakvale, now known as Wraithmarsh. The place wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the unnatural chill and fog. Something about this place is keeping him on edge, he starts at even the smallest of noises, and his heart beats fast like a rabbit sprinting across an open field.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear the music box playing somewhere in the distance.

Next time they decide to use a Cullis gate he’s going to be the one operating it, so he should probably learn how to properly use them because he’s not going to put up with more unsettling places like Wraithmarsh.

He’s nearing a decaying old well in the ruins when the fog begins to get thicker. There’s a silhouette of a cloaked figure facing away from him, humming a song that seems familiar. The presence of this being is making him feel like a caged animal, hackles are raised and his heart seems to be trying to escape through his chest in fear.

“Hello?” he tries, which causes the humming to stop and a strange laughter to take its place.

“Oh you poor thing, are you trying to talk to me? You don’t even realize do you? The people you see, all the people you talk to, they are not real. You are alone in this universe. Terribly alone.”

The being turns away from the well to face him and he can feel his whole body shiver. Before him floats a shadowy figure with no face in a torn and ragged dress. It reaches out with one skeletal hand, dripping the remains of flesh, as if beckoning for him to come closer.

"Come with me, my love. I am your bride. Succumb to my embrace."

It floats towards him, both decaying arms spread wide. When it gets close, too close, he lashes out with his cutlass, catching on its arms. It rears back in pain and shrieks at him, before lunging at him. Catching his head in between its boney fingers, he sees its face; he wishes he hadn’t.

"Why do you think you continue to cheat death? Not even oblivion wants you, but I’ll keep you here with me in my watery grave.”

---

He jolts awake from his deep sleep.

This happens whenever he dreams about his first encounter with banshees; he can still feel the phantom touch of skeletal fingers and smell the bog water.

Instead of trying to go back to sleep he gets out of bed and heads for the study. Might as well attempt to get further in those Old Kingdom translations he’s been working on ever since Reaver came back to Albion because he knows peaceful (or dreamless at the very least) rest will elude him for the rest of the night. He hasn’t slept well since Lucien killed Dog, too used to the presence of another living being close to him whenever he would sleep that it’s nearly impossible now to get more than a few hours of rest at a time.

The fireplace and lamps are lit when he gets there; looks like the pirate king has already beat him to avoiding sleep, muttering under his breath as he pours over maps spread out on one of the tables, a chalice of wine within arm’s reach.

“Finally planning a wild party to celebrate your return? I’m surprised you waited this long.”

Reaver lets out a huff of dry amusement, not bothering to look up.

“Gossiping with the fish wives again, hmm? Contrary to popular belief, I do manage to find the will to do some work. I run a criminal empire, after all.”

Sparrow laughs silently as he pulls a few tomes from the bookshelf nearest the fireplace and sets up on the other end of the table.

“Fish wives are a good source of information. They know more than people give them credit for,” he projects.

Reaver snorts as he finally looks up from his maps, a mischievous smirk on his face.

“I never said they were wrong. More than half of them used to attend my soireés when they were young and fair, just like their mothers and their mothers’ mothers before them did. Their fathers and husbands too.”

“I don’t know whether I should be shocked or impressed that you’ve apparently bedded generations of Bloodstone’s townsfolk, especially since they know you’re much older than you appear.”

“You could be both if you really wanted, there’s no one saying you have to choose between the two,” Reaver says as he turns his attention to the maps once more. “And what can I say? I’m still just as handsome and charming as I was centuries ago. It’s also rude to comment on someone’s age, have you no manners?”

“Well, seeing as how I used to be a dirty street urchin on the streets of Bowerstone I never really had anyone to teach me proper etiquette.” Sparrow leans his elbows on the table as if to prove his point.

Reaver hums in thought as he seems to have finally settled on a course and begins to chart it. “Bowerstone, hmm? Tell me, you’re currently Albion’s sweetheart, and no doubt Bowerstone’s as well, so why have you decided to stay in Bloodstone when you have adoring fans in the kingdom’s most morally upstanding city?”

“Why Reaver, is that sincere interest in someone who isn’t you I’m detecting?”

The pirate king scoffs.

“Sincerity gives me hives, I wouldn’t be caught dead displaying it. I’m merely curious as to why you decided to steal my house when there are plenty of other houses that you could live in. Although they’re not as spectacular as mine, so at least you’re a thief with good taste.”

Sparrow pulls a face as he continues to skim through the half rotted tome in his hands, looking for a specific section he saw earlier.

“I stopped living in Bowerstone when people wouldn’t leave me alone. Do you know how frustrating it is to get trapped in your own house because there are so many strangers blocking the staircase trying to get you to propose marriage to them? It got so bad I ended up having to jump from the balcony just to leave. At least here I don’t have to worry about complete strangers demanding I marry them.”

“Ah, couldn’t handle the fame and beauty then? You’ll learn to either embrace it or to tolerate it eventually. Strangers will always demand your time and attention, the trick is putting them in their place when they forget, and depending on how well you do it, they’ll still willingly love you blindly. They should know that they’ll get burned if they try to touch a star.”

Sparrow’s eyebrows knit together as he mulls Reaver’s words over.

“That sounds incredibly lonely.”

“Loneliness comes with the territory,” Reaver says with a pleasant look on his face, but Sparrow can tell that it’s forced. There’s a barely perceptible tightness around the other man’s eyes that gives him away.

They fall silent after that, working together but separately, until the sun begins to rise.

Chapter Text

He’s always found himself drawn to the sea.

Something about it calls to him, something akin to whale song when the great beasts are close enough to be heard. He stands on the beach below Oakvale, the hem of his breeches rolled up, exposing his calves to the salty air as the water’s edge laps at his bare feet.

He smiles while she talks about everything and nothing as she picks up shells and sea glass that wash up on shore.

It’s just them and the ocean, until it isn’t.

A shrieking sound like howling wind starts up around them as the shadows stretch tight across the sand and sweat begins to form on the back of his neck. The void in his heart turns into a hungry maw at the sound.

The sound of her voice stops and the waves turn from a beautiful clear blue to a dark inky color and hundreds of pale, rotting arms reach out from the depths.

He turns to look at her, but her eyes are hollow and ink tears paint her face and her smile looks wrong.

It is the blind seer’s voice and not hers when she speaks again.

“Not far from here is a place called the Shadow Court…”

---

He wakes before images of the burning fields and town can be conjured up by his mind.

Reaver scowls as he extricates himself from the pile of warm bodies that have congregated in his bed, already having grown tired of their company. A couple of them try to grasp at his hand or his arm, to keep him there with them, but he moves too quickly for them, while others make noises of displeasure at being jostled from sleep, some ask for him to stay.

Do they honestly think they can make him do anything? That they mean anything more to him than temporary bed warmers? He scoffs at the very thought.

Dreams of Oakvale always put him in a bad mood.

He moves through the halls of his house on light feet, as silent as a shadow, and normally just being here is enough to put him at ease from memories best forgotten, but Reaver can’t seem to shake the dreams tonight.

The hum of a familiar tune stops him in his tracks, and instead of heading downstairs to the study, Reaver changes directions and continues through the halls, following the sound of ‘Down by the Reeds’ of all things.

It’s not surprising that the source of the song turns out to be Sparrow.

What is surprising is Sparrow sitting out on the tiny balcony drinking alcohol. The man, as far as Reaver knows, never drinks.

“Started the party without me I see,” Reaver drawls as he leans on the door jamb. “I thought for sure you would’ve learned some manners by now.”

Sparrow rolls his eyes, but offers up the bottle of rum, which he accepts and takes a seat on floor of the balcony as well.

“Street rat, remember? Besides, you were pretty busy with your own party.”

Reaver looks at the other man, appreciating the view.

“Well, there’s always an open invitation to someone as handsome as you to one of my parties.”

“Not really my kind of party. Too many people. But thanks?”

They lapse into silence, passing the bottle back and forth between the two of them under the stars that hang over Bloodstone, the sound of the waves faint but ever present and calming.

After a time, Reaver breaks the silence once more.

“‘Down by the Reeds,’” he sighs, the rum and present company – though there’s a part of him that’s loathe to admit it – are slowly putting him in a better mood than the one he woke up in, drowning out memories of burning fields for the moment and letting him relax. “There aren’t many left who know the song.”

“Hammer was singing it the first time we met. It’s stuck with me ever since,” Sparrow offers up freely.

“Did you pick the rum-drinking from her as well?”

“No, that I picked up from Salty Jack. And don’t say it like that; you make me sound like a drunk.”

After that they fall into easy, if slightly drunk, banter and all thoughts of an old song about a town swallowed up by the swamp and half fallen into the sea are forgotten. They go on for hours, speech beginning to slur more the less rum there is left in the bottle.

Reaver doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he does. This time there is no dream of Oakvale, of her, or of the sea filling with decaying corpses.

Instead he dreams of two ghosts haunting a house burnt to ashes.

---

“What do you think of this?” Reaver asks as he hands over the business proposal from some unsavory man named Arfur.

Sparrow takes it, skimming its contents, his eyebrows rising high as he reads it.

“Huh. I thought he died.” He hands it back before returning his attention to cleaning his gun.

Not the answer Reaver was looking for, honestly, but now he’s curious; how does Albion’s sweetheart know a smuggler from Southcliff?

“You know him?”

With a quiet sigh, Sparrow puts his gun down on the table before making a see-sawing motion with his hand. “In a sense; he was a smuggler and a pimp back in Old Town. Used to work for Nicky the Nickname.” He doesn’t bother hiding a grimace. Reaver leans forward a little, prompting the other man to continue. “Arfur’s a vile creep and he’s good at what he does, but he’s got two major flaws. Well, actually a lot of flaws, but I don’t think there’s enough time in the world for me to list all of them.”

Reaver doesn’t bother holding back a smirk at Sparrow’s clear disdain; he enjoys seeing the man behind the mask, so to speak. He much prefers this Sparrow compared to the impossibly perfect one Albion loves to put on an infallible pedestal.

“Care to share?” Reaver is fully interested now; for his illegal business but also because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sparrow display this much loathing for a person other than Lucian and well… there must be an interesting reason as to why that is.

Lifting a finger, Sparrow begins to list off the reasons. “One: he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.” Another finger comes up. “Two: he’s got sticky fingers and will try to steal as much of the profit as he can before you cotton on to what he’s doing.”

Well, that definitely puts the business proposal in a new light.

“So, he’s thief and bad for business then. Good to know.”

Sparrow’s eyes turn thunderous and he looks away from Reaver and stares into the flames of the fireplace.

“He’s a lot of things; he’d be better off six feet under than up and walking around. He certainly doesn’t deserve the air he breathes.”

There’s something old and bitter in the way Sparrow projects that thought, in the way his jaw clenches as the reflection of firelight dances with the lightning in his eyes. Reaver could push the topic, see how the man reacts.

He decides not to, despite how entertaining it might be.

Instead, Reaver hums in acknowledgement and crumples up the paper before tossing it into the hungry flames. The corners of his mouth tick upwards when he sees the smile on Sparrow’s face as the paper burns. The deal hadn’t been all that great anyway, although, expanding his enterprises to Southcliff…

“So if I were to - hypothetically speaking, of course - have him knocked off, you’d have no objections? No complaints?”

The crackling sensation of Sparrow’s laughter fills the room and those storm grey eyes finally focus back on him again.

“None at all.”