Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

1.

Sparrow is Good, true. But Pure? Not so much.

She likes helping people and she does always strive to do the right thing but pure isn't what she would describe herself as being in the slightest. "Pure" is a word that brings to mind people who are afraid of so much as a wink, people who back away at the sight of too much skin. Sparrow has not been anything near to pure since she was fifteen. Desires, lustful thoughts, she has those and readily gives into them; after all, what's the point of being alive if you aren't going to live?

Still, she should know better than to fall into bed with Reaver. He's hard to resist, though, especially after a few drinks. His laugh rakes her backbone in the most delicious way and the way he looks at her, as if she's the only one in the tavern, it's…Well, it isn't unpleasant, that's for sure. Even Heroes have needs after all, and it's been ages since she had someone. Avo's Shinning Ass, Alex has been gone nearly six years…

Their coupling is more like a fight than a roll in the sheets. Given Reaver's nature is to push and Sparrow's is to push back harder, that's scarcely a surprise. And besides, she enjoys a good fight.

When Reaver's teeth skim her neck, Sparrow claws his back. He shrieks, high-pitched as a noblewoman, as her nails sink into the flesh of his backside. He also thrusts harder, managing to find that spot that makes her see stars when he does. Each time that they kiss, there's blood, coppery and sweet. Reaver tastes like a summer morning in Bowerstone Cemetery, like loss liberally peppered with sunshine.

She loses count of how many times they have at one another. Sparrow recalls her legs being over his shoulders, gripping the headboard, and burying her face into the pillows multiple times. Her wrists are bruised from being held above her head and her thighs are red from the friction created by the frantic work of Reaver's hips locked in their vice. Purple-red marks that perfectly match Sparrow's fingers ring his neck and he'll carry the imprint of her teeth on his left shoulder blade for weeks. It's dirty, and wrong, and absolute bliss.

She leaves at dawn before he wakes—or at least before she thinks he's awake. Reaver's eyes stay shut and he makes no move or sound when Sparrow disentangles herself to grab her clothes. Exiting his quarters, she is sore but highly satisfied and, while far from being happy she would go so far as to say that she is content. For now at least.

She will also call herself an idiot later on for thinking that it could remain an isolated incident.

2.

Reaver might be the Hero of Skill, but that doesn't mean Sparrow can't be quick enough to get the drop on him just once. He loses his fancy feathered hat to the tiny crossbow that she keeps at her waist when he shows up at the Bowerstone Gala six years after that first night. Luckily, he approaches her in one of the secluded sections of the garden so she doesn't terrify any citizens when she pegs said hat.

"Well, you could simply have asked me to leave you know," he says raising an eyebrow, grinning like a demon.

Like, that's a watered down comparison. And probably an insult to demons.

"I wouldn't think that I should need to," she replies. Out comes her pistol. "Garth wrote me about your little tavern adventure. Must I really explain why that makes you persona non grata?"

He shrugs, not put off in the slightest. "I didn't think you'd particularly care. You two never struck me as being very close. And, may I remind you: I did not kill him." Picking up his hat, Reaver pulls the little bolt from it, removing one of the big feathers in the process. That makes him pout. "Ugh. I stole this from a Courtesan in the Eastern Kingdom; it's one of a kind."

"Was," Sparrow corrects. She hasn't lowered her pistol. "What do you want, Reaver?"

Laughing, he puts his hat back on, sans feather, and strolls closer. "Oh, I was only in the neighborhood. One Hero checking up on another. Is that not allowed?"

Another laugh comes at her deadpan stare. He steps forward, he's not particularly quick, but he still manages to sidestep her pistol. Sparrow's pulse hammers but not from fear. This close she can smell him, smoke, cloves, and perfume that was probably mixed for a woman. The scent brings back every sensation from the night they shared almost two years ago and arousal all but slams her center.

As if he smells her desire, his grin deepens. Those even white teeth gleam; a predator baring fangs to prey. Sparrow is no lamb waiting for slaughter but she's certainly paralyzed as one might be. She notices that his gloves are fingerless, black satin stitched with scarlet as two knuckles glide down her temple and jaw then lightly pinch her chin.

"Favor me with a dance?" It isn't really a question.

She also knows that she made up her mind about the second she saw him, conscious of it though she wasn't.

Returning the pistol to its holster that's sewn into her bodice, Sparrow holds her free hand out to Reaver. He takes it, feigning the perfect gentleman, and pulling her just flush enough to jab propriety.

Hammer would smack her in the head. Avo's mercy, Sparrow does miss her best friend. Hammer is not there, however, so Sparrow ignores all good sense. She dances most of the night with Reaver then accompanies him to the lavish rooms he's taken at the inn. Two days are lost in his sheets and arms before Sparrow's sense of duty kicks in and she extracts herself, again leaving while Reaver appears to be fast asleep.

3.

They see each other frequently enough for some time after that; three years in all, give or take. Every few weeks Reaver shows up in her manse, making the servants nervous. Honestly, Sparrow prefers it that way; the less fond that her employees are of Reaver the more likely they are to stay out of his way and not to question her about him.

She doesn't ask why he's staying around, because, honestly, she would just rather not know. Morality isn't Reaver's forte and Sparrow has enough to deal with as more and more of Albion turns to her for leadership.

He's great stress-relief, really. Most of the time.

"So who is this Turner fellow?" he asks one night/very early morning as they enjoy the new sunken floor tub she's had installed in her private bath.

Sparrow doesn't open her eyes; for a wiry fellow, Reaver has a very comfortable chest. She does, however, flick a handful of water into his face. "Stop reading my letters."

"Stop leaving them out in the open," he counters.

"Inside of my desk is not 'out in the open', Reaver."

"It is when the desk isn't one with a decent lock." Soap bubbles land on her nose, a retaliation. Sparrow still doesn't open her eyes; instead, she turns her head and wipes the residue away on his collarbone. "And don't deflect, who is he?"

"Not that it concerns you, but he's looking for help with getting things under control around here," Sparrow tells him. "Say what you will about Lucien, but the crazy, murdering bastard was a figurehead. People go a little off when there's no one to at least feign a semblance of order."

"Ah," Reaver says. "So you're making a bid for the crown. Good show."

She opens her eyes when he says that. He's smirking, the glass of wine he carried in from her bedroom dangling from his fingers.

"That's jumping the gun a bit, don't you think?" She steals the glass, ignoring the scowl tossed her way, and takes a sip before handing it back.

"Well, as many guns as you've jumped, both figurative and in front of—"

"Ha. Ha."

"—not really, no." His smirk deepens and he drains last of the wine. "Don't take offense; you'd be decent at it. You're not terribly stupid for a goody-two-shoes, and the common folk just eat the 'Hero' bit up. It's a fairly sound notion."

Sparrow shakes her head. "I'm of the common folk. The nobility wouldn't have it."

"Then you make them accept it," he says. There's no humor in his blue eyes, no smile on his face, just an intense, honest light. How many have seen this look and survived? It seems the kind that would precede a ship boarding or a village burning.

It doesn't frighten Sparrow, though it probably should. As old as Reaver is, he would know a thing or two about power. Just because his methods differ from hers doesn't invalidate them. In theory, anyway. Practice is another matter.

Sparrow resumes her previous position and shuts her eyes. "Unless there's a lot more wine, I'm not in the mood to discuss politics, Reaver."

"Of course, my dear, of course."

She'll look back on the mocking lilt of his words later, when the Beck lad, Sol Turner, and Jacky Swift have all but convinced her that her head was made for a crown, and wonder if Reaver has been back to the Spire. He certainly acts as if her ascension was laid out in cards.

4.

It happens on what should be an uneventful rendezvous in the northern countryside. She, Walter, and Swift are on their way to deal with a Hobbe problem that Lady Martin has had as well as to discuss her possible support. Only it turns out there is no Hobbe problem and support is the last thing from Lady Martin that Sparrow shall have. At least that's what she gathers from the ambush waiting for them just inside the boundary of Martin's lands.

The battle itself is no problem. They defeat the lady's guards and hired thugs soundly, with no casualties to their side. Or at that was what Sparrow thought at first. When the ache that she has from a smart kick to her belly doesn't abate and blood starts pooling in her trousers, however, she has to rethink that.

That's how she finds out that she was pregnant.

Well, she finds out later; she collapses shortly after all of the blood comes. There are spotty moments in between falling to the ground in that field and true consciousness days later. Poor little Jasper fretting and pressing compresses to her forehead. Arguing followed by pistol-fire. The soothing voice of a doctor and Walter's grumbling.

Just over a month, the doctor tells her when she's come to. She can still have children but there was regrettably nothing he could do to save this one.

In the numbness that follows being told she carried then lost a life before she even knew about it, Sparrow can't say that she's overly disappointed. She is not ready for that kind of responsibility. One day, in the not-too-far-removed future, she wants it, she's sure. When she does decide to have children however, she wants to be the kind of mother who is around, who teaches, who dries tears, and chases nightmares away. Before she can be that, she has a crown to forge.

She intends to start by putting Elmira Martin's head on a pike. Unfortunately, that first step is truncated when no one can find the miserable bitch. Her whole household seems to have gone on the run; her manse is vacant when Sparrow leads her troops to storm it.

Retreat turns out not to be the reality of Lady Martin's absence though. As she searches the master bedroom, Sparrow finds the truth. A fortune card, a bloody, cracked mirror with a rose, is settled in plain sight on the vanity. The Thief has beaten her here.

5.

Albion is all but under Sparrow's belt the next time that she and Reaver meet. Eight years later, all that stands between her and her coronation is her marriage to Lord Thomas Danforth. Thomas, a very likable and handsome fellow, comes from one of Albion's oldest bloodlines. Not as old as her Archon bloodline of course, but Sparrow keeps that to herself. It will stop the old cows from fussing too much if they're allowed to believe one of theirs holds her ear.

Fate deems it appropriate that Reaver returns on her wedding day.

"I heard it was happening but I scarce believed it true. The Hero of Bowerstone is to wed. Enchanting."

What's most surprising to Sparrow is that she isn't even startled by him. Eight years and she is still used to Reaver popping up whenever he wants, wherever he wants, even including her dressing room as she prepares for the ceremony. She does, however, throw a scowl his way through her vanity mirror. She's too busy arranging her hair to turn and do it to his face.

"If you killed Jasper or any of my guards to get in, you're going to spend the rest of your immortal life missing some very pleasurable but non-vital pieces."

"Perish the thought," he says. "I would never sully your special day with blood. Not unless you asked."

"Hmm…" She pins an errant curl back.

"You know, most queens have maids for that sort of thing," he says. Sparrow notices him idling closer in the rear of the mirror's reflection. "Especially for impressive events."

"How handy it is that I'm not a queen yet." She turns just as he steps into the circle of her personal space.

He looks younger than he did eight years ago; Lady Martin's household positively glutted the Shadow Court, no doubt, and will for some time. She's not sorry about that, not like she should be.

Hands are sliding along her thighs, rucking up the lacy hem of her slip. Reaver hasn't taken his gloves off; the silk feels delicious. Still, she has to protest just on principle.

"What happened to not sullying the day?" Sparrow asks even as she slides her arms around his neck.

"With blood," he reminds her. "Sullying the bride herself is another matter entirely." In one smooth motion, he's lifted her onto the vanity's edge tugged her smallclothes out of the way. Two-hundred years or so leaves plenty of time to perfect things and Sparrow, despite her best efforts is impressed by it. And aroused.

Their tryst is a quick one, it has to be given that she's so shortly to be married, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. Reaver helps her to right herself afterward, even lacing up her gown and painting her face. He also offers Sparrow something "borrowed" for the occasion, a lovely white-gold and sapphire ring with the initials E.L.M. engraved in delicate cursive along the sides.

She takes the trophy and dances with Reaver three times during the reception. He never asks for it to be returned.

6.

While Sparrow may not be in love with her husband, she does love him as a friend and he isn't bad in bed. The three years she shares with Thomas are happy ones. He manages her household well, keeping the castle in order while she takes care of business as it is. More importantly, Thomas never gets in her way, with politics, policy, or personal affairs. For that courtesy alone, Sparrow never beds Reaver in the castle, though she does assign Thomas' mistress, an ingenious young lady named Marcella, the quarters adjacent to his.

It's a decision that seems to irritate Reaver, probably because it means he's never there to be invited to Marcella's bed along with her and Thomas. To make it up to him, Sparrow invites him along with her to Brightwall when she begins construction of her new academy. The gesture backfires, just a bit.

"This is a waste of coin," he says for the thousandth time one evening month or so into the excursion. She's busy budgeting construction while he complains. The scorn on his pretty face would frighten others; Sparrow however, smiles into her glass of wine and continues making notes. "What is there to be gained from giving such a wealth away?"

She shrugs, delighting in the way it makes him flush. "I like books. I like learning. I like sharing. If Albion's going to move forward, education is the way to do it. And if I haven't mentioned it already: I like it."

"Well, you like stupid things," he grouses.

"Fair point. I keep you around after all."

He actually sputters at that and Sparrow can't stop herself from giggling.

Reaver glowers and in an eye-blink, he's crossed the room. Sparrow isn't frightened by the quiet rage boiling in his too-blue eyes, but it does startle her. Enough so that she drops her pen. It's just as well because Reaver has grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the arms of her chair.

"I am not kept." Each word comes with the edge of a razor. "I am Reaver, not a puppy running at your heels. You would do well to remember that." She can feel the power of his Hero's blood. It sings under is skin, calling out to her.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sparrow meets him. Her very skin hums as the blue markings and halo of light, normally dormant, burst forth. To his credit, Reaver does not back away though she does note the subtle clench of his throat muscles, an imperceptible thing to untrained eyes.

"And you," she counters, "forget you're not the only Archon Child in this room. Release me before I make you."

The following second lasts an eternity. It is a grand standoff between titans, invisible yet so loud it can be tasted. There are only two ways that it can end. Because death would be inconvenient for the both of them, it's sex.

They struggle for dominance, both always coming up just too short to claim the match. The battle rages all over her study, across her floor and its desk, all the way to her bedroom. Her sheets are a warzone, tainted with Heroes' blood (amongst other things).

This time it's Reaver who leaves without a word or notice while Sparrow sleeps. The sensible bit of her says that it's good; that she should hope that this has driven him off. The less sensible bits lament his withdrawal. Queenly duties occupy her time well enough though, that Sparrow doesn't even realize that she missed him until he returns four years later.

7.

Plague steals into the countryside the year after Reaver disappears. An illness that makes its victims pale as their blood seeps into their bellies until they throw it up. Pale Fever, the common folk call it. It afflicts many of Sparrows people, Walter, Solomon, and Thomas amongst them, but takes few lives. Her consort is unfortunately one of the casualties.

Their marriage was not built on romance but Sparrow had depended on her husband for much. The life of a noble, even after three stablr years on the throne is still a foreign one to her. Leading is different from ruling and that is where she had valued her husband's advice most dearly.

Luckily, she still has Marcella to aid her. On top of being Thomas' mistress and Sparrow's friend, the other woman was also the late Prince Consort's right hand. She steps into Thomas' shoes gracefully, keeping the household affairs, ceremonies, and all of the like neatly in order despite her grief, or perhaps because of it. Sparrow returns her loyalty with the royal consort's crown which Marcella accepts.

It is a royal union both like and unlike her first. The marriage to Marcella dissatisfies most of the old blood aristocrats but after a duel in which mouthy Lord Silsbee loses an eye, things go quiet. Aside from that bump, it's easier, simpler. They both know what to expect with one another and the friendship they'd nurtured while Thomas lived deepens.

Only the question of children lingers at the back of Sparrow's mind. It's a question put aside easily, though; she's still not ready. Not today, but a soon tomorrow perhaps.

8.

Reaver, appropriately enough, returns during a storm.

Sparrow sleeps alone in her rooms; Marcella and she are intimate on occasion but they both prefer the comfort and familiarity of their own beds. If Thorne were still alive, she would have pegged him the second he slithered through the door. Thorne is gone, however, just like Rose, mother, and father, so the thunder has impeded Sparrow's sense of hearing.

She wakes when he's but a few feet from the bed. Her eyes open, spine a-tingle, to a black figure illuminated only from the dim embers of her hearth behind it. Instinct calls a Time Stop spell to her fingers. She throws this and rolls from the bed, putting it between her and her potential assassin. Her favored axe and rifle are in her personal armory, but a pistol and cutlass sit nearby for emergencies. Sparrow grabs both, aiming the former while producing fire so that her shot will be clear.

Reaver looks back at her, unimpressed.

Sparrow very nearly drops her pistol. "Reaver? What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

His usual wit doesn't come. Instead, he continues to stares at her, a strange intensity to his blue eyes. He's soaked, she notices, dripping puddles onto her floor.

Had he come to the palace on foot? In a bloody storm, even? Why would he do that?

Before she can demand any more, he's crossed the distance between them. Sparrow very nearly shoots him; only a curious tremor racing up and down her spine stops her finger. She stays still, watching him shrug off his gloves and coat before his cold, damp hands take her face between them.

He looks at her hard, as if there is something on her face, some secret hiding in her skin. Then, just as Sparrow is considering stopping time and knocking him out, he kisses her. Reaver tastes of sea salt over the usual unique spice of him and even with half-frozen lips, he still burns her.

They race and stumble to disrobe him before they make it back to the bed. Flesh to flesh, it takes some time to warm Reaver up, but Sparrow is nothing if not persistent. Being gifted with Will and pyromancy help. He is strangely quiet during the night; still eager and receptive he says little and smothers most of the cries that she makes with kisses.

She never asks Reaver why he came back and he never offers an answer. He's there in the morning, though, and steadily for some years to come. Bowerstone and she are what he's chosen. For the time being anyway.

A far more important thing than Reaver's return comes from that stormy night however; the conception of her son.