Cliff

  “I have sent a letter to the Baron once more, petitioning his aid for my planned expedition.

  I want it to be known that I did not make this decision lightly. The birth of my son, Godwyn, heralded the coming of a new age; an age of love, and appreciation. I know now what the poets write of, and the musicians sing of, when it comes to matters of ones children.

  Before, I did not think it possible to love something so fiercely you would rather see the world burn than to see harm brought upon them.

  I do now.

  Yet, the Corrupted One stirs in the west, and with him, my terrible purpose. The world shall know no peace before it is rid of him. And I must be the one to do it.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2154 Post-Separation (PS).

  Blood.

  There was blood everywhere. It was in his eyes, clouding his vision. It was in his nose, filling him with the sickly-sweet scent of copper. It was in his throat, blocking his airways.

  He was vaguely aware of his feet moving. Tunnels drowned in shadow passing him by as the void beckoned him ever further with hushed whispers and muted pleas. His head felt like a leaden weight upon his shoulders; his temples pounding, his mind clouded.

  He could not make sense of his thoughts.

  Bits and pieces of his life intermingled in a blurred mess before him. Memories plucked from the grapevine at random, removed from all sense and order. One moment, he was in the depths, navigating dark caves as he made for the surface. The next, he was at the Gluttonous King’s Summer Feast, drinking blood straight from the veins of a live human.

  Mixed in were visions of his family, and his parents. That was odd, as he had not thought of his childhood in decades. And yet, he saw it so clearly then. Their house upon the riverbank, with the painted windows and large water wheel peeking out over the sunbleached roof. His mother’s loving smile, and his father’s embrace. A dream of the distant past, brought to life in vivid color.

  Presently, he tripped upon a rocky outcropping, and stumbled. His knee caught on a sharp edge, and he felt warm blood trickle down the side of his leg. Yet, there was no pain. Such violent emotion could find no purchase with his senses, dulled as they were to the world.

  Again, his awareness dimmed, and he was at once back with his old Master, swinging his sword by the lakeside until his muscles screamed and his arms quivered. He saw anew those times as a young aide, rich in spirit yet lacking in ability, studying beneath a man that would later go on to cement himself firmly in the Alwaarian legend.

  The world had seemed a simpler place back then. A place of rights and wrongs, of absolute evil and absolute good. Clear lines separating the righteous from the wicked. A perception influenced by the blind idealism of youth, and the bullheadedness with which he had forged on, in the pursuit of power and strength. A fool’s conviction.

  And yet, one he longed to return to, for these days, it all seemed so blurry and ill- defined.

  “Oh dear,” a familiar voice said, cutting through the veil of his delusion. “You certainly look worse for wear.”

  At once, a powerful light made itself known to him, and he fell to his knees in exhaustion, lifting a hand to shield his face. The sudden shine was much too bright for his sensitive eyes, accustomed as they were to the darkness of the cave, and so his vision swam with spots of white.

  “H-Hello...?” Cliff tried, his voice sounding hoarse and throaty to his ears. “Is... Is someone there? Please... I need water...”

  “Water?” the voice replied. “Now that is unexpected. The Azure Devil, asking little old me for help. What has the world come to?”

  A flash of recognition shimmered in the depths of Cliff’s hazy thoughts. He knew that voice. Knew it well, even.

  “N-Nathaniel?” he coughed, still unable to see through the blinding light. “Is that you?”

  “Naturally,” he said. “Who else do you know to possess such dulcet tones and dashing looks?”

  Struggling to his feet, Cliff squinted hard against the glare, trying to focus on the figure before him. Gradually, as his vision adjusted, he saw Nathaniel's silhouette come into view before him, sitting upon a rock with his snow-white hair reaching down past his shoulders. Perched high above, the sun stood proud upon a blue canvas, unobstructed save for the occasional flock of birds trailing past.

  Evidently, Cliff had walked all the way to the entrance in the throes of his delirium.

  “There we are,” Nathaniel said, throwing wide his arms. “It is good to see you again, my friend. It has been some time now since Borger. I trust you have been faring well?”

  Cliff had to do a double take to ensure the man was truly there, and not just another illusion birthed from his sick and ailing mind.

  “Cut... the bullshit,” he panted at last, fighting his exertion. “What... are you doing here?”

  “Why, I am here to meet with you, of course,” Nathaniel said, a knowing smile upon his lips. “The Archon told me you had descended into the Grimseid Depths, and so I figured I would wait for you outside, so that you may conclude your business in peace.”

  Cliff tried to formulate a response, but found his throat too sore and tender for words. What came instead was a mighty cough that made his chest tighten and his eyes water. As the worst of it passed, small specks of blood lingered on the surface of his hand.

  “Forgive me my bluntness, but you look terrible,” Nathaniel continued, lifting an eyebrow. “A result of your endeavors in the depths, I presume?”

  When Cliff offered no reply, Nathaniel reached into the folds of his crimson robe and brought forth a canteen, which he threw with a graceful sway in Cliff’s direction. The metal flasket curved in a lazy arch before it was caught by deft fingers, wrapping themselves around its length. Even in his current state, Cliff’s reflexes remained sharp and fastidious.

  “There you go,” Nathaniel said. “Drink deep. I assure you, it is not poisoned.”

  Cliff hesitated for just a moment, eyeing the canteen warily. He knew better than to trust blindly, especially with one such as Nathaniel, and yet, the thirst burning in his throat was quickly growing unbearable. As such, he soon let go of his inhibitions and unscrewed the cap, bringing the cool metal rim to his lips.

  The water tasted like heaven going down his sore throat.

  As he drank, Nathaniel watched on with an amused smirk, his cataract-riddled eyes glinting with an eerie sense of clarity.

  Once Cliff had slaked his thirst, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and threw the canteen back to its owner. He had drained it entirely, though felt no guilt at having done so. The water had been offered freely, after all.

  “Thank you,” he grunted.

  Nathaniel waved off the gratitude with a dismissive flick of the hand. "Think nothing of it, my friend. We may have our differences, but that does not mean we cannot be cordial with one another, no?”

  Cliff's brows furrowed as he recalled their previous encounter. “Cordial, huh?” he said.

  “If you are thinking of our little spar in Borger, then do not worry,” Nathaniel smiled. “Water under the bridge. If anything, I relish every opportunity I am afforded to trade blows with you. You are, after all, an exceptional swordsman.”

  “Oh, enough with the flattery already,” Cliff scoffed, though his voice lacked any true hostility. “We’re both too old for such rubbish.”

  “As you wish,” Nathaniel shrugged, before his eyes came to rest on the blade gripped tightly in Cliff’s hand. “Either way, I see you have at last resorted to wielding your true weapon once more. How... delightfully nostalgic.”

  Cliff followed his gaze, and promptly felt a grimace settle upon his features.

  A wretched form bearing the marks of primeval malice, Rak’shul was a blade of jagged edges and pulsing veins that surged in tune with the wielder’s own heartbeat. Dark capillaries akin to rivers of blackened sin ran up the length of the blade, feeding the metal with infernal energy taken from its victims’ flesh. The hilt, constructed from the skin and bones of the apocryphal Carrion-Mother, was cast in an umber shade interspersed with white streaks, carrying faint smudges of darkened crimson from where the blade had tasted blood.

  For that was perhaps the single most defining feature of the Curseblade of Greed - it fed on the life essence of that which existed in its vicinity, to empower the wielder with blessings of a wicked nature. What’s more, the blade made no distinction between friend or foe. It would siphon the blood of all, without prejudice. Even that of its wielder, should it happen to find no suitable alternatives.

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  “Even now... it gorges on my blood,” Cliff said, watching the barbed vines where they had burrowed their way into his skin. “What endless gluttony.”

  “The Curseblade of Greed is no kind mistress,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head. “It is a thing of pure evil, bound to a man who insists on using it for good. It yearns for slaughter, yet its owner keeps it hidden away, removed from the blood it so desperately craves.”

  “I refuse to be a puppet,” Cliff said simply. “And I do not kill without reason.”

  “And you are stronger for it,” Nathaniel said, without hint of sarcasm. “Yet the blade will have its meal.”

  “Then I say, let it drink,” Cliff sneered. “For that is my burden to bear. And bear it, I shall.”

  A moment of tension passed between them, shaped in the silence of those who had seen hell, and felt its embers upon their skin. Then, a powerful dizzy spell suddenly overcame Cliff, and he stumbled backwards with a grimace, clutching at his forehead.

  “You should let go of the blade,” Nathaniel said. “I can tell it has been some time since last you used it. You are not strong enough at present to let it take much more from you.”

  “I would... if I could,” Cliff breathed. “But the blade is hungry. It will not be denied.”

  “... I see,” Nathaniel said, before taking a step back and closing his eyes. Then, he began whispering silent words on a low breath, his hand outstretched, fingers splayed.

  A familiar swirl of dark-green particles bathed in a black smoke suddenly materialized in the empty space before him, crackling with an electrified current.

  “There we go,” Nathaniel smirked, opening his eyes again. “Summoning portals like this one is more taxing on the body than it might appear.”

  “Damn you and your teleportation,” Cliff said. “I would’ve had you thrice over if it wasn’t for those infernal portals.”

  “And yet, my ability is about to save your life,” Nathaniel remarked calmly, before gesturing to the writhing pool of energy. “Shall we?”

  Cliff moved to protest, but stopped himself nary a moment later. He felt the constant drain upon his soul, and the horrible weight of the Curseblade in his hand. A hastened consideration of his alternatives left him sighing with exasperation.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “After you.”

  “But of course,” Nathaniel smiled, and stepped into the portal. He was gone in an instant.

  I’m a fool for trusting him, Cliff thought. And yet...

  He drew deep of the chilled morning air, feeling the shadows of the depths retreat further into the recesses of his mind. The revelations unearthed in that bottomless abyss would haunt him for a long time to come.

  Nothing but a fresh set of scars. Stonefather knows I’ve got plenty.

  He strengthened his resolve, and stepped into the portal.

  The world twisted and spun before his eyes, and then he was no more.

  /-0-\

  The sensation of non-existence was one wholly indescribable to those who had not lived to experience it for themselves. Reduced to cosmic dust, Cliff felt his now shattered form exist in multiple places at once. Every fragment an equal part of the whole, set adrift in the void that lingered twixt’ reality and the infinite.

  He could not see, for he had no eyes. He could not speak, for he had no mouth. Yet, he felt every ripple of the cosmos upon him like splashes of water, as he was flung far and wide across the stars.

  It was freedom on a scale he had never known. Ataraxia that was impossible to achieve when bound to a physical form.

  At last, the pieces of his being converged upon a singular point. Soon, he felt the touch of firm ground beneath his feet, and a pressing light upon his eyelids. A soft breeze ruffling his hair, caressing his skin.

  He opened his eyes to the world, and saw manifest reality once more.

  “... Wow,” he said, feeling a shudder course through his body. “That was...”

  “Yes, it is quite something, is it not?” Nathaniel said, standing a few feet to his right. “I can assure you, one does not get used to it.”

  They were standing in a forest glade, lone rays of sunlight penetrating through the thick carpet of leaves above. Fat, uncut straws of grass bent and swayed in roiling dunes, springing forth from the forest at the edges of the clearing. A tranquil pond sat square in the middle with a sizable boulder at its rim, barely touching the water. A collection of personal effects lay splayed out upon its surface; a wool scarf, a traveling sack, and a handbasket filled with various trinkets and a half-eaten sandwich.

  But the most striking thing of all was the woman playing gleefully in the pond, dancing about with water up to her knees. She wore a brilliant, almost childlike smile upon her rosy lips, her golden hair flapping about with every wild twist of her body. It appeared as if she was attempting to glide upon the pond’s surface, her pale feet trailing circles in the water.

  A wreath of flowers sat atop her head, painted in the myriad colors of the rainbow. Her blue summer dress had streaks of green on it, from where it had been brushed against the grass. On the whole, she looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her demeanor was more akin to that of a young child.

  Cliff soon found that he was unable to take his eyes off her. He could sense a touch of the divine in her, a faint lingering of the celestial. It was spellbinding, in more ways than one.

  “Who is that?” he asked, still with his gaze locked firmly on her.

  “You will soon find out, I reckon,” Nathaniel said, tapping his chin. “She adores meeting new people.”

  As if on cue, the blonde-haired woman twirled about in the pond, water splashing in a great spray around her. Her eyes met with Cliff’s, and for a moment, the two remained in a deadlock, staring at each other without speaking.

  Then, she suddenly bounded forwards with a smile, arms thrown wide to either side.

  “Nathaniel! You’ve brought me a new playmate!” she said, her voice a melodious singsong.

  “Not quite, my dear,” Nathaniel said, returning her smile. “This is an old friend of mine. His name is Cliff Fargo. You might have heard of him.”

  “Oohh~” she hummed, coming to a halt right in front of him, with nary a foot to spare between them. She was shorter than him by some measure, the top of her head reaching up to his collarbone. “The Azure Devil himself... He looks less scary than I thought he would.”

  Cliff blinked twice, and moved to speak. Before he was given the chance, however, the young woman had suddenly raised herself up onto the tips of her toes, and pushed her lips against his.

  “?!”

  Locked in an unexpected kiss, Cliff found himself utterly paralyzed by indecision. How was he supposed to react in this situation? How was anyone? His brain struggled to keep pace with the lived reality. As such, he was rendered a frozen husk of a man, standing with a rigid pose as the unknown woman kissed him.

  Thankfully, the whole affair was over with in the span of four heartbeats, and the stranger soon separated from him once more, running the tip of her tongue across her lips.

  “Hmm,” she said. “You taste like blood. And daemons. And regret.”

  “... W-What?” Cliff said, eyes wide.

  “Don't worry. It’s not a bad taste,” she continued. “It's just different, that's all.”

  “Ophelia, we have talked about this,” Nathaniel sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead. “It is not proper to kiss strangers you have only just met.”

  “But he looked like he would taste so exquisite!” the woman squealed. “And I was right! He did!”

  “Yes, but that is neither here nor there. We do not kiss strangers. That is the rule.”

  “Hmph...” she pouted. “Fine. You spoilsport.”

  “My apologies,” Nathaniel said, turning now to Cliff. “Ophelia can be... well, a little much sometimes. She means well, but-”

  “Ooohh, look! Shiny!” Ophelia said, cutting him off. “What a nice sword you have, mister!”

  It took Cliff a moment to realize she was talking to him. He shook his head, and looked down at the Curseblade.

  “... Thank you,” he said, with no small amount of sarcasm. “You can have it if you want.”

  “Oh no, absolutely not.” Ophelia shook her head. “That blade is evil. I don’t even need to taste it to know that.”

  “She is surprisingly attentive with such things,” Nathaniel said. “Suffice it to say, her disposition allows her to see certain things that the rest of us may only guess at.”

  Ophelia hopped closer to Cliff, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "But why do you carry such a wicked thing?"

  "That is a long story," Cliff started, then paused, unsure of where to begin. How could he explain the decades-old curse tied to his very being? The battles fought, the lives lost, the twisted malice that yet stained his soul?

  Before he could answer her question, however, Nathaniel stepped in.

  "One could perhaps say that Cliff here is on a journey of redemption, Ophelia,” he said. “To carry that blade is his burden. A necessary evil to endure for the sake of all he has lost.”

  Ophelia tilted her head, her expression shifting from playful to contemplative. "Redemption... That sounds heavy."

  “It is,” Cliff said simply, feeling the weight of his years a thousandfold. Ophelia looked him up and down in the silence, seeming to take in every aspect of him at once.

  “You’re injured,” she said at last. “And covered in blood. That’s no good. You should wash yourself in the pond. It’ll feel great, I promise!”

  “Not a bad idea,” Nathaniel said. “But first, we should see to his wounds. And fast, before the Curseblade drains more of his essence.”

  “Oh,” Ophelia blinked. “I can fix that, no problem.”

  She turned and skipped over to the edge of the pond, humming a soft melody to herself as she went. She seemed every bit the child in that moment, her features drawn in a portrayal of joyous wonder. Presently, she got to her knees, and put her mouth to the water.

  “Thirsty?” Cliff said with a frown.

  “Not quite,” Nathaniel said, gesturing for him to watch.

  Ophelia soon got back to her feet again, and turned around to face them. Her cheeks were filled with water now, puffed up to round spheres. In a way, she almost resembled a squirrel.

  “What.” Cliff deadpanned.

  “Just wait,” Nathaniel waved.

  She skipped over to Cliff, a humorous gleam in her eyes. He met her gaze with a mix of confusion and apprehension. Whatever she had planned, it certainly could not be anything good.

  Without hesitation, the blonde-haired girl leaned forwards yet again, and captured his lips with her own for the second time that day. It happened too fast for him to react, yet he could not say it came as a total surprise. He had had an inkling something like this might happen when he saw the look in her eye.

  The kiss was a supple, fleeting thing. A soft embrace meant not to disquiet, but to nurture. Cliff noted with some ire that it was not entirely disagreeable. That was, until...

  She suddenly started spewing water into his mouth, emptying her cheeks of their contents. It came in a powerful stream, surging down his throat, forcing him to swallow. He could not disentangle himself from the kiss either, as Ophelia had wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him in place.

  This continued for several awkward moments, until she had no more water left to give. At which point, she released him from her grip, and leaned back to send him a full smile.

  “There we go,” she said, nodding to herself. “Much better.”

  Cliff sputtered and coughed, trying to clear his airways of the residue.

  "That... was refreshing," he croaked out between breaths.

  Nathaniel, meanwhile, looked to be doing his utmost to suppress a laugh.

  Ophelia beamed with satisfaction, seeming pleased with herself for the nonsensical healing method. "See? All better now!"

  Cliff wiped his face with his sleeve. He wanted to protest, but was kept at bay by a strange sensation welling up in his chest. An odd wave of rejuvenation had started working its way through him, going from his neck and down his body. He felt the cuts and scrapes from where the flesh amalgams had lashed out at him slowly begin to knit themselves back together. He felt the bruises on the side of his torso grow hot and feverish, before receding into minor blemishes as the blood vessels beneath his skin mended and healed. He felt strength return to his muscles, and clarity dawn upon his mind.

  “... What’s happening to me?” he said, watching as his hand slowly released its grip on the handle of the Curseblade, and it fell to the ground with a muted thump.

  “The water, mixed with Ophelia’s saliva, is healing you,” Nathaniel explained. “She has the extraordinary ability to infuse her bodily fluids with unique properties. She can also extract information about a person or object simply by ingesting part of its body.”

  “What?” Cliff said. “But... that’s ridiculous! Just who is this girl?”

  “Oh, right.” Nathaniel snapped his fingers. “I failed to mention her full name.”

  He walked over to the girl and placed a tender hand upon her head, much as one would with a household pet.

  “Cliff, I would like you to meet Ophelia van Cornelius,” he said. “The Gilded Maiden of Lanrey Woods, and the only living descendant of Regulus van Cornelius.”

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