Cliff
“Sarah is pregnant. Stonefather knows how that is possible, but she is.
We began suspecting as much when she missed her bleeding. I felt it was an impossibility, but she convinced me to remain open to the notion, and surely enough; within the passing of the seventh fortnight, she was showing. A tiny child, growing inside of her.
I… do not know how to feel. A part of me is filled with elation, for I am to be a father, and that is no small thing. But a deeper part still quakes with fear and uncertainty. I have lived a very long life, and yet, I have no experience with fatherhood. Throughout all my years, I have known naught but war and bloodshed. How, then, am I supposed to raise a child? How am I supposed to instill in him the proper values of life, when I myself am naught but a butcher of men?
I know, however, that I cannot run from this. My love for Sarah has grown to the point where I can no longer imagine life without her. Now, we are to be parents. And I have never been more terrified.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2151 Post-Separation (PS).
The following days were spent in quiet contemplation of all that had once been as Cliff continued on his journey to Galwen. The stranger’s words kept repeating in his mind, akin to an echo cast against the walls of a cavernous hall. He was haunted by them, undone by them. For however much he wanted to believe otherwise, it was all true.
He was the Kinslayer, the man who had murdered his own family. Killed them in cold blood, with rage in his veins and hatred in his eyes.
There had been certain factors at play influencing his rationale at the time, of course. A devil playing hopscotch in his mind, twisting his desires and fanning the flames of his anger. But such paltry justifications made for a flimsy shield when confronted with the sheer horror of his actions. There was no defending what he had done. No variation of the truth that would ease the pain in his heart. There was only the regret of a broken man, who should have ended his life a long time ago.
The road curved west, putting the wind at his back and the valley he had come from behind a rocky outcropping. Just a little further now, and he would be able to see Galwen from his vantage point, like a great wooden circle upon the landscape.
It had been a long time since his last visit, though not long enough, as the place carried naught but bad memories for him. It was also too close to The Long Divide and the Darkenlands for his liking, though he knew it to be an unpopular opinion amongst his peers. For many, the Darkenlands represented an attractive, but more importantly lucrative business opportunity, after all. One that had helped more than a fair few on their way to great wealth. Though, simultaneously, the people who tended to benefit the most from the Anomalies were the ones who hired others to do the actual delving for them, and as such, never had to step foot upon the land’s cursed soil themselves.
There was a bitter sort of irony in that, the kind that left a bad taste in his mouth. And so, he closed his mind to it, and turned his eyes instead to the horizon that unfurled itself before him as he came to the other side of the mountain. A great expanse of forested hills and winding streams met his gaze, stretching far and wide below him before ultimately colliding with the side of yet another mountain range in the distance, this one considerably bigger than the one Cliff had just scaled. Situated towards the middle of the plains was the town of Galwen, its wood-and-bone walls a stark contrast to the lush greenery that surrounded it.
All things considered, it was a spectacular view, the kind that would excite a painter and inspire the musician. As it was, however, it roused no such emotion within Cliff, for his heart was already full of troubles, and in no fit state to appreciate that which was good and well with the world.
Continuing on his way, he guided Brom down the narrow mountain path descending towards the woodlands, his hoofbeats striking hard and loud upon the stone and gravel. It was slow going; he did not want to risk his horse slipping on the uneven terrain, and so was forced to travel at a light canter.
It would likely take him the rest of the day to make it to Galwen - too late for any inquiries or preliminary investigations. He would have to seek room and board for the night, and track down the lumberjack come morning. Then, he would go to the Grimseid Depths, and…
Do what, precisely? Trespass on that most blighted of dwellings? Awaken that which no man should ever disturb? On a hunch from a grief-stricken Varus?
No, the whole venture was folly. To seek the ghosts resting in that place… It was nothing more than fanciful suicide. And yet…
He would carry through with it regardless. He owed Varus a debt of such magnitude, it compelled him to do as commanded, even when the command was ludicrous or nonsensical. Besides, the man had something in his possession that Cliff desired. A certain vial, containing a certain substance.
The stranger once referred to it as the nectar of the gods. But I wonder… Cliff thought as Brom gave a strong whinny, expressing his annoyance with the rough pathway he was forced to traverse. He was a stalwart and prideful horse, the kind that thrived upon the open fields and rolling hills. In the mountains, however, he was somewhat less reliable.
Cliff ran a hand along his companion’s neck, whispering words of affirmation as they trudged on, reaching below the treetops at last. Soon, the ground would even out, and they could begin riding towards Galwen in earnest.
I wonder if the place has changed since my last visit, Cliff thought as the gravel gave way to dirt and grass. I wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t. Places like that rarely change, after all. Not at their core. They only grow bigger, and more noisy.
A flock of deer grazed upon a thicket of bushes growing close to the path some distance ahead. There were two fawns with them, small of body and short of legs. They stood on either side of their parents, nibbling on the lower branches. The sight of them evoked a powerful image in Cliff’s mind; a still portrait of a golden-haired woman cradling a newborn child in her arms.
It had been a long time since he had thought of his wife. Ever since the incident, he had burrowed the memories deep, locking them away behind a wall constructed of his own grief and anguish. It was the only way he had been able to cope. The only way to stop himself from doing something reckless to make the pain go away - permanently.
It was… difficult, to fully capture and recall the kind of person Camilla Whitlock had been. Where Catherine was a whirlpool of sharp wit and spirited action, Camilla had been a fiercely calm and composed sort of woman. Akin to a rock standing proud against the storm, she had been an unmovable titan of rationale, always one step ahead of whatever the world could think to throw at her.
At that point in his life, Cliff himself had been, in large parts, a slave to his own emotions. Constantly being cast in whatever direction his mood saw fit, whether for better or for worse. Camilla, then, had been the perfect anchor to keep him grounded; her cool rationality always braced to bring him back to his senses, should he happen to become hotheaded and unstable.
In this way, they had been good together. Two polar opposites, working in unison towards a common goal - Camilla teaching him the ways of the composed mind, and he teaching her swordsmanship. In the end, one could hardly tell she had once been a farmer’s daughter. She had looked every bit the warrior Cliff did.
And then came Lenore. Sweet little Lenore. His daughter. His flesh and blood.
Her laughter had filled his soul with happiness the likes of which he had never experienced before. Her smile had been enough to light up the darkest of days, her mere presence a bulwark against all that was sad and painful. He had loved her more than words could convey, loved her with every fiber of his being. And yet…
He had killed them both.
A lone tear streaked down the side of his face, leaving a wet trail upon his skin. It was too much. He could not allow himself to remember. For if he did, his heart would surely give out, and he would fall to the ground crying, never to rise again. And so, he forced his thoughts away from such things, away from the loving eyes of his wife, and the angelic laughter of his daughter. Away from the pain and the heartbreak. Away from the guilt and the hatred.
He rode on in silence, his eyes upon the road and his mind closed to the chaos within himself. The world continued to exist, heedless of the pain he carried. For now, that would have to do.
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It was a while still before he was interrupted again, this time by the sound of churning wheels and the whistling of a coach driver. He lifted his gaze to rest upon a mighty carriage, rocking and swerving upon the road ahead. A magnificent construction of blue frostwood and silver embellishments, it looked like something out of the children’s storybooks, with its overlarge wheels and horses in polished armor. The white-and-blue flag strapped to its side, depicting a soaring eagle flying high above a white landscape, told Cliff precisely who it belonged to.
“Strength of the mountain be with you, stranger,” the coach driver said to him as he pulled at the reins, bringing the carriage to a halt.
“And with you, my friend,” Cliff replied, nodding his head. It had been a while since he had heard the Abengardian greeting.
“How fares the road beyond?” the coach driver asked. “Anything we should be aware of?”
“I can only speak of the road to Carthal,” Cliff said. “But beyond a few industrious highwaymen, my journey has been safe.”
“I see,” the coach driver said, scratching at his bushy eyebrows. “And these highwaymen… Are they still in the area?”
The traces of a smile flashed across Cliff’s face.
“You will find their corpses stacked three to a man by the side of the road, a day’s travel from Maris. Granted the local wildlife haven’t taken off with them by now, that is.”
“Good, good…” the coach driver nodded. It looked as if he was about to say something else as well, but was cut off at the last moment by a muted voice coming from inside the carriage.
“Albert?” the voice said, sounding a touch agitated. “What’s the hold-up?”
“Oh, nothing much, sir,” the coach driver responded. “Just asking about the road ahead, is all.”
“You worry too much, old friend,” the voice came again. “As I have already told you, the road is perfectly safe. Now let us be about our business. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“Certainly, my lord,” the coach driver said. He made to strike at the horses with the reins again, before Cliff held up his hand, causing him to stop.
“I thought I recognized that voice,” Cliff said, loud enough to carry through the wooden panels of the carriage. “It has been some time, Julien.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, a clicking noise from the door on the side of the carriage, which was promptly shoved open mere moments later. A handsome man stepped out from the darkened interior, dressed in an opulent fur coat that had several gemstones ringing its sleeves.
Long, brown hair tied up into a ponytail. Regal features, and a chiseled jaw. Clear, lilac eyes that regarded the world with a vainglorious sort of scrutiny, the kind one offered to that which was lacking in style or grace, and thus beneath one’s notice.
The man was none other than Julien Balder, oldest son of the Mountainborne Empress herself. He did not look a day older than he had the last time Cliff had seen him, which was six years ago. His apparent immortality in this way was a matter of some renown.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Julien said in an even monotone. “Cliff Fargo, The Azure Devil himself.”
Cliff gave a slight grunt at the mention of the nickname. It had been an age and a half since anyone had used it in his presence. It was well-known how much he despised it.
“You’re a long way from Abengarde, Julien,” Cliff said, dousing the brief flash of anger. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, nothing much.” The young noble gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just tending to some family business, that’s all. What about you? What takes you all the way out west?”
“Varus,” Cliff said simply.
“Ah,” Julien smirked. “So you’re still working for that old codger, then. Good for you, I suppose. Better for him. A man of your considerable talents can be quite the asset.”
“Oh, spare me the flattery,” Cliff scoffed. “We both know how you and your family feel about me.”
“Well, yes…” Julien frowned. “My mother is not the type to forgive and forget, as I’m certain you’re aware. I, however, am much more lenient when it comes to such things. Water under the bridge, and all that. Besides, it has been some time now since your betrayal.”
“It wasn’t a betrayal,” Cliff said, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to leave your family the way I did. It was simply-”
“Ah,” Julien said, interrupting him with a wave. “You’re mistaking me for someone who cares, Cliff. Whatever happened between the two of you is your business, not mine. And I would like to keep it that way, if it is all the same to you.”
“… Alright then,” Cliff said, choosing to let the matter rest. He was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.
“But really, you should come visit us in Abengarde sometime. It has been far too long since last you blessed us with your company,” Julien continued, an impish smile upon his lips. “Granted your masters in Carthal give you leave to do so, of course.”
The comment was rank provocation, an obvious slight towards his bond with Varus. The old Cliff would have surely risen to the challenge, and responded in kind. That was before Camilla had taught him the virtues of stoicism, and restraint.
“I’m certain we could work something out,” Cliff said instead, dipping his head in agreement.
Julien clicked his tongue. It was clear he was disappointed by the answer. He had always been prone to a bit of verbal sparring.
"Well, this certainly is an interesting place for reunions, is it not?” he remarked, his tone almost mocking. "I must say, you seem to have mellowed out somewhat over the years. Perhaps the trials of the road have tempered you."
“Who knows?” Cliff shrugged. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”
Julien chuckled, a sound that carried a mix of amusement and condescension. “Maybe so.”
An awkward silence descended upon them then, as they stood facing each other. Julien’s gaze was fixed firmly on Cliff, as if trying to decipher the changes that time had wrought upon the man. There was a tension between them that was difficult to ascertain. A palpable undercurrent running beneath the veneer of polite conversation.
“It might interest you to know that I ran into Amelie Harthway in Galwen the other day,” Julien started, seeming to pick and choose his words carefully. “She was in quite the predicament, too.”
Cliff felt his eyebrows tighten. What would she be doing here?
“Oh really?” he said, adopting a tone of blasé indifference. “What kind of predicament?”
“She was being chased by a group of Umbrals.”
Cliff’s response was instant; a sharp intake of breath, followed closely by muted swears.
“Foul creatures,” he spat, remembering past encounters. He yet had a scar on his lower right side from where one of those monstrosities had raked his flesh with its nails once. “To make an Umbral is to make a monster of yourself in the process. Who has she pissed off this time?”
“Who knows?” Julien shrugged. “It can be difficult to tell with Amelie. You know what she’s like. But still… Umbrals, of all things. Those are no mere assassins.”
“No, they are not,” Cliff responded gravely, his face cast in stone. He did not ask how Julien had disposed of the creatures. He knew the Abengardian youth to be a powerful Wielder, fully capable of drawing upon vast quantities of Astra, and so the question was moot.
“There was a person with her, as well,” Julien said, his voice dropping an octave or so in the process. “A young man, no older than twenty summers at the most. He seemed… confused. Lost, like a little puppy taken from its family. I have never seen him before.”
When Cliff offered no response, he expounded further on the matter.
“I offered the two of them my help, as I happened to be in the area, and… well, you know my history with Amelie,” he said, appearing somewhat discontent, as if recalling those particular memories was unpleasant for him. “She told me they were headed for Benadiel. For her father.”
Cliff frowned. Amelie, going back to Benadiel? Of her own free will? Not likely.
“… Why are you telling me this?” he said at last, after taking a moment to consider the information he had been presented with.
“Because…” Julien said, averting his eyes. “I know you care for Amelie. And I’m worried about her.”
Cliff had to do a double take. The admission hung in the air, a surprising vulnerability from a person he had always known to be guarded and self-assured.
It made sense for Julien to care about her, of course. They had been lovers once, even if the relationship had eventually soured. But still… for him to admit as much to Cliff spoke to a deeper concern. There was something more at play here.
Julien shifted ever so slightly before him, a rare display of unease. “Amelie is like a storm, Cliff. Stirring up trouble where so ever she goes, leaving chaos in her wake. And this time, I fear she may have gotten herself involved in matters that… well, might pose more of a threat to her than she realizes.”
It was not an unreasonable assessment to make. Ever since her childhood, Amelie had been a restless soul, constantly seeking knowledge and experience at the cost of her own well-being. Cliff recalled one incident in particular, many years past, where he had been called to the courtyard of the Harthway family estate to “fetch” the young lady from a tree. Apparently, she had spotted an unfamiliar bird perched on its uppermost branches, and made the decision to scale the tree for a closer look. Only when she reached the zenith, and the bird flew away from her, did she realize just how far up she now was, and thus set to crying.
She had been five years old at the time. The memory brought a smile to Cliff’s lips. His time with the Harthways had been brief, but eventful. And though he would never admit to it out loud, he much preferred the Harthway children to the Balder’s.
“What do you want me to do?” Cliff said, pursing his lips. “I am Amelie’s guardian no longer. And more still, I am in the service of Lord Varus the Stormbringer - Escanor Harthway’s strongest rival.”
“You speak as if I don't know these things,” Julien scoffed. “Do not presume to lecture me on politics, swordsman. You have your battlefield. This is mine.”
Cliff sighed. “All I’m saying is that… I am in no position to offer my services. I’m sorry.”
For the briefest of moments, Julien looked genuinely disappointed. It lingered for no more than a few heartbeats, as his mask of professionalism was soon to reform, but the truth remained that he had lost control. Cliff chose to see it as a tiny victory.
“I see,” Julien said, his features now smoothed over with cool impassivity as he turned to face the carriage. “In that case, I wish you the best of luck on your travels. Until we meet again.”
Cliff raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the sudden change of pace, but otherwise held his tongue.
“Pray make haste to Maris, Albert,” the young noble continued as he found his seat within the luxurious chariot. “There is nothing more to be gained here."
With a final nod, he slammed the door shut, sparing not another word for Cliff as the coach driver spurred the horses and the wheels started spinning again, resuming on their long journey home.
Cliff stood in silence for a while after, looking at the carriage as it disappeared down the road, before at last turning his gaze in the other direction again. There was much to consider, and precious little time. He would need to start acting accordingly.
The only thing he knew for certain was that the road ahead promised answers, challenges, and perhaps even a potential reunion with a storm that bore the name of Amelie Harthway.
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