Chapter Text
Away from the church bells and booming clock towers of a life left behind, the act of casting one’s rod into the gentle lapping of the local river becomes as close to meditation as is possible in such… humble circumstances.
Clifford is not a religious man – at least not for a higher power. His meditation is to push away the temptations of sorcery, the wiles of witchcraft – a self-disciplinary measure to ensure that in the absence of a God, he does not turn to a corruptible power in its stead. And thus – he shall fish in the clear waters of the hills and valleys. Each tug of the rod becomes a deep breath, the reeling becomes the release.
That he knows not how to cook the fish he catches, should he catch any, is irrelevant. There are fishmongers for a reason – his purpose extends far beyond… whatever it is required to consume fish.
It’s a morning like any other – a simple breakfast of corn, vegetables from the ground, and a cut of beef that he cannot help but splurge on. He may try to do as peasants do, but he is weak to the temptations of meat. Surely, it is a vice he can indulge, compared to the alternative. He shudders to wonder what a witch might dare do to an innocent tenderloin.
Yet, as he returns to his fishing shack with a full belly and high spirits… There is someone. A man, a man in robes and a large, pointed hat – and Clifford feels his skin bristle underneath his tunic. How dare the witch invade his home away from home? His private abode – his sanctuary?
Alas, Clifford is no brute. With a steadying breath, he places his gear near the door to his fishing hut, and retrieves his crossbow and a bandolier of bolts. With a hefty crank, he loads a bolt into the groove, and pulls the string taut. As the mechanism clicks, the witch spins around, a smug look upon his dastardly face.
“Ah – Sir Rolexus. I can always expect a warm greeting from one such as yourself.” Clifford sneers, refusing to lower the crossbow where it is aimed towards the fiend’s heart.
“Save your smarminess, Vaudevillian the second!” The witch wishes to speak, but Clifford has no time for interruptions. “Explain why you’ve dared to intrude upon my secluded fishing spot! Or I might shoot this bolt straight into your wicked heart.”
The witch simply rolls his eyes, taking off his hat with a flick of a dainty wrist, as it dematerializes right in front of him. It is then that Clifford notes that the witch – Voluminous, his name might be – is not clad in the usual ornate finery and enchantments he’s been known to don. Without the large hat, the man is in a simple working robe over a loose tunic, leggings tucked into wrapped leather boots. His hair is thrown upwards in a knot upon his head, loose strands floating down to –
Wait a minute. None of this is important. Or perhaps it is – an attempt to lower his guard?! The villainy!
Just then, the witch gently kneels down to pick up a wooden pail, filled with clear river water. He lifts the pail to cradle it against his breast, as if carrying it by the handle was just a touch too heavy for him.
“I was unaware this was your land. I had thought the river belonged to we, the people.” The witch – Clifford is sure his name is Vivacious, actually – smiles, his eyes squeezing into condescending crescents accentuated by red, seductive makeup.
Egads – this witch would dare use paltry human lust as temptation?!
“W-well, now you’re aware!” The witch starts to walk towards Clifford from the edge of the dock, pail gently slushing in his hold. “Hold on a millisecond, Villainousness! You shall not depart from this dock until you explain why exactly you need to pilfer my fishing water! What sort of nefarious spell are you plotting… fiend!”
With a withering glare, the witch stops in his advance. He sighs, his brows pinched in a light annoyance.
“I’m making breakfast, Sir Rolexus. I cannot simply ‘magic’ water into my hands.”
For perhaps the first time, Clifford is stunned into silence. As such, the witch takes the chance to keep talking without interruption.
“I should have enough to feed myself for nearly a moon – would offering you a bowl be a suitable peace offering?”
Clifford blinks. Then, his senses come back online.
“Pah! And allow you to poison the beauty of a stew, to take me out from this mortal plane?! Nay, I say!” The witch – Viradescent, surely – rolls his eyes.
“I am far too famished to be arguing with you about this right now – would allowing you to watch me make the stew be acceptable?”
One side of Clifford roars in protest – walking into the witch’s den? Suicide!
The other sees an opportunity. When else will the witch have his guard so low? His vulnerabilities on display? Clifford Rolexus would be a fool to pass up such a chance to learn the weakness of the enemy.
“... Very well! To thy abode.”
The witch tuts, a feline smile and minxish quality to his lean as their noses grow closer to touching. Clifford feels sweat upon his nape.
“Only if you can say my name correctly, Clifford.” His name rolls off the witch’s tongue like it was molded to fit, a perfect dip in pitch as his lips form the second syllable.
Clifford, for once, remembers.
“… Lead the way.” He sneers, but relents ever too easily. “Vetruveius.”
With a twirl of his tunic, the witch spins on his heel, gracefully trekking up the small hill towards the eastern sunrise. Clifford can do naught but follow.
…
A memory — one he had hoped lay forgotten in the town he’d left behind. The booming voice, the deafening tick of each second echoing throughout the vaulted ceilings. A man stares down upon him, a furrow that is as eternal as time itself.
Rule number one, my son. Never grant a witch thy name — to do so is to sign away thy life to their wiles.
I hope one day you can forgive me, father. For I have failed.