Your nightmare begins here

When V makes a contract with Griffon, he regains the memories Griffon was made out of, showing the scene of Vergil’s defeat at the hands of Mundus.

Vergil may be beaten, but he’s not given up at all, still snarking back at the Emperor of the underworld, his defiant spirit still strong. Not that it helps him in this situation...

This is where Vergil’s slow transformation into Nelo Angelo begins. And I mean slow, since the dmc5 novel seems to hint at it having taken a bit before Mundus finally made the eldest Son of Sparda fully submit.

Anyway, Griffon overall is a very chatty fellow, mostly reminiscent of Dante in a way. And while that comparison might also have its reasons, we should not forget that Vergil also has his own snarky side and it was probably on full display at the beginnings of his capture. Wilful and stubborn, it does seem to reflect Griffon’s personality in a way.

So yeah, Griffon in my mind was made out of the memories at the start of that torturous almost decade.

Next up we have Phantom!

And yes, Phantom is not taken as one of V’s familiars and so we don’t get to see the memories he harbours, but we do have his personality to go from. Phantom overall is ruthless, abrasive, uncaring and oh so prideful, willing to kill and destroy everything and everyone. And he’s powerful for a nightmare.

This in my mind fits with a Vergil who’s going through the beginnings of torture. He’s more reckless, more desperate and all the more wrathful for it, not willing to listen to anyone cause that’s what they’re trying to make him do and he won’t allow it! He won’t submit to anyone, no matter the reason!

Even what Phantom says might be a reflection of what Vergil thought, or maybe even heard from his demonic captors regarding himself during that time.

At this point he’s still got energy to fight, to hold on, to keep up his stubborn pride…

But even that is not unending, which we see in Shadow.

Shadow’s memories are one of transformation, of being almost Nelo Angelo, but still fighting back, trying to shrug the armour off and only partially succeeding. Screaming silently, for that’s all that’s left to do. Not having submitted yet but having already been brought so low not much of Vergil is left anymore.

Shadow personally started off with stealing V’s cane and trying to get to the underworld with it, showing how they are more focused on escaping than fighting.

Overall Shadow’s personality is the calmest of all the familiars, the most agreeable once they are shown the benefit of the deal to survive. They are silent, for at that point Vergil probably also didn’t have a voice anymore, only trying to find a way to get away, to desperately find the path to keep the most important parts of himself intact…

One that at the end led him to finally making one last deal to keep what he could. That being for the amulet.

Lastly there’s Nightmare, the juggernaut of the familiars.

Nightmare’s memories are actually shown in visions, but they clearly mostly have to do with the time when Vergil was fully subjugated, having submitted after who knows how long and after only the smallest bits of him were left in return for the amulet.

That means of course that these memories also hold the times Nelo Angelo encountered the newly born Trish, the times he followed Mundus’ orders without will, the times he met the demons that would become the basis for his familiars...

… and of course his final encounters with Dante, and Nelo Angelo's subsequent defeat and almost death at his hands.

This description of what the original Nightmare was would also perfectly fit for Nelo Angelo...

Nightmare doesn’t have much of a personality, for how could it. At that point Vergil didn’t have much of one either, besides being fair and honourable, which Nightmare in a way also is. In return for its core, it forms the contract with V.

And it is the most powerful of all the familiars cause what bigger nightmare is there than having lost oneself completely and being only a hollow shell constantly puppeteered around? This happening for who knows how long?

…and then almost dying at the hands of one’s own twin brother.

This brings us to the end of the familiars and also that period of Vergil’s life.

What do you all think?

Yeah, this is more of a headcanon of mine than a real analysis, but it does have some stuff to support it. Also, it gives us some idea of what memories are actually fully lost to Vergil. While I do believe V regained every piece of the past he made a contract with, Phantom is the outlier and because of that I think the memories he held are gone forever.

So despite how much Vergil claims to not remember, and that being a clear lie so often (if not a mistranslation) there are certainly some segments of his own history he doesn’t truly know anymore. And if he still does, probably way less than he should...

At least he can make new and happier memories after dmc5.

I tried not to care. I wanted to do something normal and blend into the crowd of patrons. So I didn't leave. I sipped coffee and read my book. It wasn't until the sun crept down the horizon that an elderly woman came to my table and softly said, like I was her grandson, "Son, do you know you have shaved half your face and that your shoes are mismatched?"

My face went up in flames. I couldn't speak around the frog in my throat. "What?" I croaked.

I fumbled my phone from my pocket and opened the front camera. My red face looked back at me, fully shaved, and I watched in real time as the red color faded and my face hardened. I eyed the woman. "Is this a joke?"

She wasn't shaken. "No, no, son—you don't see it?"

She reached into my space and took my hand. Before I could react—jolt away, swat her hand, anything—she placed my own right hand on the left side of my face and there I felt it: prickly stubble.

She let her hand fall. My hand stayed, frozen in place. Almost afraid, I moved my hand and felt the other half of my face and I felt it like a stab in my gut: smooth, freshly shaven skin.

She sat down in the empty chair across from me, quite uninvited. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know—how?"

"My husband used to forget one side of his body after he had a stroke. Has this happened to you before?"

I shook my head, and tried not to shake.

"Do you have someone you can call? A friend that can help?"

"I—I need. To make a call."

I stood, trying not to bolt upright, and walked, trying not to run, remembering to take my book at the last second. I pushed open the glass doors with a cold hand. I couldn't make it far with the knowledge I was walking with mismatched shoes. I turned into the nearest alley and dialed the only number I would never forget. I pressed the phone hard into my ear—on the side of my face I didn't forget, running a shaking hand into my hair as I listened to the dial tone.

"Dante. I'm forgetting myself again."

Something clanged on Dante's end. "Where are you?"

I told him. So he came, dishevelled and worried, socks mismatched just like my shoes.

"Do I have tattoos?" I had to know.

Dante swallowed. Took my hand—the left, the one I keep forgetting. "No."

I tried. I tried all day. I was so tired of trying.

"It's okay, Verge. It's okay. We'll figure this out."

"I wanted to have a normal day."

"I know, Verge."

Dante winded his arm around my shoulder and led us through every alley that led to home. I couldn't express how grateful I was that no one else would see me like this until I made it home. Mismatched on accident, matching a twin mismatched on purpose. At least, I was still part of a pair. Even like this.

"Just one normal day."

"I know, Verge. I know."

This one, guessing by the width of the mounds, and the size of the chunk taken out of the horse, was kinda tiny, no bigger than a small car.  Still, considering how annoying these guys were, with their time warping powers making them faster than should be possible, and his… previous encounter with them, it would be best to call his uncle or dad to give them a heads up.

“Devil May Cry”  the nasally voice on the other end was more than enough to distinguish the twins. 

“Hey dad,” It still felt odd to call him by that title.  Vergil hadn’t discouraged the practice, but he felt just as uncomfortable with the title as Nero felt saying it. “I’m out on a job, and I think I came across our favourite time warping demonic worm.

He heard the heavy swump of a hardcover book cover he undoubtedly was reading being slammed shut.

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty sure.  The signs point to it.  Dead horse, tunnel activity.”

“I will be there shortly.  I would highly suggest that you leave the area until my arrival.”

Nero huffed “It’s just a worm… and a small one at that.”  He was really irked that he was treated like a little kid, Vergil was overreacting.

“Still, I urge you to use the utmost caution-”

“Oh come on Dad, there’s nothing to worry about, I’m perfe-”

He never got the chance to finish the sentence, as something wet and slimy had wrapped around  his ankle, and dragged him down into the earth.

🌷🌷🌷

Nero blinked.  Then blinked again.  He wasn’t dead.  At least he thought he wasn’t dead.  If he was, the afterlife was extremely banal.  The sun shone down, at an angle that suggested sometime around noon, the birds were chirping, the trees were rustling with new leaves.  Springtime?  That was weird because it was mid fall when he had investigated the farm.

It took a little bit of time to get his bearings.  He was standing on a sidewalk, in front of an ornate wrought iron gate, that looked familiar, and yet…odd.  He wasn’t quite sure, as it looked completely normal, if a bit rich for his tastes.  Something like those manors owned by the old families on the island.

Speaking of manor, that building behind the gate was really getting his attention.  It was stately and grand, with a lush lawn and a large garden full of flowering tulips and daffodils, further cementing it was spring here.  But it was the facade that captured his attention. He swore he’d seen it before, but… where… or more importantly WHEN.

It took about thirty seconds until he realized what this place was:  Redgrave Manor, the birthplace and childhood home of his father and brother.  But… here it stood here at the zenith of its glory, instead of the crumbling decrepit charred skeleton he remembered it to be.   Knowing what little bit he had gleaned from the twins, the fire that destroyed it and ended their childhoods prematurely was… almost forty years ago.  How long in time was he sent back?  Was this the doing of that weird worm?  It seemed kinda small to move him so far back in time.  Was this permanent?

He didn’t really have time to ruminate on such things because from a batch of tulips, there was a movement of gold that caught his eye, as if he was a magpie.  A head popped up, wearing a wide straw hat, humming contentedly as she pulled weeds.  Nero’s mouth went dry… he couldn’t see her face, had never met her, but he knew exactly what she looked like.  He’d studied that portrait on Dante’s desk countless times, comparing it to Trish’s face.  He struggled one whether to stand here standing there like a creepy stalker, watching his grandma, or to try to sound like a creepy weirdo, trying to get her attention.  What could he even say to her?

And as if she could read his mind, she looked up, and noticed him.  “Oh!” She exclaimed as she got up, removing her gardening gloves and brushing the dirt off of her knees. She had a basket of freshly picked tulips hooked on her arm, and she smelled of damp earth and freshly shorn grass.  “I didn’t see you, young man.”  She cocked her head in confusion, and for a moment, Nero felt like he didn’t have any clothes on, she was examining him so thoroughly.  But after that, she just smiled and asked, “are you looking for someone?”

“Uh yeah…” he began lamely, “is your husband Sp-”  he stopped himself.  Did his grandpa go by that name with his family?  Seemed too stately, too formal.  But maybe that was because in Fortuna, ‘Sparda’ was up there with ‘Jesus’ when it came to reverence.  Not a name to casually banter about.

“Oh, you’re talking about Spencer?  Sadly, he’s out of town-” she paused, and a shadow passed over her face. “For the foreseeable future.  I’m Eva, his wife.”

Nero could only stand there stunned.  His Grandpa, the Former Ruler and Savior of Fortuna, the Demon who threw down Mundus two millennia ago, who his father revered, went by the name… SPENCER!?  That was a nerd name!  No wonder the twins never referred to him with such a lame name.

“Oh…that’s too bad,”  he said, not feeling too bad at all.  It had been ages since he swallowed the baloney that the ‘Saviour’ was some sort of divine figure, but it would still feel awkward to meet the guy that Kyrie’s family practically worshipped.  And would Sparda somehow know who he was?  Would he be disappointed in his grandson?

“What’s your name, young man?”  

“Pardon?” “You never gave your name, and Spencer mentioned having any other…” she hesitated as she looked up at his hair.  “Relations.”

Aw crap…this is not a situation he had never planned for.  To be fair, he hadn’t expected to be warped into the past to meet his long dead grandma, but there was no way that she didn’t have suspicions about how he and Sparda were related.

“Oh,” he laughed nervously, running his hand through his hair, as if to acknowledge her concerns, “I’m from Fortuna, it’s an island off the coast a few days' travel from Redgrave.  I guess… you could call me a distant descendant of him.”  ‘Distant’ was stretching the truth to its fullest extent, but it would do, “My mom never met him either, if you’re worried about-”

“Oh, no… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to imply-” Now it was her turn to act flustered,  “I knew Spenc-, she paused, and then corrected herself, “Sparda used to reside there, long before we met, and I would never blame him for things he did there, and especially not blame a young man like you!”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and it felt… good.  Like with that simple gesture, he was now accepted by his grandmother, even if she didn’t know…it took all his willpower not to break down and cry.

“You still haven’t given your name..”

“Oh… yeah… I’m”  He panicked.. Should he give her his real name?  Would it fuck up the timeline?  But what pseudonym could he give that sounded believable.  It had to be a Fotunan name, it had to be one that he had heard constantly… it had to be a respectable name. “Credo…My name Credo Elesion”

Her eyes brightened, and she squeezed his shoulder tightly, as she tucked a vibrant royal purple tulip into his jacket breast pocket.  “Well, Credo Elesion, I’d like to formally welcome you to the Sparda family.”

🌷🌷🌷

He always knew the home where Dante and Vergil once spent their childhoods was massive, just looking at the skeleton that was left, but here?  In its prime?  It was beautiful, much grander than he’d ever seen before.  Dark wood panelling covered with paintings and tapestries, busts of statues from different eras.

“Sparda wa-is a collector of all things beautiful,” she explained, as she led him through the central hall. “One of the few things we argued about was how to let go of some of his older items, to make room for newer ones. For example,” she stopped before the only clear spot on the wall, visible the moment Nero stepped in.  “I had to cajole him to donate several pieces of art he cherished to the local museum, in order to make room for… this.”  She motioned to something leaning against the wall. She stepped away, and Nero gasped.  It was a life sized portrait, and he remembered it very well.  The heavily damaged one still hung in the manor, with Dante and Vergil hesitant to send it for restoration (and not because of the cost, he sensed)  This one was brand new, still giving off a faint odor of varnish.  A heavy canvas sheet covered half of it, most frustratingly, the part where he KNEW Sparda was seated.  But he could see Eva, looking regal as a Queen, and below her, her hands clasped on the shoulders of two young boys… “Those are…” he whispered.  The heavily damaged painting he remembered had obscured their features, almost as much as their fathers.  Now he could see their pensive features feeling quite out of character for the two older men he knew now.

“Yes, those are my sons,” she murmured, and he had a sensation that she wasn’t looking at them, but at him, for some reason.  “You have no idea how much effort it took for the two of them to stand still for their portrait to be even sketched, let alone painted.”

“I can only guess,” he grinned.  The only time the twins seem to be able to stand each other’s presence for any length of time is when they both are drunk… or sleeping.  

“Speaking of which… they’re awfully quiet…  DANTE!  VERGIL!  YOUR COUSIN IS HERE TO VISIT!!”  

Cousin, eh?  I can work with that. He thought.

There was a stampede of feet down the stairs, and a young voice yelled out.

“COUSIN LEON IS HERE! WOOOH!”

He shot a sharp glance at Eva.  There was another family member?  

“Ah, he’s talking about my sister’s son, Leon…. We’ve been a bit… estranged from that part of my family for the past few years.  The boys miss him terribly.  So few children of their age live in this area.”  She explained, and he nodded, and made a mental note to ask his dad about this cousin when he got back.

If he got back.  

He shoved the uncomfortable feeling down as soon as a bundle of demonic energy came down the steps, the two entities racing each other to get to the bottom.

It was Dante who got there first. His unmistakable aura of excitability, not tempered by age and tragedy yet to come was what marked him out to Nero.  His grin, showing a gap where he had recently lost a tooth, was hard to miss.

“I won!”  He crowed to the other figure, dressed more neatly, and more soberly.  Even at that age, Vergil had preferred to distinguish himself from his brother in any way he could.  Especially as he had to act like he was TOTALLY not upset that his little brother had won this particular race.

Dante skidded to a stop and stared at Nero, his jaw dangling open. “Dante, it’s not polite to stare.” “But this isn’t Leon!” The disappointment in his voice was palpable.

“No, this is your other cousin, Credo.  He’s dropped by to visit.  This is my son, Dante,” she formally introduced him, even though he already knew so much about him.  “And his brother,”

“Older brother,” the boy clarified.

“Older brother, Vergil.”  

“Glad to meet you!” Nero greeted them, trying to keep his composure.  They were so small.  It was hard to comprehend that the two men he called father and uncle were once children, instead of full grown adults that acted like children.

“Now, I need to get lunch ready for us and our guest, so if you two would like to show Mr. Credo around while I make some extra food for our guest.”  The boys began to protest.

“But mooooom, he’s so….” Dante looked at him with a grimace, “Olllllld.  He looks as old as dad!”

Nero had to bite back outrage, or a laugh, he wasn’t quite sure which.  

“Dante!!!  What have I told you about ‘if you can’t say anything nice…”

“Yeah yeah, don’t say anything at all...” he groaned, and he looked at his mother.  “Can I help you instead?  Vergil likes hanging around old people better…”

“Dante…”  Her voice was dangerously low, and Nero automatically knew that tone, having heard countless times, from orphanage matrons, mostly towards him.  Dante was thin ice.

“I’ll do it,” Vergil interrupted, and Nero was half surprised that he said it without a hint of sarcasm, or obligation.

“Splendid!  While you show Credo around, we’ll work on a picnic lunch!”  She shepherded Dante towards what was probably the kitchen.  

“With Strawberries?” Dante asked hopefully.

“Sorry, it’s not quite that season yet.”

“Awww”

“But we do have strawberry sorbet!”

“YAAAAY!”

And with that, they left both Nero and his…dad standing there.

“Um…well,” Vergil said, suddenly a bit shy, “Do you want to see my room?”

“Sure!”  That was a good enough start.

Nero couldn’t help but marvel at everything as they went up the stairs.  So much beauty and art was contained here, in this house Even the handrails, made of hand carved well varnished wood, were amazing.

“How old are you, Vergil?”

“I’ll be eight in a month and three days.”  

That number sent a chill down his spine and settled in his gut.  Eight years old… the kid had  less than a year of peace and happiness before all this art, this beauty, his entire childhood, would go up in flames.  And Nero had no idea if he could change it, prevent it, or even warn him about it.  Would it make things worse?  Would the kid even believe him?

No, it would be best for him to stay vigilant and silent.

“Here we are…”

Nero stepped into what was the biggest bedroom he had ever seen.  Bookshelf after bookshelf filled the walls.  Most of the upper shelves were full of  tomes that he assumed even Adult Vergil would have found extremely dull, with names like ‘On the Nature of Rosacea’ or ‘The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’, but the lower books seemed plausible for a kid to read, even if they seemed a bit… ahead of the curve for a seven year old.  Swiss Family Robinson?  Nero had read that book when he was nine, secretly hoping that if he managed to escape Fortuna, he could settle on an isolated island and live life free.  And even then, his teachers were surprised that he was reading it at that age.

“Wow… this is your room?”  He looked over at the bed, and was surprised that it didn’t quite fit the room.  The wood frame didn’t match, far too light in colour, and the design didn’t fit the hardwood paneling.  And there was only one.  Which was odd, because his dad always seemed to share a tiny  bedroom with Dante, even with a spare room in the building.  And seeing how they could barely tolerate each other when awake, he had just assumed they must have slept in the same bedroom as kids.

“This is just your room?”  He looked, and yeah… there wasn’t anything about this room that indicated Dante even stepped foot in it.  Everything had its place, even the set of wooden swords that were placed carefully in a display above a polished hardwood desk.  Not a single hint of the chaos that was innately Dante.

“Yes, when father… when he went off on business, he left me his old library.” Vergil huffed and plopped himself on his neatly made bed.

“You don’t share a bedroom with your brother?”  

The look on the kid’s face looked like Nero had just suggested that he should use Yamato to cut a pizza. 

“Ew.  No.  Dante is just too… messy.  He never makes his bed. He talks in his sleep.  He snores.  When mother tells him to clean his side of his room, he sweeps all his stuff under my bed, and then I get in trouble for it.”  Vergil explained, each complaint given the full seriousness of a courtroom civil suit. “And worst of all, he’s always bugging me.  Always asking questions.  Always wanting to spend time with me.”  

Nero couldn’t help but chuckle.  That did sound like his dad, but nowadays he seemed to mellow out, maybe nearly a lifetime of being apart had made him more tolerant of Dante’s presence.

“Oh, he can’t be that bad!”

“Oh yes he can!  That’s why I moved into the library.  I can have my own space, and it has my father's old books.”

“You like books, I take it?”  Nero said as he sat down beside the kid, admiring the collection.  The amount of books could rival a small town’s library.

“Yes… father always liked reading.  Said it…” He closed his eyes and picked up his chin before lowering his voice in an imitation of Sparda, “Helps promote culture and learning.”  Nero couldn’t help but chuckle.  Somehow, despite never meeting the guy, it sounded like it had come straight from his mouth.

“Huh, that’s probably why he has a gigantic library where I live.” he mused, looking up and making a mental estimation at how many books this room had.  There had to be over two thousand.  After he was satisfied with his math, he noticed that Vergil had been quiet for far too long, he turned to see the boy staring at him in wonder.

“Father has another library?”

Crap.

That was not something he had wanted to disclose, but now the demon was out of the pizza box, so to speak.  Trying to backpedal would just make the kid more insistent.

“Yeah… your dad lived where I live, a looooong time ago.  He had a huge amount of books, so we took care of them, and tried to learn about him by reading his stuff.”

“Where do you live?”

Nero hesitated.  He could just make up a place, and Vergil wouldn’t know any better, but something told him that he ought to tell the truth.   Vergil would eventually head to Fortuna anyways, and do… uh… ‘research’.

“Fortuna,” he rubbed the back of his head, “it’s an island where your dad liked to spend time,” he decided to clarify, “before he met your mom.”

Vergil looked at his lap, thinking hard.  Eventually he murmured, “I’d like to go there… maybe I can find out about what Father really did, where he went.  Mother always seems so sad when I talk to her about him, and I would like to make her happy again.”

Nero paused.  Vergil was a good kid.  He had a lot of stuff ahead of him that Nero didn’t wish on his worst enemy.  He didn’t deserve to deal with it all alone.

“What about Dante?”

Vergil huffed, “What about him?”

Nero gulped, but continued, “You like to say that you don’t like hanging out with him, but I get the feeling that deep down, you really care for him as a brother.  Yeah, you need some time apart, but at the end of the day… you like having him at your side.”

Vergil sat there, digesting the information before slowly nodding.   “Perhaps…”

“VERGIL… CREDO!!! THE PICNIC IS READY!!”  Eva’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs.  Vergil’s eyes lit up, and he hurried out, grabbing Nero by the wrist and practically dragging him down the stairs.

🌷🌷🌷

Lunch was a delight, with sandwiches cut into quarters, layers of ham and cheese, turkey, and bacon, with finely cut slices of vegetables.  There was fresh squeezed lemonade, and as cheered for before, strawberry sorbet for dessert.  The boys devoured everything (with the exception of the vegetables) with gusto, despite their mother repeatedly reminding them that they had a guest, and that it wasn’t polite to ‘inhale’ their food.  (Some things never changed).

Nero was glad that they enjoyed the food, because for some reason, it didn’t have the same appeal to him. Like, it LOOKED like it ought to be delicious.  The vegetables were crisp, the bread was freshly baked, but everything, including the tartness of the lemonade felt…dull… distant.  Like those cheap drinks Nico bought at gas stations and guzzled constantly, despite them tasting like a can of water shown a picture of a fruit.  Even the strawberry sorbet tasted more like one of those cheap snow cones that had only one squirt of flavouring in it.   Of course, he would remain polite, and smiled and lied about how delicious the food was. 

“Vergil!” announced Dante, after licking the rest of the sorbet out of the bowl .  “Race you to the treehouse?”  He stood up and held his hand out to the other boy.

The older twin hesitated, obviously not really enthusiastic for the idea of spending more time with his annoying little brother.

“Go on…” Nero urged, “have some fun with him.”  Nero might not be able to prevent what was going to happen, or protect him, but at the very least, he could encourage him to make some good memories, to help him remember how much he loved his brother, despite the hard times ahead.

The boy pursed his lips for a minute, looked at his mother for her nod of encouragement, and took Dante’s hand, who helped him up and attempted to look like he was being dragged towards the distant tree, a barely seen wooden structure hidden in the freshly grown leaves.  But Nero couldn’t help but notice he had a small smile on his face, especially as he turned back for a one small glance at what he originally thought was his grandmother… but to his surprise, it was directed at HIM.

He heard a blending of two types of laughter, one eager and excitable, the other more subdued, yet fuller with warmth,  before the wind carried them away.

“I hoped you enjoyed your short stay with us,” Eva murmured, sitting next to him.  She took a sip out of her teacup, her mannerisms in holding the cup resembling a  man he knew.

“Yeah!” he took a sip of the lemonade, attempting not to wince at the (lack of) taste.  Maybe old folks were right, food back in the day wasn't full of those ‘darn artificial flavouring.’  It’s been great meeting you all, coming here and seeing…”  he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to sound like a crazy guy, so he took another swig.

“Seeing your father as he once was…” she finished his sentence, and it was all he could do to turn his head away from her and not ruin the picnic by choking and spitting the lemonade all over her and the picnic.  He spent the next minute coughing and hacking while she sat patiently for him to recover.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that while you were in the middle of sipping.”

Frankly, him looking like an idiot, choking on some lemonade was the least of his concerns. He eventually got control of his breathing, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stared at her.

“How did you…”

“Know that you weren’t who you said you were?”  She said, but there was no anger or disappointment in it.  “Having spent most of my adulthood at Sparda’s side, I learned much about arcane subjects.  Demonic magic, the subtle distinctions of souls, and when someone is where- or in this case- WHEN in the wrong place.  I identified it the moment I saw you.  There’s a …” she placed her teacup down, and picked up his hand.  He was too dumbfounded to pull away or react, not that he wanted her too.  Her hand was so warm, so soft.  “There’s a translucency about you, as if you could exist at this time and place for a limited period of time.  It’s a lot more pronounced now, perhaps you can see it too.”

He looked down at his hand, and he could just make out the outlines of her hand within his, not noticeable enough for anyone not looking for it.

“That means-” he gasped.

“We are running out of time…” she said softly, and there was a little bit of a tremor in her voice.  He wasn’t sure if she was talking about him, or…her and her sons.  

“How did you know my dad was Vergil?” he asked.

She chuckled, and looked out at the treehouse, which now looked faint, like a warm fog had suddenly blown in.  “I’ll admit, I may know the difference between Vergil and Dante by their souls, but even I have my limits with the twins.  In which case, I cheated.  I looked at you, your reaction to the boys.  The way you wrinkled your nose at Dante calling you old.  And the look of longing you gave Vergil.  That sealed the deal.”

Was it just him, or had the colour of the grass they sat upon lose its springtime vibrancy?

“May I have your name?”  She asked one last time, and this time he answered truthfully.

“Nero.  My name is Nero.”  

Her face broke out in a smile.  “That’s a wonderful name!”  He was glad she didn’t ask for his last name.  He wasn’t sure there was enough time to unpack all of that history.  Still, her face turned a bit sombre as she looked at him.  “We haven’t met before, have we?”  She seemed more sad that she would never meet her grandson, than the implications that she would never LIVE to meet him.

Nero thought he didn't have springtime allergies, but for some reason his eyes began to water.  He blinked back the tears threatening to form.

“No… Dante and Vergil talk about you regularly though.  One of the few things they agree on is how wonderful a mom you were.”

He must have inherited those sudden spring allergies from her, because her eyes were now shiny too,

“Oh, they’re still together!  That’s wonderful to hear!”  But she pulled him closer to herself to the point that their foreheads nearly touched, like she was trying to memorize everything about him.  Her hand withdrew from his, and placed it on his cheek, which he couldn’t help but lean into, savouring the warmth.  Every other sensation was becoming muted, even the blue checkered cloth picnic blanket was fading into a dull white.  “It hasn’t been an easy life for them, has it… or for you?” He couldn’t say anything except to nod dumbly, because he was certain that the only sound he could make would be a choked sob.  He couldn’t put the burden on her on how one son would spend much of his life living his life depressed at his own failures and alone, the other cold, tortured by his past and legacy, and alone.

“But you are here, my grandson, a fully grown man, and my sons are alive and together,” she reassured him,  “that is enough for me.”

He managed to keep himself together enough to blurt out, “Me and my fiance…we have three kids we adopted. Vergil loves them, in his own Vergil way.”  He longed to tell her about Kyrie, how much that woman saved him from a life of anger and despair, that she was so much like Eva in her own way, but like his grandmother said, they were running out of time.  But still, as the haze that surrounded them and leeched the colour out of everything got darker, her smile of delight shone through.

“I’m a great-grandmother…” she said with amazement, and Nero’s heart thumped that like Vergil, she instinctively took them as her own, bloodlines be damned.  She pulled his head closer and down, and brushed her lips on his forehead, and that was it.  The dam broke and he began to sob.  He didn’t want this to end.  He didn’t want to leave her to a future he knew would end in her terror and death.  He wanted to protect her, protect the twins, let them live life to the fullest.

“What little time we have been given to be together is worth more than many years of being worried for the future of my boys.  Whatever happens, I know that in the end, things will work out.”

He couldn’t help it, his spectral wings shot out and gathered her in a loving embrace.  There was a small yelp of surprise, and then a contented hum as she realized what was happening.   The world was becoming really dark now, as if he had entered a tunnel.  He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or shut, or if the scant light he saw was just something he imagined behind closed eyes.

Her voice murmured at his ear, faint, almost a whisper.  “Tell them all that I send them my love.”  He nodded, tried to speak, but found himself unable to move.  The darkness was now physical, crushing him, and for a brief moment, he just floated there, trying to figure out what was happening.  Was he dead?  No, he couldn’t be dead, he needed to relay her last message to the twins.  He needed to get back to his kids, tell them how much he loved them, tell Kyrie that his grandma would have adored her.  He struggled at the pitch black that threatened to suffocate him.  He felt, rather than saw his spectral arms struggling against it trying to find something that wasn’t a void of light. 

Suddenly, there was a shift, and a jerk upwards, his right spectral arm had found something to latch onto, or more correctly something found IT, and now was pulling it, and him up.   He hoped whatever it was, it didn’t have any plans of eating him.

Suddenly, he felt the influx of three things, light, air, and sound in abundance.  Blinked teary, gritty eyes. Coughed up, not watered down lemonade, but dirt that was in his mouth and throat.   Heard not the sound of spring birds or the sound of his grandmother’s voice at his ear, but the hiss of a dying demon, the rush of ghostly hooves, and the half frantic mutterings of a man.

“Come on Nero, wake up.”  The nasally voice, much different from the pensive young boy.  Nero heard a grunt, almost a roar, “GET UP!”  and suddenly the darkness that had imprisoned him was gone.

He cracked his eyes open, blinked away more grit. Vergil stood above him, breathing heavily, loose strands of his usually combed back hair flying this way and that.  Yamato was unsheathed, demonic ichor still dripping from the tip, unwiped which was so  his usually meticulous father.  

“WHAT. DID. I. TELL. YOU. ABOUT. THE. CHRONOSKOLEX.” he wasn’t yelling, per se. But for Vergil, this volume of voice conveyed how angry he was at Nero.  “I  SPECIFICALLY told you to be aware and keep your distance from it, especially without me or even your uncle.  Had I not had the ability to arrive quickly…” he wiped his blade on his sleeve before sheathing it as he motioned towards the rapidly decaying carcass of the worm.  There was that telltale odor of ozone that always accompanied a portal that Yamato had cut. “You would have been kept in stasis by its timecontrol, completely motionless, undetectable until you were suffocated by the ground.”  It was that sentence that revealed that it wasn’t anger that was causing Vergil to raise his voice, it was terror.  Terror at what might have happened.   Nero could tell by the way he offered a hand to help him up, the way it trembled.

With a grunt, he swung a hand, and his father yanked him up, overcompensating on the effort so that Nero fell into him.  They both stood there, frozen, waiting for the other to hug, neither one wanting to be the one to initiate it.

In the end, it didn’t happen.  He heard a disgusted sniff, and Vergil’s voice at his shoulder.  “You smell of horse droppings,” and he backed up, as if he was afraid of being contaminated.   Still, it didn’t stop him from brushing off the horseshit infused dirt out of Nero’s hair, his shoulders, his coat… and then he stopped, his eyes transfixed on Nero’s chest.

After a few awkward moments, Nero braved a glance downward to see what Vergil was staring at.  And suddenly froze as well. 

There, set in his breast pocket was a perfectly dried black tulip.  But, on closer inspection, as his trembling pulled it out and held it in the light, indicated that it had been a deep royal purple when it was fresh.  Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore he could still smell, above the odors of a farm, its delicate fragrance.

“That was mother’s favourite…”  Vergil’s voice was ragged.  

“Her favourite colour of tulip…” Nero finished his sentence for him, and gave him some time to register it.

He looked back up at Nero’s face, searching for something, or retrieving a memory, before rasping out a single name.

“Credo?”

Nero gave him a small grin… “You of all people can’t blame me for going by an assumed name,”  He placed the tulip in Vergil’s hand, cracked his stiff neck, and his grin grew.  “How about we go home, I get a shower, Dante orders a pizza or two, and we can talk about…well” he motioned to the flower, and Vergil nodded.

The older man cut through the air, creating a portal, the inky void beckoning them forward, not scary and suffocating like the deep earth and the tragic past, but leading them to an unseen, but hopeful future.

“I have one question right now…” Nero said as they began to walk through.

“Hmmm?”