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The deadly cadence of Yamato's mortal steel resounds, as though cleaving even the very space itself as her wielder pirouettes against the night sky. The moonlight gleams upon the blade's surface before dark red stains them, succeeded with a loud thud of heads hitting the ground and their merciless executor lands gracefully upon the ground, flicking off the ichor and sheathing her in one smooth motion.
The Darkslayer surveys the circumambient gory setting, none of his diabolic assailants remained with breath.
How many more varmints shall the Prince of Darkness dispatch till it get through his deepest circle of Hell that they stand not the slightest of chance against the might of a Son of Sparda?
Why do you have to do everything alone? You have a brother.
Gray-blue eyes flash with peril, for this nameless scum to even dare question his means.
The very brother who refused to acknowledge their birthright and the duty that follows in favor of misplaced sentimentality? The very brother who would rather thwart his pursuit of justice than see it through with him, for the sake of keeping his feeble humanity?
I am not a fool who is given to mere brotherly sentiment at the cost of a pivotal end.
And after said things considered, why would he risk involving the very brother who is not only too weak to protect himself, but also the everything he still has left, to a quest that has always been and shall always be his burden alone as the firstborn of Sparda and eldest of that which remains of their bloodline?
“ Dante made his choice and so did I. If you value each impertinent breath you take, then keep to your own concern, faceless pryer. ”
The heat has been nigh unbearable upon that particular day, enough for the slayer to don off his trademark azure coat in favor of the occasional breeze brushing the pale skin of his toned forearms, the while leaning over a selection of tomes spread upon the square table with his faithful Devil Arm laid within arm reach upon the side.
A name... it denotes the raison d'etre thus consequently key of ruination to a demonkind.
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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒍 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔. If it wasn’t for his inhumanly enhanced hearing, he wouldn’t have heard the large, filthy bundle of fur whimpering for pity.
Pity.
Annoyance surged within him, for pity is yet another indication that the certain condemned part of him, his ever sentimental human side, the very cancer in his character that he had been doing everything in his power to get rid of, yet has once again proven stronger than his own willpower.
If the expiry of a mere mutt swayed me, how would I hope to accomplish my goal?
The aggravated thought had him turn his head away and urged him to move forward without looking back as he had been doing, yet another whimper, louder and even more piteous, stilled his feet mid-turning.
Snowy head impulsively swiveled back, allowing icy gray eyes to scan the filthy bundle and locked with a pair of blue eyes brimming with plea and pain.
The blue eyes that reminded him painfully what he had thought have been lost and forced to leave behind for the sake of a more dire necessity.
Dante.
The name of his twin brother and other half echoing in his mind brought back years of suppressed emotion, ranging from yearning to animosity. Memories of their bellicose encounter last summer flooded in, threatening to overwhelm him. Betwixt myriad emotions, he was aware of how foolish of him to even associate a dying mutt with his brother, merely because they possess similar shades of blue in their gaze. But deep within him a voice traitorously whispering, reminding: how desperately he himself used to yearn for someone to come and shield him from the demonic assault laying waste upon his infant, fragile form. How he used to wish fervently for his dear mother, his twin brother, to come and save him. To envelope his battered form in the warmth of their embrace and assure him that no more harm shall come upon him.
I kept waiting and waiting, but no one ever came.
What recourse did I have, but to take it upon my own hand and fight back?
But if any of them did come then…
Letting out a heavy, aggravated sigh the Dark Slayer deigned to divert from his course and strode into the dingy alley and stopped in front of the shivering mess of fur.
“ Consider yourself an unforeseeably and exceedingly fortunate mutt, ” the Scion of Sparda muttered as he went down one knee to take the canine creature into his arms. His expression contorted in distaste at the smell of flea-infested fur and days covered in filth, yet the carefulness in his action belied his aggravated bearing.
♛
The room he had rented was meager and drab but sufficiently clean to his minimal standard. Nothing that met his predilection but it would do for his brief stay for the night to care for the shivering bundle of fur in his arms.
The Son of Sparda let the door close behind him as he scanned the surroundings briefly, pinpointing his destination then crossing the narrow space in one stride to enter the bathroom. His nose crinkled slightly in distaste as he carefully lowered his shivering burden over the dingy tiles, earning him a loud but brief whimper.
“ I need to clean your wounds and you need to stay still lest you aggravate them further, ” Vergil commanded, not wanting to prolong the creature’s discomfort and his inconvenience.
He couldn’t tell whether it was comprehension over his intent or survival instinct to not provoke his annoyance, or pain and exhaustion altogether that prompted the mangy creature to settle down under his stern gaze. Blue eyes looked up to meet him as the canine lowered his muzzle upon the tile, as though entrusting his safety under the Slayer’s ministration. Whichever it was, he couldn’t care less so long it did not hinder him.
“ Good boy, ” he acknowledged whilst carefully setting aside the Yamato against the duvet then proceeding to take off his coat and gloves, setting them aside neatly and retrieving a clean cloth, a bottle of alcohol, and a basin.
The next hour passed with Vergil painstakingly scrubbing off every speck of dirt from every inch of the canine’s body, the while said canine had been whimpering and on some occasions nearly bolted away in pain to the point Vergil had to hold him down. Nevertheless, he achieved his purpose and at the end of the hour had the mangy mutt restored into a proper appearance befitting an ovcharka dog.
“ Well, I must say that I am faring remarkably at restoring your smart appearance, ” Vergil exclaimed as he beheld the result of his industrious work that was the male canine who now sporting clean, cascading gray fur that covered its entire form like a comfortable winter clothing.
A weak bark responded to his remark. At least the mutt was no longer whimpering and shivering.
“Remain immobile until I finish putting this upon your wounds. ” Vergil gestured with his chin toward the ball of bandages he held in hand.
The dog let out another weak bark then lowered his muzzle back upon the floor, blue eyes looking at him expectantly in an innocuous manner that elicited a crinkle of amusement in the corner of his eyes.
If only Dante was ever this tractable…
Immediately a frown creased his expression as his awareness caught up with his subconscious thought, berating himself for allowing a room for such a wistful thought of the past in his mind, which should be focused on the task in hand. He broke his eye contact with the dog, not wanting anymore reminder of what he thought to have lost and now forced to leave behind.
As if sensing his internal turmoil, the dog suddenly raised his head at the time Vergil was bandaging his leg, muzzle pressed against the back of the cambion’s hand and began to nuzzle it, eliciting an arch upon his snowy brow.
“ Mind you, I am not the one laying battered and helpless, accepting care from minacious strangers. ”
The nuzzling continued even as Vergil moved on.
“ You knew naught, cease presuming I need comfort let alone from a mangy mutt. ”
Another nuzzle that tested his patience, prompted his head to snap up with the intent to quell the snowy mutt with a draconian glare, but instead such a movement proved to be a grave mistake as Vergil now was greeted with two pair of clear sky blue eyes, peering from between the now clean silvery bangs.
Dante...
His throat tightened as his heart constricted, in that moment all the emotions, the indignation, the longing that had been suppressed by sheer motivation and resolve over his requisite quest for power, erupted to the precipice of his self-mastery, threatening to flood through his parted lips.
“ Begone, now. ” Vergil nearly hissed as he wrapped up the last bandage and sprang to his feet, looking down at the shepherd dog with a scathing glare as he tilted. “ I have wasted enough of my time playing savior to you. ”
But instead of heeding the ire of a Son of Sparda like any creature with well-functioning survival instinct did, the snowy shepherd canine merely let out a bark and rested his muzzle back onto the carpeted floor, displaying a familiar brand of rebellion to his little brother, furthering the ache in Vergil’s bosom.
“ Does your hairy bearing impede your hearing as well? Begone as I bade you to! ”
The mutt remained stubbornly glued over his spot, ears twitched beneath his thick snowy fur and eyes blinked as it looked anywhere but Vergil. If that’s not a canine version of dismissal, then Vergil couldn’t find another human act equivalent to what the dog was doing. Thus the Dark Slayer drew fully to his lofty height and took a step closer to loom over said dog with the very intent to scare the creature away.
“ I see your proximity to death’s door has reduced you into a foolish daredevil of a mongrel, ” Vergil adapted a tone he normally used before unsheathing his famed Devil Arm and was known to successfully sent a horde of lesser demons scurrying away with their tails literally between their legs or whatever appendages they sport.
Evidently the mangy mutt possessed either a keen sense of courage or suicidal urge than said horde of demons, because he remained where he was, not an ounce of alarm was detected upon his sprawling form.
Why this infuriatingly maddening, malapert, mangy mongrel…
Vergil let out a loud growl and turned away sharply toward bed, perching in the corner to take off his boots in preparation for the night. It has always been considered a luxury that he has a roof over his head and a mattress beneath him to rest his body, especially seeing as he had gone all the way to obtain lodging then he might as well avail himself of it.
Retrieving the Yamato, the Dark Knight’s scion then proceedeed to climb over the bed and recline against the headboard, clutching his father’s keepsake against his chest, so that she would always be within immediate reach; his personal, silent protector ever since that fateful day of fiery tragedy. There had never been a moment of repose wherein he did not rely on her presence to feel safe enough to close his eyes.
And that’s exactly what he was about to do, before suddenly his ever enhanced senses detected a sudden movement approaching him in steady steps. Adrenaline flared, his heart skipped a beat and his palm moved to Yamato’s tsuka, thumb erected in pure habit to unsheathe her…
Before he detected an extra weight dippin the mattress followed by something soft and ticklish yet warm like thick fur pressed against his hip and something rested upon his abdomen.
His eyes were opened in blatant shock as his brain registered the sight currently transpiring: the snowy shepherd dog he had rescued and cared for, then subsequently dismissed during the course of the evening, was currently nestling at his side, muzzle making a pillow out of his abdomen.
A piercing silence ensued as the Dark Slayer’s wit was contemplating the nature of this turn of event, ranging from bewilderment, disbelief to annoyance.
What form of impertinence is this?!
“ Insolent mongrel!! ” he growled, eyes flashing with uninhibited indignation, “ Your audacious nature evidently senses no bounds! ”
Faced with a son of Sparda’s furious aspersion, the shepherd dog did what any other creatures or demonkind would never do: blink and nuzzle his abdomen.
“ Remove your mangy self of my person and get off the mattress, post haste! ” He tried again, this time with a gelid, forbidding tone that he used before cutting through a legion of Underworld in a single strike.
The fur-covered ears stirred and twitched, and for a moment prompted a budding hope within Vergil that the mutt would finally gain some semblance of self-preservation against his diabolic presence. For he was by no means a nobody, for power’s sake! He was Vergil, Son of Sparda and rightful inheritor of the Dark Knight’s mighty legacy, the prevailing Darkslayer and unsparing revenger of his family’s honor𑁋
(WOOF!)
… Who, despite his impressive range of daunting titles, has apparently been reduced into a mere comfy pillow for the snowy shepherd dog he had unwittingly rescued from death’s grip.
For instead of recoiling from his threats, the hairy creature let loose two successive barks accompanied by a pair of literal puppy-dog eyes and wagging tongue.
Those sky blue eyes, who apparently held a force of endearment that compelled even his hardened heart into compassion and stirred his long-buried sentiment, once again.
How could they not? For they were the very counterpart of the very same eyes that had long since been ingrained into his memory since his genesis and thus served as an integral part of the motivation that kept him going still even to that very moment, despite the duress and death that followed his every step ever since he was awakened to his true demonic endowment.
The harshness upon Vergil’s features ebbed and he relaxed back against the headboard, suppressing a heavy sigh from turning verbal. He lifted a bare hand to massage the veins over his youthful temple, contemplating. There was little to no purpose to achieve by dispatching the mutt, and aside from audaciously making his abdomen into a makeshift pillow.
Which itself was a privilege he never granted to anyone or anything beyond his petit frère, but how would a mere mutt could ever perceive that?
“ You seem to share not only his appearance but also his streak of undeserving luck and natural wiles. ”
The dog’s ears perched and its tail wagged and it looked up to meet Vergil’s gaze again, as though saying: but you can't resist my doggy charm.
That impression elicited a reprimanding arch of brow from Vergil. “ Don’t get cocky, you are still a mere mutt who sprawled dying in the corner of a filthy alley only a few hours ago. ”
(WOOF!)
“ Just keep your paws to yourself and stay where you are, mutt. ”
A noise of acknowledgement, or was it contentment(?), emitted from the creature's muzzle as it rested against the cambion's abdomen, eyes fluttered into a close and its thick-covered form went still. The creature was by no means loud, but due to Vergil's enhanced hearing, he could discern the gentle, regular rhythm of its breathing and that's how he ascertained that Dante's canine effigy has fallen into a slumber, likely out of exhaustion and its body's need to heal.
“ I would never hear the end of ridicule that oaf would likely make at my expense if he ever discovered this, ” Vergil muttered with annoyance without actual rancor in it as he too closed his eyes.
For some reason, the awareness of having another creature, one that reminded him of his little brother's audacious quirks at that, evoked some semblance of serenity enough to convince his mind to rest.
♛
The trajectory of flaxen light that filtered through the thin opening between the blinds tickled his cheek, rousing him back into awareness. Blue-gray eyes fluttered slowly and the first thing his rarely mollified senses detected was something tickling his nose with something heavy arm pressed closely, intimately, against his chest, which he knew by instinct was not the usual sensation of the Yamato pressed against it.
His eyelids sprang open as the somnolent hold over his senses was immediately dispersed by instinctive alarm over the alien morning sensation and his left palm immediately closed around his dark blade tightly as his form tensed, about to draw it…
Until his mind caught up with the sight he currently beheld: a large snowy shepherd dog snoring against his chest, unheeding of the current danger looming over it.
Memories from last night rushed into his awareness, allowing his body to relax. But his relief was short-lived as mortification immediately streamed from his chest throughout his body to the tips of his finger, upon seeing the position of his hands earlier, it was not only the mutt had crawled over the bed and his arms some time during the night, but it was Vergil himself who encouraged him to do so out of instinctive want for warmth and comfort.
It also occurred to him that unlike most of the time, he did not wake up drenched in cold sweat and racing heart from a recurring nightmare, but from a rare feeling of rejuvenation and tranquility, something that he couldn’t recall ever experiencing again ever since he was driven out from his cradle.
All because of one damned mangy mutt who happens to share similarity to him…
“ Intolerable, ” Vergil cursed under his breath, pressing his palm over his face as though concealing the emotion apparent upon his countenance.
What was meant to be a fleeting act of rare compassion had extended into a one night display of wanton sentiment. It must end.
Now.
Not sparing the dog another glance Vergil immediately yet carefully entangled himself from the comforting warm of the hairy creature, retreating into the bathroom to wash himself and getting ready to resume the course he deviated from yesterday in favor of playing a shining knight instead of the Darkslayer he was meant to be.
♛
The azure cambion exited the bathroom, clad in full regalia and hair slicked back neatly as he strode across the room when he noticed that the snowy mass of fur had regained awareness and was currently sprawled on the floor, specifically on the sole, narrow aisle connecting the center of the compact room to the door.
Initially, Vergil took no heed of the creature’s choice of seating and disregarded it as a mere happenstance, extending his long arm to retrieve the Yamato from the bedpost. But as he turned and set his course toward the door only to find the snowy dog seemingly rooted on its spot, his eyes narrowed in askance.
“ Move, ” he commanded with a tilt of chin, gesturing to the side the creature should retreat to.
But in a reenactment of pure stubbornness that the mongrel demonstrated just the night before, it refused to give any sort of acknowledgement toward Vergil’s command beyond a mere twitch of its fur-buried ears.
The display of wanton insolence coupled with the aggravation of a night having to put up with the emotions that the impertinent cur stirred within him finally snapped the final shreds of patience left in his arsenal.
The metallic sound of the Yamato being drawn swiftly resounded briefly before the mutt’s snout was reflected upon the blade’s sleek surface, only an inch away from the glinting, deadly tip.
“ You do not wish to hear this command for the third time: Move. ” Inhuman cadence seeped into his tone with a foreboding promise and his eyes flickered with diabolic blue.
The next sequence happened in succession in the wake of his violent warning: the dog’s fur seemingly tense and its head snapped up, Dantean blue eyes suddenly leveled his with an intensity that made the creature appear human. For the first time ever since he rescued it, the dog rose to its full height that reached past Vergil’s waist, brandishing thick gray-white fur that covered, no, accoutred its formidable bearing.
Vergil’s hold upon the Yamato wavered not even if the deadly tip of the dark-forged katana was now pressed against the dog’s neck, belying the aggravated manner of turmoil warring within his bosom.
Two can play this game, impudent cur.
Both the Darkslayer and the silver-clad canine were now locked in a seemingly swingeing deadlock, neither was willing to make a move first either to relent or strike.
Beneath his combative pose the Son of Sparda could not but wonder, what motivated the mangy creature to cling to his presence to the extent it would risk standing against the tip of his blade then scurrying away like a common mutt would have done.
Is it some sort of an instinctive gratitude? Or some animalistic sense of loyalty toward the first and only being to ever show it compassion?
Compassion.
The word rang bitterly in his head and his fingers twitched in temptation to swing his blade if only it would ever grant him some form of assurance that his demonic heritage still triumphs over his ever curtailing humanity.
Yet after what felt like an eternity, the creature suddenly bowed and turned away, no longer imposing yet hunched in pose. Not like a defeated contender but a despairing vassal that could do nothing to sway his master from his suicidal pursuit.
“ You know nothing, ” Vergil spat out the last word as he swiftly returned his blade into her saya. “ Not of my purpose, ” my burden, “ –nor of my motivation. Steer clear of my path. ” You, blinded, ignorant fool!
I will show you, Dante, what I am capable of, what I am entitled to. What we both are meant to be. Set free our father's legacy and claim that which is our birthright.
The umbrage of having been regarded with pity which to him translated as doubt and belittlement over his capability, his motivation, to achieve what he sought. He had had enough for such misunderstood animosity from his own twin brother, but from a mere mutt?
Never.
Vergil marched over his now unobstructed course yet just as he pushed open the door, a loud bark halted his advance, prompting him to look over his shoulder and greeted with the pitiful sight of the shepherd dog, facing him and looking up with humanly glassy eyes and a deep whimper.
The tightness that was burned off by his affront earlier returned in two folds, for the very sight evoked a vivid memory of a much younger Dante, regarding with the very similar forlorn bearing during one of those moments Vergil refused to indulge his demand of combat game in favor for a solitary reading session.
Dante.
How long has it been, ever since he had someone to await his return?
How long ever since he had a home he could return to after each tussle and struggle?
Home.
Such an intimate concept that has long since become harrowingly alien. The fire did not merely take from him a building, but also the very souls associated with that very concept.
And yet here he was now, leaving behind that which remained from what his heart still unwaveringly perceived as home; the very person whom his soul was halved from.
The irony of the callous, unfeeling force called fate. Is there an end to the cruelty whereto it subject a soul?
Graceful fingers clad in brown leather gloves clutched the doorway with such a force that the wood cracked beneath them, as the firstborn of Sparda mustered every ounce of determination, calling forth every reason that served as his fundamental motivation to persevere and keep going.
I am doing this for us. For you. Can you not see past your bellicose ignorance, the prevailing threat that even now looms over our very existence and will remain as long as we stay as we are now; vulnerable and powerless?!
The sound of wood breaking and its splinter cascading down the air heralded the Darkslayer’s silent departure. The azure tail of his coat billowing behind him as his lofty and unturned figure concealed the humane turmoil raging within, leaving behind the snowy canine and everything its very presence reminded him of.
Thus with a hardened heart and unwavering motivation he resumed the path of ascendancy, to become that which was his birthright. Further and further away from home he absconded with his heart, so that he may inoculate it.
If our distance puts him out of peril then keep and lengthen it I shall.
♛
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ — 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎
Slender yet deadly fingers curls around the tsuka of his equally deadly companion, more than a weapon and a sentient away from himself, an extension of his own demonic fëa, and fundamentally the sole remnant of that which makes his blood as it is; accursed yet exalted. 'Tis the very same blood that whispers, inundating his veins with promises. Of ascendancy, revenge, and above all safety. An ultimate guarantee that a repetition of the past shall never come to act. In revelation of the gravity that underlies his motivation, power is but a mere means to be wielded in service of that sacred end.
The simple gesture lends a profound sense of assurance, that his steps are upon the right track. That what horror he is about to unleash from their millenia of incarceration behind the Hadean door in front of which he is standing, –tall and unrelenting– is necessary. It is what must be done and thus no room for doubt is pardoned. Cost shall be expended without remorse. All for the sake of his cause, his justice shall be exacted and his family –what remains of– emerge from this ordeal nevermore shall come to harm.
The moonlight falls upon his grim stature, casting an otherworldly glow that belies his demonic heritage. 𝘚𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. Such as it should be, vested in him upon birth.
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Gray-blue eyes watched with unblinking remorselessness as Yamato's cold steel pierced his brother's chest, drawing the very same blood that flowed in his own veins.
𝑫𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒚
Time seemeth be brought into a stand still, in that very moment their eyes locked, heaving breath from adrenaline derived from a long anticipated reunion culminating into a deadly duel. The rain fell harder, every droplet served as a witness to this conclusion: which of the Sons of the Diabolic Legend stood tall still.
𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔
'Twas naught but a fleeting moment yet myriad instances. Yonder endless fields of their home, innocence of boyhood spent in the exchange of wooden blades and affectionate fracas, their mater looking down at them with fond exasperation the while. The flashes of their ere life evanesced with the twisting of the Yamato within his brother's flesh. Her steel conveyed Vergil's lips and her piercing advance his cold kiss of finality. Such was his farewell to everything that kindled his fëa evermore. His infant 𝙟𝙤𝙮 malformed into sentimental burden, thereby abnegated for the sake of imperative survival.
𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚'𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆
It was Dante who first broke their visual stalemate as he succumbed to the force of Vergil's steel caress being pulled out swiftly from his flesh. The elder reached for the younger's half of amulet and yanked it off, spurning his brother's human-laden attempt to reach him the while. As though yanking out his twin heart, this part of Dante's existence that unceasingly intertwined with his own, this half of their mother's sole legacy, pressed solemnly against his temple.
None but a son of Sparda may possess this, and none but I may claim his. That which should be our burden, let it be mine alone. His weakness and ignorance with this be absolved. By virtue of that which I foreswore shall what was halved again become one. All in the service of my cause and our future.
"I can neither complain nor exhault, my son. I fear I am reaching that terrible age that all demons come to where they've seen all, done all, and are now just .. dull."
Young Vergil tilted his chin lightly to look upon his sire with reverential condolence that softened the austerity of the elegant contour of his face as he stood there. “Thusly, might I propose a good company and refreshment to alleviate such a vein?” He gestured with a slight dip of chin toward himself and the tray he bore, laden with a tea set and a plate of light viands for two.
“My child, you remain ever the blessing to this old man in his twilight years~” Sparda murmured, well amused. “You’ve always been old though, haven’t you? Like me?”
“As you are ever a charmeur, Sire.” The rosy hue upon his pale cheeks was faintly perceptible as he approached the patriarch, inadvertently and evidently gratified by Sparda's praise. The young cambion proceeded to effortlessly deposit the content of his tray upon his father's sturdy and grand study desk, and was in the midst of pouring the eastern flower tea for Sparda's cup when the elder posed the question.
“If you are referring to my advanced maturity of mental attitude, it is rather inevitable given my stature as your eldest and...” the brief paused was the only emotional hint upon his otherwise immaculate composure at the remembrance of his mother's passing. “A certain premature loss.”
"I can neither complain nor exhault, my son. I fear I am reaching that terrible age that all demons come to where they've seen all, done all, and are now just .. dull."
Young Vergil tilted his chin lightly to look upon his sire with reverential condolence that softened the austerity of the elegant contour of his face as he stood there. “Thusly, might I propose a good company and refreshment to alleviate such a vein?” He gestured with a slight dip of chin toward himself and the tray he bore, laden with a tea set and a plate of light viands for two.
JOY: easy smiles, fighting back grins, suppressed laughter, loud laughter, giggles, chuckling, smirks, whole body laughs, covers mouth when laughing/giggling, throws head back when laughing, slaps leg, touches people around them when laughing, look down when laughing, looks for eye contact when laughing, sparkling eyes, bubbly happiness, quiet subtle happiness, obnoxious happiness, wants to spread joy, quietly savors joy.
SADNESS: crying, bottling it up, seeks distractions, wallows, meditates and processes, avoidance, seeks out comfort, withdraws, talks it out, internalizes it, sad smiles, depression naps, uses alcohol, uses drugs, seeks out sources of joy, fidgets with sentimental item, sits in silence, broods, gets moody, wants someone to share the misery, tries to hide negative emotions, nurtures others to make themselves feel better.
EMBARRASSMENT/SHAME: blushing, looking away, rubbing at back of head, covering face, laughing nervously, laughs it off, overthinks, lets it go, self-depreciating humor, deflects, gets irritated, smiles, withdraws, crossing arms over stomach, crossing arms over chest, hands in pockets, shoulders sinking, shrugs, falling into silence until comfortable again, talking a lot to compensate.
GUILT: avoiding eye contact, shoulders sinking low, head hanging down, crying, chest aches, lashes out, internalizes, apologizes, deflects, communicates, withdraws, grand gestures of forgiveness, accepts fault easily, punishes themselves, martyrdom, victim complex, over-active guilt complex, healthy conscience, seeking redemption, moves on easily, denial, lack of guilt/conscience, sorry they got caught more than caused harm, can’t handle knowing they hurt others.
FEAR/ANXIETY: trembling, crying, sarcasm/sass to cope, rambles, goes silent, gets angry, fidgeting, clenching jaw, picking at nails, chewing at lip, pulling at clothes, adjusting jewelry/clothing, swallowing thickly, eyes widening, over-reacts, under-reacts, calm, logical, panic, irrational, overthinks, carefully analyzes, talks to themselves, breathing exercises, flight, fight, withdraw.
Wintry eyes widened in incredulity upon watching this likeness, this seemingly doppelganger of himself, older and emanating a superior air of aplomb, yet notwithstanding marked by an air of tribulation that surpassed even his own. “This is inimitably intriguing.”
Coldly watching his younger self crumble, Vergil was reminded how he’d done the same, in the face of Mundus’ cool wrath.. And subsequently devoted himself onto the man. Because if he could please his master, the punishments would come with less frequency, the lash would fall lighter, and the beatings would subside.
.. Heaving a sigh, Vergil found himself unable to resist, and he went to his younger self. He looked broken, but he was not. Not by halves.. No, this child did not yet know what “broken” was, what it meant, what it felt like. He did, though. He understood it, entirely. He gathered the younger man into his arms and held to him, patting his back as though to soothe.
“ .. You cannot show this to him, when the time comes,” he whispered. “You have to be strong, elsewise, you will die.. You’re stronger than you feel now, because I live, hm? So you will survive it all. If I could take this away from you, I would.. But this is a trial you have to face.”
A cruel concept. He could tell him to abandon the idea of undoing the Temen-ni-Gru. Or, at least, not ostracizing Dante to do it. To not hurt the younger Cambion. To not stoke his younger twin’s youthful ire and lead the demon hunter to say those dreaded words that pushed his tired, fragile heart over the edge and to make the decision to jump off the cliff into Hell. Any number of things.. But he had learned, long ago, one could not change the past.
The suffering had to have a purpose. It had to have a meaning. There needed to be a light at the end of the tunnel..
“On your feet,” he said, voice still gentle, but with a stern edge to it. Father’s voice.. Father’s tone. “You are yet still a prince of Hell. Act the part.”
The arms that enclosed around him felt superior yet familiar and personal at the same time that he did not recoil as he would normally to others. This being that was currently holding him was still himself that he could afford to justify this moment of weakness, this show of utmost vulnerability by expressing a need to be comforted, but decidedly more powerful that he could derive safety from his lithe yet firm arms. Selfsame yet at the same time also different for the man was a potential, an attestation to what he would become. What he would suffer and endure. There were no tears in his closed eyes as he permitted himself just this moment of playing the inferior role as the one needed to be held and comforted, for every drop of his tears had been desiccated that day he lost his mother and brother.
If it's possible let this cup pass from me, nevertheless not as I will but you will.
A part of him, that tiny and weeping child that he sealed within him and attempted to discard following the tragedy that claimed the life he once knew, pathetically wished that he could simply turn away, to deny the cup of suffering and find other path to fulfill his journey. Yet a greater part of him was painfully aware that there was no other way to take the cup out except for drinking it to the bottom. Only then the way shall be opened. The night is darkest before the dawn and a phoenix too, must fall into inferno and turn into ashes first from whence it may soar to sky in mighty rebirth. Such is the purpose of suffering, such is the goal of survival.
His own arms, slighter than the ones holding him, trembling due to this harrowing revelation let go of his lady, the Yamato and his protector, in favor of clutching onto a set of firm shoulders, broader than his own but still equally lean in built. He permitted himself further show of vulnerability, just this once, in front of no one but himself, leaning forward till he could rest his weary head beneath an aristocratic chin that resembled that of his father more than his own upon reaching maturity.
Like this, he could pretend that he was protected from the approaching storm of suffering. Like this, he could take assurance and motivation from the fact that his future has prevailed.
How easily his human sentiments got a hold of him once he eased his reign over it, the true reason as to why he could not afford to let it be. Thus he couldn't be more grateful when his older self was there not only to comfort him of his upcoming doom, but to discipline him from further show of emotional frailty. He rose to his feet as urged then, slowly at first while picking up the Yamato again, yet upon the stern reprimand and royal addressal that he nearly mistook for his lord father at first, his spine immediately straightened and his legs steadied as a tremble of another nature ran through his shorter form fleetingly.
“And you are its King,” he deduced once more in the same quiet yet certain tone this time imbued with reverence. A well-nigh blatant awe with a hint of hankering upon his visage as he looked up at his future self again. He could perceive it, sense it intimately, the power that exuded by the older cambion was no mere typical demonic might. It was the power of a King, similar to his lord father, the very power he was currently lusting for.
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Wintry eyes widened in incredulity upon watching this likeness, this seemingly doppelganger of himself, older and emanating a superior air of aplomb, yet notwithstanding marked by an air of tribulation that surpassed even his own. “This is inimitably intriguing.”
“Now, if I tell you all the gory details,” Vergil said, silkily, looking at his younger visage. Oohh, poor lamb.. That fear would delight Mundus, one day, and be the one thing that warms him in the dark cells, late at night. “You’ll do everything within your power to avoid your fate. And if that happens, why .. “
Blue-grey eyes flashed, looking at his younger self, a smirk on his lips.
“I’d not have what I have right now..”
Vergil laid that bare, at his younger self’s feet. He had faced the sadistic wrath of the Demon Emperor and he survived. For a time, he felt he was unable to die. Day after day, night after night, Mundus would pluck Vergil from the hooks that pierced his body, and subjected him to whatever his fiendish little imagination could cook up with.. It almost hurt to see what he had been when he fell into Hell, breathless, exhausted, suffering defeat after defeat in the Temen-ni-Gru.
.. Had I always been so slight of frame? Small.. The years between nineteen and forty- ..
Vergil really could have laughed then.
The years between nineteen and forty-four had done wonders to fill him out, especially around the chest and legs, make so that his face was not so thin and pointed..
But like a sword, tempered by beatings and fire.. Vergil knew, he’d come out the other side of it stronger. He’d over-write his name above Sparda’s. He’d dwarf Mundus in power.. And, he’d finally be within grasping distance of the one person whom he loved and hated and desired and despised more than anything else.
If the road to peace with his twin, a lifetime to just exist in the same plane of existence and on the same, level footing as Dante, was paved with the sadomasochistic nightmare rollercoaster that was to be Mundus’ “charge” for nine years.. ?
So be it.
It was all worth it..
So, knowing that no one on this earth would ever give him the sentimentality and affection that he so craved, Vergil softened his tone.
“ .. Take heart at least that I am proof you get old,” he attempted, gentler than he had ever been with his son. “Remember this conversation, during the worst of it. On the days that you pray to the Christian god for death, remember you’ll survive the night, and many more nights to come, each one worse than the next. And at the end of it .. you’ll go to him. You’ll seek him out.”
The gentel cadence his older self foretold his longevity did not comfort him. The opposite in fact, for the manner wherein the man delivered it only confirmed what he feared the most: that he would obtain the power and grow into the maturity, the apex of their mighty bloodline. Of that he was certain, for the very testament to it was currently standing before him: lofty and deadly in his winter-like confidence brimming with curtailed demonic might.
Oh, how he longed for such might that he couldn't but wish to reach out to his future self. To touch his lithe yet powerful form, to feel the power flowing beneath his grip...
But what of the cost?
Until you believe that your tears will have drowned you, and your master will wrap his dagger-tipped hands around your pale white throat.
It's as though thunder struck him, the pain that his older self described, experienced, coiled like a thorny vine around his very heart. The invinsible chain choking him, the sensation driving his already trembling knees to fall onto the ground. His slender frame shook violently, as though unseen stakes drove into his body, unseen whip ripped anew upon a healing skin, over and over, heedless of pleas, the cold laughter of the arbiter of his torturous warrant, whispering submission before an abominable armor embedded upon his very flesh and his screams silenced by a helmet of a mindless thrall sealing his tongue forever. Vergil fell humiliatingly in a boneless heap in front of his future self, as though his training all the years was naught against this... this... gospel, his apocalypse. A prophet aware of his own impending doom, his impending crucification, praying in tears of blood to the God above. Except there was no God in his case save himself, his own powers. Thus if even them could not save him... could not liberate him from this fate of horror and torture, then who could?
Our brother, will thrive. And at the end of it .. you’ll go to him. You’ll seek him out.
Dante? Was that what his future self attempted to extenuate and justify? That his very salvation rests upon his brother's weak shoulders and faithless resolve?
He should have scoffed, laughed at the irony and utter foolishness of such a nation. He would have, if not for the sense of horror currently wreaking havoc wihin him. His trembling fingers clutched the Yamato tightly like a lifeline, as though she was about to be ripped away from his grasp just as his skin was ripped away and knitted with infernal corruption.
I’d not have what I have right now..
“You have reclaimed that which constitutes your everything,” he deduced in a quiet yet certain tone. He was aware that his older self did not solely refer to power when he spoke of his belonging. His future self was... “You are in union with him.”
Mayhap 'twas the reason why his future self appeared not only confident but also content in what his past self deemed as a foolish sentimentality. He had his Dante with him in tandem with his power. This Vergil who stood before him was complete in every existing concept. A fantasy that the younger only dared to dream only during his vulnerable moment, when the night has fallen and no existence might descry him yearning for his other half, a secretive moment between the shadow and the soul, the elder has achieved it.
Wintry eyes widened in incredulity upon watching this likeness, this seemingly doppelganger of himself, older and emanating a superior air of aplomb, yet notwithstanding marked by an air of tribulation that surpassed even his own. “This is inimitably intriguing.”
Vergil could have chuckled right then and there, if he had the humor left in his soul to do so. So he just smirked, head slightly bowed, listening to his younger self rant, righteous, in his anger and aggression. Vergil remembered that feeling. He remembered being so impressed with his own wit and sass and acid tongue ..
He remembered those traits of his being utterly useless..
Had he known what awaited him in Hell, in the lowest levels of the Temen-ni-Gru, he would have thrown himself at Dante’s feet and begged his forgiveness. Even that humiliation would be worth it, if it meant avoiding the horrors that would be his fate under Mundus’ sadistic thrall. All the snide comments in the world couldn’t save Vergil when those red eyes landed on him, smirking with horrific glee as the realization of what came next dawned over the teenager.
Nine years.
Four months.
Three weeks.
Five days.
Given that he numbered a precious and tender nineteen years when Mundus brought him into his “care,” such years in enslavement stood out as a full third of his life..
“Why?” He repeated, softly, as he turned fully to face the younger version of himself. Vergil approached then, closing in on the younger man, Yamato in hand, sheathed and beautiful and deadly, and the armament found her graceful way under the younger Cambion’s chin, tilting it upwards in a quick, swift motion that kept his petulant, pouting eyes on Vergil’s older, shrewder, more tired eyes. “You ask me why~? Oh, my precious tot.. You will flee to him because I still live. And that concept will come to terrify you.. Because soon, you may find that the most bone-chilling concept you can fathom, is “I’m still alive,” after what torment you faced that day. And you will suffer them. And you’ll wake, after pleading with the merciless universe for the brumal kiss of death. And the next day, you’ll suffer all new horrors and you’ll asky thyself, “surely, this is more than I can bare.” And then you see the next dawn. And the next. And the one after that. Until you believe that your tears will have drowned you, and your master will wrap his dagger-tipped hands around your pale white throat and you’ll beg the merciless universe for just one. More. Moment. With. Him…”
As Vergil spoke, he leaned closer to his younger self, until they were nearly nose to nose. His voice was a sparse whisper and, to emphasise his point, he clicked his teeth, as if to bite the younger, but he pulled away, re-establishing their previous distance..
“I am proof, breathing, that you will survive these coming days of darkness. Such as I am. Our brother, will thrive. Such as he does. Get used to the taste of crow, little prince. T’will be all you sup upon for some time..”
If asked, the young cambion would appoint the blame to his unbecoming burst of emotion and subsequently its ever sole source, Dante. That emotion unsettled his normally gelid wall of composure that his instinct and reflex failed him, that he found the firm wood of his own, no, his future self's Yamato's saya forcing his chin up that it prompted a growl from him. Yet as immediate as the offended sound emitted, it was soon halted in his throat the moment he locked his eyes with the elder's gaze and it was not the previous hint of anger that froze him.
It was the horror he saw reflected into those suddenly tired eyes, transforming the older man's previous grace and confidence into something akin to...
He swallowed, the movement of his adam's apple reverberated against the tip of the Yamato still unyielding and holding him in place, a firm reminder of his future's extent of power...
Power... it was then a dreadful wonder finally registered to him: What is the cost his older self ceded to obtain that power?
It would seem his future self understood his unspoken wonder, then launched into a bone-chilling monologue that not only breathed icicles into his very core, but also something that he considered to be part of the past that he had conquered:
Fear. Not toward his future self, but toward the significance conveyed in the latter's providence.
“... you’ll wake, after pleading with the merciless universe for the brumal kiss of death... you believe that your tears will have drowned you, and your master will wrap his dagger-tipped hands around your pale white throat and you’ll beg the merciless universe for just one. More. Moment. With. Him…”
Each word was spoken with such finality and dreadful intensity of an oracle foretelling his own demise. The force of the verbal lashing crushed not only his body, but his very soul. The horror, the fear, the pain inculcated in each syllable storming his ears, stealing oxygen from the very air he breathed upon, etching themselves within him as though it was his own experience, his own horror and fear that his older self recited in deadly cadence. It nearly knocked him to his knees were it not for Yamato's keeping him upright as always.
It was nearly unendurable, but something in him assured him to see this through, to hold his gaze and not turn away from his future as the man leaned in till their cool breaths mingled together.
Vergil was rooted, addled by fear and fascination at once when those lips, fuller than his own hovering. He was certain that the older could hear the thunderous pounding of his heart, the awe reflected within his eyes from their proximity as his very soul was stripped bare from their shared gaze, something that he could only ever allow himself to witness.
Then it was over before he could appreciate the moment properly. Without the Yamato supporting his chin, the younger could no longer hold his ground and stumbled back upon his suddenly weak knees and it was all he could do before he managed to at least plant his own Yamato upon the ground, supporting his weight as he attempted to gather his breath.
“I am proof, breathing, that you will survive these coming days of darkness. Such as I am. Our brother, will thrive. Such as he does. Get used to the taste of crow, little prince. T’will be all you sup upon for some time..”
That prophecy... no, that asseveration of his future pierced his core. To know in advance that a storm was brewing imminently upon the dark sky...
“What manner of cataclysm has befallen you?” Would befall me soon? The younger inquired quietly with a slight breathlessness in each syllable. Gone was his previous brumal fury and usual detached grace, replaced with naked anticipation battling with fearful curiosity upon his youthful visage.
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