“You have no idea,” Vergil muttered, thinking to how much he felt as Icarus in those early moments after the defeat in the Temen-ni-Gru. “Though .. perhaps something not so surreal, if possible..” Muttering, still more to himself, hand still working through the white hair near Nero’s crown. “Most of our dear Hercules’ feats ended up amongst the stars, in some form or another. His Twelve Labors, I assume all children know at least a round-about version of them, but if not, we can double back..”

Vergil wasn’t sure why, but he was reminded of his father. Sparda, that giant of a man, having just enough room on his lap for two squirmy boys, broad arms wrapped around them, calm, low voice reading Paradise Lost to them, enraptured and hanging from every word.

.. He wasn’t sure why, because he was no Sparda – for better and for worse – and Nero, thank the morningstar, was not him.. Definitely for better..

Ah - how bizarre was the feeling in his chest knowing that he had not even hard of Hercules, much less whatever tale he may have been in. Thus the glance he turned upward towards his father was a mix of childlike enthusiasm and adult disappointment-

“Most,” Vergil admitted, idly running a hand through Nero’s hair. It seemed a natural action, one he didn’t have to ponder or even really think about to act upon. It just happened. “Most are full of woe and hubris, heroes who reached for glory. Some attained it. Most attained it and then immediately fell.” 

Vergil tilted his head, looking down at his child.

“ .. I could .. I could tell you more?”

“ .. The Milky Way is so named because when Hera had been presented with, unbeknownst to her, one of Zeus’ bastards from an extra-marital affair, she took pity on him, and tried to breast feed him. But Heracles, the baby, bit her, and when she pulled away, the ah.. well, you can guess.”

Yup.

That was the first myth to come to mind for him, and he hoped if nothing else, it could at least penetrate the meloncholy that seemed to surrounded and enshrine the child..

Briefly does Nero lift his head from its resting point against his father’s leg and shot him a rather half-confused, somewhat stunned look. Of all of the facts he could have thought up, that one was the one that came to mind first? Bizarre, he had to admit, but it was something. They were sharing an interest - that was a good start, right?

𝔹𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕙 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔹𝕖𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

Fortuna City, though thriving in many senses, still suffered from its downturns and unfortunate circumstances and thus Sex Work was rife; whether by personal preference or desperate need. When growing up (even when still so very small-) Nero was teased for hiss bastard status - those within the Orphanage/Children’s Home came from all variety of backgrounds but Nero was the only one who was found under unknown and curious circumstances. Because of this, it was always presumed that he was the unwanted spawn of a Sex Worker who had not been as careful with her clients as she may have wanted to have been.  

Teasing and torment only grew more  harsh as Nero grew into a child; the unknowns of his heritage and the colour of his hair were often the chosen subjects, but so was the lithe stature of his dainty form; always smaller than those of his age, developmentally behind.

𝕊𝕠𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕦𝕕𝕖

Nero very much has a preference for his own company; during his time within the Order, he had very little respect for the other Knights due to their opinion and bullying nature towards him - this only adding to his anger and preference for loneliness. He found that he worked far better when left to his own devices and thus it only cemented itself within his consciousness.

ℂ𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤

Nero enjoyed only TWO things as a child; the stars and reading. The stars above him would enable him to dream of a future he would enjoy, to hope. While books would give him the mental escape he needed, away from the bullying and blind eye of the orphanage’s workers.

𝕃𝕠𝕤𝕤

𝔼𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

Nero is not very good at regulating his emotions; he often repressed them as a child and continued doing so in his adulthood. This causes him to have outbursts when under considerable stress; ether breaking down into tears or flaming with rage. There is very little to tell between which he might swing towards.

ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕤

Nero struggles with nightmares; bad ones. They can cause him to wake in the night but sometimes, he only semi-wakes up. His conscious mind will then try and to find something to ground himself and rid his mind of the nightmarish thoughts that seem oh so real to him but sometimes it just doesn’t work and he becomes trapped half within the nightmare world and half within reality.

He'd been taught to read to a very basic level in the orphanage, and extremely basic maths - anything beyond that was lost to him. He'd learned no more through the order, either, since Nero had already built up so much anger, nobody could control him enough to get him in a classroom. Nor did they have the patience: a slow learner, easily confused, got words and letters jumbled.

Vergil heaved another sigh and regarded the broken, saddened child that had worked so hard to make himself seem so small. He looked back at the album on the table, and opened it, idly, back to that picture, of Nero, wide-eyed and seemingly surprised by the flash of the camera. History had repeated itself.. Instead of being an orphan living on the streets, he was an orphan living in some hell-hole of an orphanage run by religious zealots who thought a demon was their messiah. 

He sighed and shut it again, looking back to Nero. 

He’d be lying if he said there was a part of him, a part that felt more like Father than he had ever felt when he wielded Yamato or whenever he crushed a demon beneath his heel. No, this part of him felt more like Sparda in that .. strange way .. A way he couldn’t quite describe, but it was an urge to gather Nero up in his arms and quiet him. Of course, Nero was a man grown and didn’t really lend himself to that kind of thing that easily, if at all. 

His plea not to be left alone broke Vergil’s heart, or whatever was left of the damn thing… 

A child, watched the fire consume his home, and the weight of that inferno on skinny shoulders threatened to crush him alive. Dante was dead.. Mama was dead.. Where was HE though? When they needed him most, were was d–

I …

Vergil stood up, walked over to him. 

I don’t ..

He placed a hand on his head, the nearest thing to soothing he could lend at that moment.

I don’t want to be alone, daddy ..

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re a hypocrite, Nero.

How could he have told Dante and Vergil to stop fighting if he was treading the very same footsteps? The anger had to be let go - all the pain from throughout his life - it needed to just be released. Not through anger or through violence but instead through acceptance of the past and merely moving on - it wouldn’t do anything now other than harm the future. A future that could still turn out well if they actually tried. 

The comfort of not being left alone meant more to the youth than he would offer an insight of, for the moment. Night after night after night in that orphanage had he looked out of the window in the small room that was supposedly his bedroom and looked up to the stars - they had been his only companions for so long. Loneliness had left its mark, firmly- and when he had needed someone the most he found his own company all he had. Not having that fear, for once in his life, was a vast comfort and mild relief. 

Further feeling himself as numb and exposed, he simply lifted his head a fraction and instead leaned it against Vergil’s leg. If they were going to give the learn about and trust one another thing a go, then may as well start now - at perhaps one of the lowest points in his life. He’d gotten along with V very well - so there had to be hope. 

.. In another life, another world, Vergil would have rounded on the boy. He had screamed his lungs hoarse at Dante, he had done terrible things to the last insolent white haired brat that yelled at him..

But this wasn’t Dante. This wasn’t some petty childhood dispute between two brothers who never got over “who mommy loved more.” This was his child, enraged, hurting and if it meant that he was meant to be the punching bag, then well.. It’d be a long road of redemption for him and if it was paved with this kind of treatment, then ..

Vergil inhaled deeply, let his son continue, unbroken in his angst. He exhaled through pursed lips, leaned one elbow on the arm of the couch, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to keep the tears in his own eyes from spilling over. Nero needed him to be strong, and he needed him to be strong too. Nothing was ever to be gained by crying, he had decided, for himself, a long time ago.

You did this..

Nero’s last outburst, however, hit Vergil where he lived and he gaped at him. 

How many times had he heard that insult lobbed at him? Would have been better had he never been born. So he just frowned and kept his stare at Nero, defiant and exactly where Nero had picked up the scowl from to begin with.

Tears on his fucking face be damned.

“What would you have me do?” He asked. “Go back in time and do things differently? You think I wouldn’t if I could? I can’t. So, yes, Nero, I fucked up, again and again, in perpetuity, and despite all that, the end result was not just you but having you again. Having you at all. I can beg you for forgiveness, grovel if I fucking have to, but I get this terrible feeling that no matter what I do, nothing is going to get better, not necessarily because of who you are but because of who I appear to be, to you. I don’t know what to do. So, what would you want me to do? Just be out with it and be plain with it, what can I do, in the here and now?”

On that thought - what if their apparent constant run of bad luck was from some kind of long-denied-cosmic-no-inter-species breeding? Were demons ever supposed to achieve such? We’re humans, for that matter? If so - why weren’t there loads of them kicking about - or half angels (maybe there were?). But what if it was the source of their suffering? Or was the youth simply trying to find answers, no matter how absurd, from thin air?

Had Nero not noted the teary-eyed aspect of his father’s expression in the filthy reflection of the mirror then he likely would have continued onward with his onslaught of poisonous, enraged words. Most of them had been festering from childhood and were, in essence, the angry insults and pain a child would toss around; complete with simply not knowing what to do with one’s self. But he paused; because in those tears was regret - and someone who showed regret surely couldn’t be as bad as one initially thought out, right? Credo would have put it better- Trust someone for what you see, not for what others tell you. 

So he hesitates, he fumbles, he is left as nothing more than a deflated being with a weight so heavy on his chest that he can barely breathe. So he sits where he is, on the floor with his back against the wall; staring forwards; teary expression matched. 

Nero’s silence stretches, strains; his unrelenting stare on the opposing wall one he had not even shown to some of his most vulgar enemies but it is not one of brewing threat or anger but one instead of most intense thought. 

“I don’t know you.” An admittance, and not necessarily a bad one; though quiet. He had what Dante had said on and off for a few years - tiny shreds; but knowing the brother’s relationship now - and thinking about it - he couldn’t trust any of it. 

More silence, more thought; his head now resting atop his knees so he can mildly hide his face which was pale and tear-stricken; 

“It wasn’t all your fault.” And he doubted he needed to clarity as to what he was referring to. Life. Everything. Childhood. All kinds of mixtures played a part, not just Vergil’s decision. He accepted that, now. 

“There’s nothing to be gained,” Vergil attempted, before regretting his word usage. “There’s nothing to be gained that’ll bring you any peace, Nero. There’s just heartache there, and ruin, and whatever is left of her, it’s not .. “

He stopped, let go of him, and leaned back into the couch. Vergil held his hands over his eyes, dug the heels of his palms in. He’d not lose his composure. Not here. Not now. Not when Nero needed someone to be strong and in this case, the first time Vergil had that on his shoulders, where that should have been all along..

Taking a deep breath, Vergil let his hands fall to his lap.

“I did love her,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure why. “As much as I could love a woman I’d known for a week. But whatever happened to her, I don’t want to remember her that way. And maybe that’s selfish of me because you have nothing of her, but if you find something of her, that’s all you’ll ever see at night when you close your eyes. And I don’t want that for you. I don’t have any pictures, I don’t have anything of her, all I have from her is you, and – “

Well.

That was the long and the short of it.

“.. She was pretty,” he offered, lamely. “She was red-headed and wild and ..”

Why was there a lump in his throat, painful to talk around.

“And she would have been..”

We shouldn’t do this. Not without .. you know .. can we?

And why not, Vergilio~? You don’t want to have a baby with me? It’d be a beautiful girl, I bet. Or a boy, with papa’s hair and mama’s eyes, hm?

Don’t be foolish..

“I hate Fortuna,” he muttered, his face in one hand, rubbing his eyes as he tried to forge ahead. God, this hurt. Why did this hurt..? “Fucking evil place..”

No - he didn’t have anything of her, did he!! Nothing at all - a name - no face to put it to aside from whatever he might have dreamed up when a child. Once again, it was all he had - imagination. One day it would drive him insane; it would strip him of everything because that figment of his mind was absolutely all he had.

How many times had he closed his eyes as a child and reverted to that little bubble of an imagined world just to cuddle with this made-up mother? Less as he grew older, but still did he right up until the incident in Fortuna. Then he’d given up on that entirely and allowed himself to be further consumed by rage - losing Credo had been the end of it. 

“But I could find what happened! Someone out there could be walking around with her blood on their hands!” Anger finally overtook upset and despite the pained sting of tears in his eyes, the youth was now on his feet; “No! I don’t have nothin’ of her - just like I don’t have nothin’ of the closest to a family I ever knew-! All of ‘em are fuckin’ dead!” And V, while a complex case, had been another nail in that coffin. 

“All you have of her is me - and it sounds like that was a pretty shitty trade.” He’s by the window - gazing out as if it would offer him some kind of insight, some kind of help or comfort; a trait he still held from childhood aside from the fact he no longer sought hope. What hope could be found from rubble and destruction, anyway? 

He loved her and he still left. He didn’t like the vibe Fortuna gave yet he let it lie, didn’t do anything about it. If he loved her and left, what did that say for their potential relationship; was Vergil going to win him over as a son and then disappear and tear his heart out? By this point Nero was considering anything only through rage. The rage of not knowing. The rage of being helpless - he’d felt it too many times. 

“YOU hate Fortuna? How the fuck do you think I feel about it, huh? I grew up there! In all that shit. Treated like shit. Suffering in the shit. You think I’d go back for nothing? I’ve got fuck all to lose, at this point!” 

“No,” Vergil said, softly, and then, more firmly, taking Nero’s face in his hands. Something about that island, the cult activity, the hellgate, the strange Mundus-adjacent aura it had, frightened him deeply. “No. Don’t go chasing that, there’s nothing there–” 

He had been a young man once, desperate for a familiar connection, but he had gone to find his father’s legacy and then bend it to his will. He imagined Nero wanted to head that way, for less megalomaniacal motivations, but still.. It scared him to think Nero could follow in his footsteps and fall, the way he fell.  

Nero was torn by rage and upset; he wanted answers - he wanted to know what had happened to his mother! But how long had it been since he had been on Fortuna island? A long while, now- Would anything still be salvageable? Surely in the depths of the Order there would be something? But if it hadn’t been them that resulted in her disappearance then maybe he would have to settle with not knowing. 

“But I have to know!” Rage first, almost did he stand but remained if only for the fact his legs felt far too weighty. Then the absolutely crushing upset returned full force and Nero’s absolutely  obvious lack of emotional  skill showed; he’s angry but tears brim in his eyes; he wants to fight Vergil’s hands but he doesn’t. 

𝔸𝕣𝕞 𝔸𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

Kyrie often took young orphans for a walk within the forest to break up their mundane day, to give them something to look forward to and she would often rope in a young Nero to aid her. Of course, it was not only the connection of the orphanage that made him go, but also the female’s company. He thought it would merely be a short walk and then back into the city, but he was wrong. A few wrong turns took them to a part of the forest they did not recognize, and thus they were soon attacked by a force neither recognized; Demons.