Pairing: Vergil/Reader.
Content/Warnings: M+ for mentions of blood, human sacrifice and swearing.
Word Count: 9,931.
Summary: Highschool sweethearts…But it wasn’t always so damn sweet.
Previous Chapters: i , ii , ii.v
A/N: Reader is not Nero's birth mother in this. I'll be updating this fic on AO3 under the name figandfox in the next coming days. Ps this is lore HEAVY but I'm still not revealing the whole plot just yet...For reasons. But enjoy!
There was nothing in this world more loyal than dust. For something so small, so defenseless it was often banished and cast from the home like some wicked, ghostly fiend. Many would go as far as to press the end of their finger into the thin collection of it, and dragged until a streak cut through its heart, leaving it halved and hurt and no longer whole. Yet it would always crawl back, always remain. A presence fine and white, a blanket soft and spread. It covered everything, kept it warm, timeless; dust became a historian, recording every touched surface, preserving the fingerprints of the lost and forgotten.
This house of yours was no exception, dust coated all. And you were just one girl.
Despite the spice of peppermint on your tongue, you could still taste the lie. It was late into the humid evening, and the June beetles had come to sing their midnight hymns.
Your eyes settled onto your mug dully. Life would only return to them long enough to catch whispers of minty steam, and you would blink a slow blink until you slipped back into that doll-like stillness. You allowed one hand to nurse your tea (it hurt to clutch the burning ceramic so tight, your palm rippled, skin red and angry; you couldn’t feel it, and yet it was the only thing you wanted to endure) but the other had drifted its way to the stretch of your throat. You thumbed the soft skin, tracing the line of a never-there mark.
You would often avoid touching this part of yourself, scared that maybe one day, your fingers would brush against raised, scarred flesh. And the mirror’s reflection would show you not as you were or whom you could have been, but in the image of him; the heart of a beast. You prayed to never don the necklace of a false martyr again...You wouldn’t survive the mere sight of yourself. You would rather turn serpentine, be a thing of endless hunger and deception; devouring all the rotted corpses of the foolish, little girls that had come before you, if only it meant your body would split apart and you would shed the fate of a sacrificial lamb.
“You and your lies.” Vergil scoffed through clenched teeth as he used the back of his palm to swat his own empty mug across your dining table. Because you now had a functional table, one that stretched far enough to seat twelve whole people, sleek and carved from the best wood. It stood humbly in the center of your dining room, separate from the kitchen. You had that too - a dining room. A space just meant for hosting lavish dinners or quiet mornings; to sit and eat and rest and enjoy whatever sunlight spilt in from the curtains.
“When the hell have I lied to you?” You said, your voice no longer a dreamy thing lost in the labyrinth of your mind. You spoke true of heart, daring the half-demon before you to challenge your integrity.
“The new apartment is really nice, really big. Nero loves his new room; mine’s not so bad either.” Your cheeks burnt with fever, mouth pinching sour as you recalled the words Vergil had reiterated for you. It was from the letter you sent to him just under two months ago, dated sometime in the same week you moved into your last apartment.
“God, you’re still going on about that?”
You pressed the soles of your hands against the cool dining table as you pushed yourself out of your chair. For once, you were the one looming over Vergil, your gaze cast down your nose to glare at his sharp, unimpressed expression.
“Maybe if you responded to my letters,” you spat. “I would have been a little more forthcoming with the details.”
“You have my sincerest apologies”, Vergil mocked, teeth bared and glossing in the room’s warm light. “For prioritising your safety and the freedom of Makai over a few measly handwritten notes.”
“If you were so damn busy prioritising my safety, why the fuck does the Cult of Mundus know where I am!”
It was a cruel, cruel thing to blame Vergil for. The moment your thoughtless tongue conjured such vileness, you wished you could reach out into the open and snatch them back into your maw, grind them flat between your molars and shallow the dust.
The room fell into the arms of a chilling hush, suffocating and rib crushing.
For an exhausted breath, all you could do was gape at him. Your lips peeled open, then shut tightly into a thin line, over and over again. You were lost for words, mouth and mind empty of sense. You crumbled into yourself, shoulders weighed down by shame, led-heavy with remorse. But as you shrunk into this small, repenting creature, Vergil unfolded from the chair and grew to his baleful height.
Your face broke out into a bruising frown, and your eyes, the sodden, wistful things that they were, peered from under dark lashes at him. O, how looks could kill. Vergil may be crowned by the moon with those soft locks of silver hair, and adored by the deep ocean, all seven of its seas kissing seafoam into the corners of his eyes until the pair bloomed a darling blue; but he was hellbound, through blood and through bone, through birthright too. From the sharpness of his cheeks, his teeth, to the pits of sulfur howling in his gaze, Vergil was made of storm and brimstone. A beast in handsome, human flesh. Just like you.
“Because I was foolish enough to think that you were safer away from Makai; away from me”, Vergil’s words were nothing more than a predatory rumble; it came from the deep hollows of his chest, a hurricane trapped between the ribcage. He towered you, leaning over the table with his monstrous stature to cast you in his shadow. His hands stretched and spread on its dark wooden surface, just shy of where your own were. He was close, so close. And so, so upset with you.
“Instead I stupidly left you under the watch of my little brother’s pet. And now I must reap what she has sown due to her own incompetence and lack of duty.” The Son of Sparda lifted one of great hands from the table and you felt a firm grip at the curve of your chin.
Vergil was warm to the touch, skin smooth despite the years he dedicated to the art of war. He tilted your head high so that you were eye to eye with him, his hold on you unyielding yet not brutal. Sparda’s first son was a refined man, someone who led with control, poise. Even as his gaze brimmed with poison, Vergil handled you with something tender; almost gentle. You didn’t deserve it.
“What am I to do with you?” He sighed.
“I know this isn’t your fault.” You broke, words rushed. You didn’t dare tear yourself from Vergil’s touch. Not this time. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
Vergil turned his eyes from you, stealing his hand back as he returned to his seat . The half-demon made himself comfortable, arms draped across the chair’s manchette, knees completely apart in their usual fashion. Vergil had a bad habit of manspreading. Not that you paid attention to it.
You followed in his wake, slipping back into your own perch, arms crossing over your chest as the adrenaline bled from your pores. God, you were tired. Today was far too much.
Vergil rubbed the sharp line of his jaw, eyes flickering to your spent form. He raised a brow in question, “we?”
“You confirmed with Lady that my files were stolen by members of the Cult who went undercover as Urouborus operatives. So they’re back or maybe they never left to begin with…Whatever it may be, we have to deal with it. They could be making more brides - or worse.” You reminded him, a somewhat poor retelling of what Vergil had been debriefing you over the past two hours. You really should have been paying attention.
“You mistake me.” Vergil said as slight amusement coloured his tone. “There is no we - not this time. Instead, you will attend your classes, live your life as normal, and raise my son.”
A dry, wit-less laugh bubbled from your throat, “you’re joking.”
“And you will stay away from my brother.”
You rolled your eyes at Vergil’s burning insistence to keep away from Dante. You didn’t know why, but whatever the reason may be, it was strong enough for Vergil to impale his brother over. You were wise enough to know to pick your battles with him. And the subject of Dante was always tense, something untouched and unquestioned.
“Okay, bossy pants, what will you do then?” You scoffed, jaw shifting as your tongue rolled against your teeth. You wanted Vergil to know how unimpressed you were at his senseless demands.
“I’ll do what I do best.” Vergil said, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. “I’ll hunt.”
It took you an evening to unpack and move in; three days to clear the dust and cobwebs, then almost a week to settle yourself and Nero into the house. Yet another week passed before you finally rebuilt your carefully crafted routine from scratch. The manner was a thing of dreams for you; that and so much more. A three storage house with a garden, a grand kitchen, an ensuite with a lavish tub just a few short steps from your queen sized bed; you had a study, a den, did you forget to mention the dining room? O, how you loved the dining room. It would have won your heart if it wasn’t for the kitchen and its industrial stovetop and oven.
Though, even the most charming of fairytales have their fiends. The manner was a bubble of peace, a safe haven from the hustle and bustle and stress of the city, but it was also completely secluded. There was nothing for miles other than forestlands, dirt paths and a twisting creek that pooled into the belly of your backyard. And that meant much earlier mornings than what you or Nero were used to in order to make it to preschool and class in time. And sadly for you, the only Grandson of Sparda was very much opposed to waking at the crack of dawn.
Another adjustment were the random gifts left at your doorstep. The first was a new phone, preprogrammed with a number of relevant contacts, it seemed to never run low on data, thank god. The second being a car, and you had to admit, you did squeal when you walked out of the manner, one criminally early morning, and spotted the sleek black Mercedes in your driveway. Thankfully, you had no neighbours. Though, Nero did give you a rather scathing look, prematurely grumpy from the early hours. Your third little present was a credit card. Only, it wasn’t quite right…
You wouldn’t make a fuss. Lady did warn that your alias would undergo a slight tweak to keep your identity and location safe now that the Cult of Mundus was active again.
The heavy, dark card reflected the downturn of your lip. You tilted it, watching as a glint of sunlight caught between the textured print of your new surname indented across its metal surface; a limelight that only acted to further emphasize Lady’s little tweak. You spoke out loud your first name, then paused to ready the fork of your tongue as the surname Sparda hissed out between clenched teeth. Then you did it again, and again, and again until that break of breath dwindled amid your name and your darling new last name and the two dripped from your lips as smooth and rich as honey.
Maybe it made sense, from a financial and legal standpoint…You did live in the house he paid for, using his hard earned money to cover your bills and expenses. And most importantly, you were raising his son afterall. Perhaps, Lady was finally making your life easier. It didn’t have to mean anything. It was silly to even pay attention to such a thing. Who cared if Lady had legally titled you the new Mrs Sprada?
You groaned into the cup of your hands and slid the credit card to the far side of the kitchen island. It was too early for this.
“Nero! Are you done yet?” You called out, needing to distract yourself with anything and everything. Even if that something was a fussing five year old.
“Why not? Does it not fit?” You were sure you ordered the correct size.
“It looks stupid. I’m not coming out!” Nero screamed back from the halfway bathroom, voice high and whiney.
“Oh, honey…” You felt yourself melt. It wasn’t rare for your starry boy to be embarrassed over the smallest of things. Nero was a sensitive child, easily upset and often targeted by his peers for his striking appearance; unlike the Sparda bloodline, platinum hair was not common. “Don’t be like that. Come on, let me see you. I’m sure you look fine.”
At first, you were met with silence. Blinding and edging, you felt your breath still in apprehension of what was to come. Then the groan of old, worn hinges as the door creaked open. Nero dragged his feet along the wooden floors as he walked the length of the corridor. He only stopped once he stood at the mouth of the kitchen, its french doors spread wide to welcome the fresh morning air. Another treasure this manner had to offer, refuge from the sun and all its summer glory. Its stone bones were excellent at cooling, often coaxing the early August heat down by a few degrees. At night, you no longer slept between sheets drenched in your own sweat. Truly, it was a religious experience.
Your cheeks drew round, high as a grin so wide pulled across your face.
Nero stood before you with balled fists at his side, his features pinched and sulking. The youngest Sparda was draped in a dusty blue and grey uniform, his tie knotted in a mess and loose around the collar of his button down shirt, the laces of his black dress shoes were treated in the same poor fashion. Nero was missing his school blazer, abandoned somewhere in the hallway bathroom.
“Handsome.” You corrected, making your way around the kitchen island to reach Nero’s dreary person. “You look handsome, Nero. We just need to practice getting ready for school.”
Nero allowed you to fuss over him with nimble fingers, picking and pulling the misstructured fabric of his new school uniform. You demonstrated to him how to properly tuck his shirt into the waistband of his shorts, the correct way to create the loops of his laces and tie them into pretty bows. But when your hands drifted to the tie, hanging limp and uneven around Nero’s neck, your lips pressed into a thin line. You too, were unaware of how to properly knot a tie. Dumbfounded, you drew your phone from your pocket and for the next hour, you and Nero studied how best to tie the clothing piece. It didn’t help, no matter how many Youtube videos you forced the two of you to watch; you would either knot your finger into the loop, or the damn thing would come undone the moment you pulled your hands away. You were hopeless. A failure of a guardian.
Nero stared at you, bright eyes bored and restless as you hyperfixated on perfecting this silly task. You had a habit of doing that, studying something and practicing it, the constant reputation almost obsessive until you were satisfied with the outcome. Until it was immaculate. It was why you were in culinary school. You loved the precision, the control, the flawless outcomes of your hard work.
You let your phone and the tie drop into your lap as you rubbed your face tiredly. You and Nero had moved to the floor of the den, criss-crossed as you sat opposite of each other on the large rug.
“I know.” You groaned, “maybe I should call your dad…”
You thought of Vergil. How he was always dressed flawlessly; well styled and well kept. Even as you two stalked the barren wastelands of the underworld together, his appearance never faulted, never sullied. Sparda’s first son was a proud man and that conceitedness was found in every trace of his life, from his swordwork to his battle prowess, and especially in his well grabbed exterior. Not a strand of silver hair was ever out of place, not even in the heart of war. Surely, Vergil knew how to knot a tie.
“Why do you need to call him?” Nero snapped, chin suddenly pointed high as bitterness smeared across his chubby face. “He won't even care.”
“No he doesn’t. He came once and - and he didn’t even talk to us!” Nero sputtered out, his bottom lip wobbling as he climbed to his feet in protest. There were tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, yet Nero refused to let them fall. Your poor, stubborn boy. “I don’t want him to fix it. I want you; I want you to fix it - like how you always fix it. We don’t need him.”
You were startled at Nero’s protest, not expecting such an outburst. You tried to blink back your confusion, your budding guilt. For once, you didn’t know what to say to the forgotten child in front of you. He was right to feel this way. Vergil had been distant, indifferent. Especially towards his son. But he had come over more than once in the three weeks you and Nero had lived in the manner.
The first time Vergil had visited, he had done so in the morning. It was on Sunday, like today; bright, hot, and early. He sat with you in the kitchen, at the island, a cup of jasmine tea in hand. You were complaining to the half-demon about your upcoming exams, the dust that took you three days to clear from the house, rattling off the number of things you had to purchase before Nero’s first day of Kindygarden. You voiced what you would usually write, and Vergil listened to every uttered ramble with his usual quiet aloofness. He would interject here and there, asking if you required extra help around the house during the exam period, insisting that he would get his brother’s pet to organise a maid. You would counter him, tutting that he needed to start addressing Lady by her name, she was his boss afterall. Vergil scoffed at you, unimpressed with your childish teasing. But you caught that flicker of a smile he tried to conceal with the rim of his mug.
Nero had dragged himself into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, still dressed in his pajamas, and the easy flow of conversation between you and Vergil had come to a halt. He stared at Vergil, and Vergil stared back. Yet neither worked up the courage to make the first move. Nero had turned to you instead, asking what was for breakfast. After that, Vergil was quick to finish his tea. He vanished from his seat at the island while your back was turned, his steps as hushed as the words he whispered to you from just a moment ago. He didn’t stay for the banana pancakes you made. And he didn’t stay to talk to his son.
Now, the Son of Sparda only came when the moon loomed and the house stirred with shadows. When the hours of the night were far too late for Nero to be awake for, but the stillness perfect for you to study in. You would be in the den, textbooks spread open and wide across the coffee table, the lamp shining low and soft as you practiced a mock exam for menu planning. He would spend the first handful of moments just taking you in, swallowing you whole with his ocean deep eyes; your unkept hair, the black ink smudged along the side of your palm, the small shorts that clung tightly around the meat of your thighs, the curves of your hips. You would ignore Vergil and his mindful eyes until a body of text was completed, scripted onto the page of your notebook. You were always the first to speak, moreso at him than to him.
I need coffee if I’m going to deal with you at this hour.
I thought the same. Vergil would say before tailing you into the kitchen.
How’s your hunting? You would pry as the milk frothed.
Still none of your concern…How are your studies? How’s the child?
They’re fine, school is just busy. But a good busy. I passed my emulsion principles exam with flying colours…You know, it's a shame; if it wasn’t so late, you could ask Nero that yourself. You would hand Vergil the steaming mug, your eyes simmering with disappointment. The air would be tense and warm with summer and coffee, your judgement harsh, Vergil’s neutrality a sterile thing. Then he would finally cast his eyes from you, murmuring how Lady (he called her Lady now; well, when she didn't stir his temper) would be reaching out to organise another little gift to make day to day life easier for you.
Vergil met you like this twice now, when the night was thick and he had you all to himself; no Nero in sight. It was almost a weekly occurrence.
Nero made a startled noise as you swept him up in your arms, pulling him close to your chest to where the stone of your heart was. You hugged him, tight and adoring, and so, so sad. He wiggled slightly, trying to get comfortable in your hold, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he clung to you just as tightly, his face nuzzling the curve of your throat. You breathed in his milky scent; still just a babe, he was, with the perfume of vanilla and cake batter on his skin.
“I’ll fix this”, you said, words muffled into Nero’s starlight hair. “I will fix this. I promise.”
You weren’t talking about the tie. But for now, Nero didn’t need to know that.
Sunday came and went, a haze of a lazy day. You mostly spent your morning baking, something rich and fluffy to sweeten Nero’s mood. Chocolate mousse was always a favourite, even if he did pout and stalk by the fridge until the dessert chilled long enough to be ready. By nightfall, you and Nero had curled up on the couch to watch a movie. Nero had recently learnt about dinosaurs at preschool as a way to gently introduce the children to a classroom setting and routine. He told you all about it when you picked him up at the beginning of the week, and each day brought a new fact, a new word, a near carnivorous creature to ramble on about in the car ride home. Now, every form of media he consumed had to be dinosaur adjacent. So, on your slow Sunday night, you witnessed your starry boy fall into the magic of The Land Before Time.
But the weekends were never meant to last. Suddenly, you were stirring, waking. You were far too warm with something far too boney digging into your side. A new day was barely breaking through the thicket surrounding the manner, but what sunlight did slip through the fullness of the trees, and the curtains of your arched windows, stole the sleep right from your eyes.
You were still on the couch, the TV repeating the end credits of the movie you had drifted off to. As always, Nero was with you, small and warm and curled beneath your ribs. He was but a heart. Your heart, your one and only. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You woke him up regrettable and the two of you fell into the push and pull of your morning routine.
The day dragged without Nero by your side. But he needed to finish his last week at preschool, and you needed to attend your exam prep-classes. By 3pm, once classes were done and you still had two hours to kill before needing to collect Nero, you would find yourself seated by the window of a cafe. There was further studying to be done, and your textbooks were strung across the table, yet you often found yourself sipping on something hot and milky and caffeinated as you people watched; eyes and thought drifting as strangers pasted by your window, lost in their own worlds and worries.
You hadn’t had this in years. This little, momentous thing called time. Time to wonder, to idle, to seek pleasure and peace in the nothingness of it all; to waste your hours at some haphazard coffee shop, studies ignored, your latte with honey half-had, well enjoyed, now no more than a frothed smear across your top lip. It was delicious, how mundane life suddenly was, how the peak of your day was nothing more than a sweetened drink. You were just like them, those faceless individuals who strolled past you. The ones who you observed and failed to mimic for the longest of time. Finally, your obsession with regaining your forsaken commonness had paid off. You were just as they were. Unimportant and untouched by that dreary thing called onus.
You had to give thanks to Vergil, to Lady. Despite your throat cut past, it was them who salvaged your future. The sleek black card in your hand was a heavy reminder of the path you walked. You fiddled with the credit card again, unwilling to pay and leave this darling humdrum of an establishment. You thumbed at your new name, the one indented in block letters on a metal surface.
The surname - it still bothered you, that you couldn’t deny. It felt disrespectful to Vergil’s mother, the woman he spoke so highly of, yet in equal measure, so little about.
You still had over an hour until Nero needed to be picked up from preschool…
And Lady was only a short drive away. What harm could a little conversation do?
Lady’s office, as always, was stale and boring. You sat across from her, watching, waiting. Lady’s desk was a mess of files and headshots, documents and forms and everything alike and important. The commander’s eyes were two toned and twice as sharp, yet instead of utilising the gleaming screen of a highly advanced computer and monitor system, the one just to her right, untouched and cold from lack of use, she took to physical forms; pages upon pages of hand written recounts and notes, carefully collated, detailed and revised down to the very bone of the paper, and the only copy to ever exist. As you studied Lady, her strew of documents, the pen she flickered temperately between her fingers, you silently questioned her methods. Perhaps, it was hubris warming your blood; perhaps, it was resentment. Whatever it might have been, you ran hot with it.
Lady had an unfathomable net worth at her finger tips due to the Company’s late founder, Arius. And yet…This was how classified - no, surreptitious files were arranged and kept and treated?
Were your files handled with such loose hands, too? Left out in the open, a simple heap of paper and information on someone’s desk, almost longing to be swept up by nefarious arms of Mundus’ loyalists.
“Do you have to wear a suit in the kitchen to graduate as a chef?”
“Than why the fuck are you asking me to teach you how to knot a tie?”
You thought for a moment, reflecting upon her temper, your own simmer irritability too. Your relationship with Lady was delicate nowadays. Gratitude would always linger like a ghost; a phantom weight on the slope of your shoulders. It would spur on the likeness of friendship, where casual conversation and the tiredness that often accompanied any tie to the Sparda bloodline would dare shape a connection between the two of you. Though at your core, there was rage. A brewing mess of madness that fed from the carcass of grief and guzzled altruism from an endless cup until it drank and ate itself sick.
You worked, you begged, you thinned yourself down to skin and bones while raising a five year old with a troubled past, attending classes, passing exams, making rent. And you did it all alone.
There were often nights where you thought to yourself, not paying intuition would mean more food, better clothes for Nero, an apartment in a safer area; while on the other hand, the knowing hand, the somewhat selfish hand, not paying intuition meant not graduating, always working passionless, part-time jobs, and never, ever succeeding in the only thing you could salvage from your old life; your dreams. You would leave claw marks, the shape of your teeth, the blood of another, before you ever dared let it out of your grasp.
“Forget it.” You said, kissing your teeth as you waved off her snipped retort. You felt like a dog licking tension from its jaws, it was never a good thing to bite that hand that fed you. Even if it did starve you at first. “I’ll look it up or something.”
“You do that”, Lady muttered, her mind elsewhere as she studied the spread of reports in her gloved hands. “Anything else you want to waste my time with?”
“No.” You lied, knotting your fingers together in your lap before you quickly corrected your answer. “Yes - yes, there is. The card.”
“Your credit card? Is it not working?”
“It’s working fine. It’s just…I don’t know; weird.” You dragged on, unsure with how to announce your contempt. “Isn’t it stupid to reissue another fake surname to hide my identity, only for the name to be the most known in all the two worlds? Won’t the Cult find me easier with Sparda as my last name?”
Lady slapped the yellow binder down onto her desk, its contents spilling and sailing across the sea of white and gray that already swallowed the wood’s polished surface. She rubbed at her face viciously, tirelessly as a deep belly sign left her lips.
“I know.” Again, a short snap of teeth. But the commander’s next turn of words were flat, their edges smoothed and pressed by fatigue’s soft, sanded palms. “I know. I drew attention to the same concerns. But it’s what he wanted. And I didn’t have time to fight with him.”
Your mouth pressed into a thin line, “Vergil.”
It wasn’t a question. It should have been considering the nature of your conversation. But what else was supposed to form upon your tongue other than his name? Only the Sparda Twins were known to wane Lady’s resolve to such a thin, feeble creature. And you were certain Dante did not have the political influence at The Uroboros Corporation to make decisions on your behalf. While you weren’t too sure as to how Vergil has such sway, it was brutally evident that what Sparda’s Eldest Son wanted, he got. Even if it was something as distasteful as claiming you as a Sparda in all but blood.
“Vergil.” Lady confirmed as she swept slim fingers through her dark tufts of hair, her mouth cut into a frown as she continued to mumble, though, more to herself than you. “I should have never agreed to come back to run this shit hole. I feel like I have no idea what the hell I’m even doing most days...”
“Did he tell you why, at least?”
“A Son of Sparda? Explaining himself?” Lady chuffed, tone dry and sour like aged plums. “When have either of the twins ever done that?”
You rolled your tongue across the back of your teeth as you sunk into the spine of your chair. A shrug tilted your shoulders in agreement, finding a bittersweet sort of comfort in Lady’s words. It was reassuring that Vergil was simply doing as he pleased instead of conspiring with Lady. It fueled those short bursts of comradery with the commander.
“Sorry to have wasted your time afterall. I’ll bring this up with Vergil.” You began to gather yourself from the chair, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear as you tried to tidy your appearance. As you grew to your full height, your eyes swept across the desk one last time in subtle disapproval.
“You know, if you kept your classified documents digitally stored and processed, it would be harder for Cult members to sell…” At the beginning, your words were somewhat playful, somewhat sharp and witty as they left the flat of your tongue. But as your gaze turned driftwood among the tides of ink wet pages, your mouth dried. Gone was the girl with a grin full of gleaming, impish delight. All that remained was the burn of smoked sea salt and the arid sands of a dead ocean. Your throat was now desertland. The sun was known to eventually bleach all that it touched. And it left you a ghostly glimpse of white.
It had been years since you had last seen those shy, fox-brown eyes. Now they leered up at you, unblinking and paled from the grey wash of the headshot. Unlike you, he had aged. But in your image, as you remembered him, he had that boyish shag of red hair, a fixed turned lip, always smirking, always beaming with that look of knowing. His cheeks were full, lightly freckled, glowing with a dust of pink, either from the unforgiving sun or the kiss you pressed into the stubborn baby-fat softening the line of his jaw.
It was a part of the ritual to crop the crown of the newly anointed Disciple of Mundus; that, despite everything, you remembered. You were hogged-tied on a slab of ancient stone, a stinging coolness against your flesh, another set of rough hands to hurt you. It reeked, too. The stench of babe’s blood; of the piss and tears of other brides, too. What a horrible cut of rock. And what a horrible haircut they gave him…
He loomed over you, titled your head back by the chin until the skin of your soft gullet stretched thin for him, your neck bent nearly over the edge of stone, painful and crooked. How could you forget? He was the one whom pressed a blade to your bare throat. How could you forget? That all you could conjure in thought in that last, withered moment with a knife slicing across your neck was: they cut his sweet, ginger hair.
Marcus kept his hair short since that night nearly three years ago. It was far more tamed now, no longer fresh and wild, hidden well under the formal guard cap that all Uroboros Corporation operatives wore. The whispers of smile lines also showed the passage of time; they creased his features, his once full cheeks, now sharp and sporting a shadow of stubble, and his exposed forehead. All marked by the years, the sun, the good times.
You had none of that. You were stuck with eternal youth. Evermore that twenty-year old fool. You would wear the face that he looked down upon with a smile as he took your life from you forever. Your life; your future; your humanity.
Someone was calling your name. But it was not the same one he once called you. Because that too, he stole. Your fucking name. He was the last to utter your true name. The one thing that should be yours, only yours, from crib to grave. But you were ripe, young, a thing full of breath. You were not under the soft earth to rest, to rot. How could he take your name?
Hands, warm and leather bound, were holding you, shaking you. Again, that name you wore like a hat. Like something to leave hooked on a stand by the corner of your bedroom and only adorned when you were called to business outside the comfort of the home. It was an accessory, a prop. Something that would be a bother to lose, only as it was a greater bother to venture out and purchase another, similar and brimmed with plainness.
It was the slap across your face that woke you from your estranged daze. A sting of red, the contact between palm and cheek, a strike firm enough to turn your head, cast your eyes away from the headshot of Marcus in an Uroboros Corporation uniform and to the bare corner of Lady’s office. It truly was such a sad, beige room. Surely something as simple as a plant would help. A splash of green, the warm glow of its canopy in the late hours of the day. It would be darling…Wouldn’t it?
“If you don’t respond”, Lady said, the scar that darkened the bridge of her nose stretched thin as her features spread to accommodate the tides of panic that rose within the commander. “I’ll have to call Vergil. So I need you to start talking, Stone Heart.”
You cupped your hot cheek. Your touch told you of its swelling flesh, its mad fever of red and wetness. When did you begin to cry? You only allowed yourself to do such things in the dark. When the world was light with sleep and your shoulders could rest for a moment.
“No. No you’re not.” Lady corrected, eyes bright with disturb.
You needed to smile. You needed to blink away the tears and smile. People liked you better if you fucking smiled.
So, you grinned. But it had too much gloss, your teeth too fronted and sharp. Your gums were showing; a spit-shined ripple of exposed flesh. You had the maw of a viper, not the mouth of a girl. This was not a good smile.
“Jesus Christ. Just - just sit down. You’re freaking me out.”
You sat, a bag of flesh and bones arranged unsettlingly in the belly of the chair. You didn’t feel quite human right now. And it was showing.
“What the fuck just happened?” Lady snapped her question, a clip of anxious teeth. “You were fine - you were joking just a moment ago. Then? Then you start sobbing, howling. And now you’re smiling.”
“Start talking; what the fuck is wrong with you?”
You understood why Vergil first declined the psychologist’s offer to assess you, gathering intel from your perspective all while soothing your mental and emotional wounds with the gentleness of therapy. It was too much, too fresh. The rough of your nailbeds still ran black with limestone, your hair sticky with fiend’s blood, your eyes narrowed, untrusting. But it has been over ten months now; the anniversary of your return edged nearer with each passing day. Gone was the shaking girl draped in demon hide and hell ash that Vergil tore from the bowels of Makai. You had to rebuild yourself in these short months, fill your cracks with gold, reforge your resolve with iron and fire until it refused to bend. Afterall, you didn’t have Vergil to rely on in the realm of sapiens. Instead, you had his son. You were now the protector; the she-wolf; the one who had to mend the cracks of others.
You would not let Marcus bring you to ruins again. You had clawed your way through too many infernoes to have him buckle your knees.
Your hand crawled its way to your neck once more, and you thumbed at your bare throat, your rhythm lost to anxiety and needy, self-soothing tendencies. Unlike your memories, the skin there was forgiving and scarless. No blood, no blade, no necklace of raised seams and martyrism. You were you. Well, what was left of you.
You took a slow, unsteady breath. Small steps now. Taste the metal, welcome the flame. You, no matter how incomplete, still had your resolve, your purpose. Your files included Nero. He was now something for Marcus to smile knowingly about. He was fox-kin, afterall. A trickster, a predator. You needed to keep at least one lamb away from his jaws.
Lady crinkled in weariness, unsure of where to step now that your moods embodied a swaying pendulum. “Yes.”
“You said that a member of the Cult of Mundus stole mine? How are they here?” You pressed your questions, seeking what you felt deep within your core you already knew.
“They’re not.” Lady corrected, “I’m rebuilding your case from scratch to help Vergil get a lead on where the Cult might be operating.”
That gave you pause, “He didn’t tell me that.” You said, tongue slipping loose to wet the cracks in your lips.
“I’m sure he didn’t. He doesn’t want you involved.”
“’I’m already involved. I’ve been involved from the start - this started with me.”
“I know…But I see why he thought it was best.”
There was a shift in Lady, a turn of tides. The emotions that once draped her plush face had all but vanished. It left her as stiff as the dead, with an authoritative air thick enough to rival that of great kings. The two-hues of her eyes settled over you with careful consideration.
“It’s clear that you’re not stable enough to handle your own past.” Lady said, “if you have an episode every time you need to face something traumatic, how do you think that will affect the operation?”
Your rage tried to become you, overtake you in a swell of fire and fury, as if it was something born from Hade’s pit. Your temper flared, flickered, like heat catching on dry grass. A blaze was coming, the smoke was heavy on the wind. Your balled fist rose high, a strike for a strike, some would say. But this burn of indignation in you was not yours, not human. You directed your rage onto the table, a clash of otherworldly endurance and simple wood. It was a pitiful war, one won in a blast of splinters and handwritten reports.
Lady swore up a storm as you drove your fist through her Hawaiian Koan desk. It was a shame, really. The table was the only thing this barren office had going for it.
“No - you fucking bitch!” You snarled back, tearing your hand from the gaping stomach of the table. You pointed a thin, accusing finger in Lady’s face, your burning gaze meeting her own. “When you’re ritually sacrificed to the Prince of Darkness then you can lecture me about how I should handle my past!”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Lady sneered back. You had to give it to her, the commander was one of the most dauntless individuals you’d ever met. She was known to never show fear, and right now, her reputation preceded her. Lady dared to inch forward, to close the gap between the two of you. Her voice sank into something chilling, like the deep waters of the Arctic, uncharted and unforgiving.
“If you see Marcus Briggs in the flesh, will you crack?” Lady uttered, “will you lose yourself in your confusion and grief; beg to know why he betrayed you? Or can you be better, be stronger, and do what needs to be done to finally put an end to The Cult of Mundus?”
The desertlands returned to take ownership of your throat, you choked on the dryness, “you know his - ”
“Your little friend was cocky enough - or maybe stupid enough - to not use an alias when he and his cult-freaks went undercover in my organisation.” The retort was meant to sting. Lady was grinding salt into a too-fresh wound, enjoying the way you winced and struggled. “Once they got what they wanted, they were quick to flee like rats into the sewers. Vergil kindly identified them from the company database of dead or MIA operatives."
Confusion crawled under your skin. It made itself at home between your joints, your tendons, festering like a disease, devouring you from the inside out.
“Vergil doesn’t…” You tried to gather your thoughts, yet they slipped through the gasps of your fingers. Your mind felt like a string of pearls, broken and spilling onto the floor in a mess of pretty insanity. “I didn’t tell him about Marcus; about what Marcus let the Cult do to me; what he did to me - I wouldn’t.”
“The two of you were fleeing Mundus for two years, surely it came up at some point while dredging through Makai.”
“It didn’t…I would have remembered.”
“Truama is fickled.” Lady signed, and she reached a strong hand to cup your sloped shoulder. It was awkward at best, uncomfortable at worst. The two of you only tended to share touch through strikes of pain, a bruised throat, a red cheek. “It fucks with your head, your memories. Relax, Vergil didn’t disclose anything personal. Just what was needed.”
You knotted your hands together, brows drawn close, tight as you fled from a half-comforting presence, pacing between your empty chair and the corpse of Lady’s expensive desk. You were unsettled; riddled with anxiety and that lingering, haunting feeling of unknowing. Maybe. Maybe, she was right. You wanted to believe she was right. It was the only thing that made sense.
Time did seem to trickle in a strange way when you were in Makai; the hourglass mishaped, the sand too thick. The days were long, bleeding, though the months, crisp and short. Two years felt like the passing of two seasons. Its nature was eternal; however, stillborn in the same measure, its burst of life fleeting yet monumental. A slight of hand, you argued. A way to keep the wandering stranger lost and complacent.
“It’s getting late, and I’m sure you have to pick up the kid. You should get going.” Lady said, voice thin as she herded your quick, mindless steps from the belly of the room to the door of her office. “If you need to talk to someone about everything…I have people for that. Vergil doesn’t have to know. It can stay between us.”
“Why would he care if I talk to someone?” You mumbled, eyes as low hung as your head as you reached for the cool handle. It was clear you had overstayed your welcome. Made a mess of things.
“Vergil…He just wants the best for you. I guess in his thick head that means keeping you as far from Uroboros as possible.”
You bite the fat of your tongue, refusing to dispute Lady’s comment. But you lacked faith in her words. Surely, if Vergil wanted the best for you, he wouldn’t treat you like a burden, and Nero, like a scarred knee, unwanted yet unavoidable when you were reckless in your youth.
You were kneeling in the kitchen. The floor was unforgiving to the bones of your knees, cold and bruising.
“I know, honey. You don’t have to apologise again.”
“I know, Nero. It’s fine.”
The chub on his cheeks twitched, much like that of a timid church mouse, as Nero cast a lost glance at the shattered ceramic by his feet, your knees. You had instructed him to be still, be calm, to not tread on the broken pieces scattered around him. It was late into the witching hours of the night, you had just begun to drift off into the land of dreams when your ears caught the shrill, panicked pleads of Nero. You didn’t hear the crash of the mug, didn’t know that all your starry boy wanted was a glass of milk to quench his sleepy thirst. You flew into a panic yourself, tearing the thin sheets from your body, a toss of limbs and claws as you laboured to get to Nero. To save Nero.
He was here, you thought with a half-slumber struck mind.
But who was he? Mundus? Marcus? You did not know, you did not care. You just needed to get to Nero. Nero. Nero. O, God, not Nero. You galloped down the twist of stairs, missing a step here, skipping two steps there; you tripped, your breath stalled, hands shooting like arrows in the dark for anything to grab. Lady Luck graced you in that moment, you caught yourself on the railing, fingers skidding over the lacquered wood, your palms rubbed raw. Still, you continued, rejecting the stumble as an omen to slow down.
“It was wet. It slipped.”
You found Nero barefoot in the kitchen, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, his bottom lip pronounced, wobbling. He whipped his head over to you once you pushed open the French doors, your chest collapsing at the mere sight of him. He was alone yet terrified. Your eyes, wild and beading, fanned around the kitchen. It was bare, sleepy like the night itself. You stepped forward, questions mounting in the tight walls of your throat until they lodged, damning you into a choked silence. But as your glaze drew to your starry boy once more, sweeping over him and him alone, you found the landmine beneath him, one of ceramic shards and milk spill.
You approached him with quiet steps, a gentle face. Nero was never good with loud, sudden noises. He was quick to startle at times. You read the casefile Lady gave you on how she had come to find the lost Grandson of Sparda. You remember each turn of the page revealing one tragedy, then another, and another. His original date of birth was unknown, as he left on the steps of an orphanage only at a few days old, fair skin wrapped in a dark blanket. He was fostered out twice at ages two and four, but they couldn’t handle his emotional outbursts and stubborn ways; these families wanted an easy child, a grateful, quiet child. They weren’t prepared to take in a little boy who had been socially stunted by the constant rejection he faced from his peers due to his moon-kissed appearance, nor did they take a liking to his devilish temper and quick tongue. In his short lifetime, Nero had been abandoned at the orphanage’s cobble steps thrice; twice by strangers, once by his own mother.
That type of forsaking left cracks in any child’s heart.
It was the last two pages, however, that truly showed what scars Nero carried. The Orphanage was located out of state, off the mainland on a small island crowned Fortuna. It was a rather progressive town in recent times, accommodating refugee Makaians, respecting demon-kind. The island was known as one of worship, and the Dark Knight Sparda was the devil they chose to glorify as their saviuor, their Patron Saint. There had been rumours that Sparda himself had resigned on the island for sometime, creating a safe, demon-free space for the first inhabitants. As legend goes, when the island was still in its burning youth, he governed as Fortuna’s Feudal Lord. With Sparda, the town grew in wealth and beauty and prospered beyond what was common for islands of that small size. He was their guardian, their fountain of fortune and wisdom.
But The Dark Knight was long gone, and there was now no one to protect the town or its people.
The reports told of a shapeshifting demon who fed from the corpses of children. The Uroboros Corporation had been tracking it down since it slaughtered a preschool on the south coast of Florida. However, this demon was clever, it knew to never ravage the same place twice. It fled into the night like a thief. Hiding on a supply shipment to escape the hunt. It slinked its way onto the island and into Fortuna, where it found the most delicious of places to dine, an orphanage brimming with young blood. It shifted its appearance into a babe, and left itself naked and abandoned at the doors as so many before it. Like a snake in grass, it waited, it preyed. The nuns took mercy, as any old, wrinkled zealots would, bringing the supposed newborn in, bathing it and wrapped it in cloth. However, when it came time to feed, instead of pressing the nipple of the warmed bottle between gummy flesh, the nuns found big, pearly teeth.
The demon devoured more than half the orphanage before Lady and her men tracked the fiend down. They slayed it and brought the survivors back to the organisation for questioning and support.
It was hard not to miss that shock of silver hair, even if it was smeared with the blood of infants.
Nero had seen it all. The demon, half shifted between babe and devil, crawling along the walls, leaving a bloody trail as it snatched little boys and girls from their beds, tearing heads from necks and limbs from torsos. It poured gore and carnage on the remaining orphans, the ones too terrified to hide, the ones who pissed themselves and were too frightened to cry.
When Lady saw Nero, with his eyes so hollow, so blue. She just knew. That child was Sparda-kin in one way or another.
Did the Lord Sparda live? Had he once again returned to Fortuna to govern. Maybe he took a new bride, seeded a new heir. Only to disappear for a final time.
Or perhaps, Dante had sought comfort on one of his freelance hunting trips. He would sometimes disappear for weeks on end if he wasn't under the employment of Uroboros Corporation. He went wherever the money pooled thickest. Even if the journey was long, lonely.
Could you imagine Lady’s face? A ghostly ripple of horror as she tested Nero’s DNA to find that Dante was a paternal match, only the triangulation group wasn’t high enough for him to be considered the biological father. What it did show, however, was enough common segments to claim Dante as a close relative, an uncle.
Thank god Vergil tore a rip between space and time and threw you onto Lady’s lap within the month. What else was the commander supposed to do with the kid if Vergil wouldn’t claim the boy? She couldn’t let the only Grandson of Sparda loose into the world, not with his history and dormant devil powers.
“Accidents happen, honey. It’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m just relieved that you’re not hurt.” Your words were soft, like a drop of cream. Light and kind and sweet on the tongue. With your free hand, the one unused and untouched by broken ceramic shards, you reached up to cup the fat of his cheek and thumb circles on the plump skin. You rubbed around the salted tears, hushed back the dust of pink and warmth.
“It’s okay to drop things, you’re still very little, Nero.” You reassure your starry boy, “but I’m very, very glad that you called out to me. Always call me when you need me, okay? I’ll come. I’ll always come.”
You collected the fragments, one at a time, methodical and careful not to cut yourself. You continued to speak as you did so, allowing the kitchen to swell with the soft hymn of your voice. It lulled Nero, soothed his panic, his guilt. The slope of his small shoulders deepened, his eyes hooded, heavy, had gone slack with solace. He yawned as you recounted a story from your own youth, a rare treat.
You spoke of a time you had also created a mess, caused an accident, how the adults in your life were just as forgiving, and how you deserved their care and kindness, as Nero deserved your unconditional care and kindness, your eternal forgiveness; it was not a sin to be small, you reminded him. Childhood error was not sacrilegious in nature.
It was human to make mistakes…You tried, you truly did, to keep Nero’s history in mind when you interacted with him. To possess patience and an open mind, tender hands, a thoughtful, loving smile. You were anything but perfect, however. There were times where your temper flared, and your mouth cut into sharp shapes, you would say things you didn’t mean, in an unkind snarl, as any beaten dog would. You would make him cry, or scream back, slam the door in your face or throw himself on the ground in conniption. The two of you were a pair of shellshocked pawns, expendable and sacrificial, fodder for devil hunger and entertainment. You were reckless, dazed, when you promised Vergil you could step up to fill the role of guardian for Nero.
Lady was right, trauma was a fickle thing.
It tore through you, leaving holes in the fabric of your being. You craved to collide with another, to mend your fate with their fortune. Someone with similarly caught, torn threads, so that you may become whole by weaving your loose yarn with their scraps of string. You and this somewhat-stranger would become a patchwork of self-mended traumas. You would fix each other, knit back what was important, what made you complete. The stitches would be crooked, fingertips would be needle-bitten and bloody, the twine too thin. But after some time, you wouldn’t feel the breeze. The holes would be sown shut. Your hands would stop shaking.
It was the only human thing about you still, these small missteps, the relapse, the slow recovery. Nero made you feel whole. You were complete with him, and he, complete with you. The two of you were cut from the same cloth, two shards from the same shattered cup.
There was a prick, a sting.
A hunger settled through you, bleeding and beating. It woke, it stirred, it stretched, a flex of sharp claws, a wide, yawning maw, a dozen gleaming teeth shining through. It stalked from your finger prints to the gaps between your ribs, like a surgical blade. It knew where to strike, where to drive into soft skin and divide flesh from bone best.
You lapped at your mouth, trying to satiate your rousing appetite. The devil in you grew loud, restless. Someone was calling out and it (you, it’s you. Don’t forget what he made you) demanded to answer.
“All done. Time for bed, Nero. I’ll be up to tuck you in soon.”
The boy rubbed at his eyes, nodding weakly as he stepped away from you, a slight sway to him as he did so; sleep was like an anchor, his body was left to rock on the waves of lapping conscience. You listened to the creak of floorboards, the light thud of footsteps on stairs, the low whine of a bedroom door as it opened but left ajar.
You rose from your knees slowly, your hand fisting the collection of broken ceramic between fingers and palm.
There was blood in the air, the smell of sulphur too.
“We need to talk.” You rumbled, a storm within your chest brewing, breaking.
You cast your gaze over the curve of your shoulder to where the corners of the kitchen’s wall collided, and the shadows grew thickest. There, in the dark, your eyes found blue.
And they too, brew something monstrous.
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