#vixte

Raised in squalor despite the prestigious house you hail from, cursed only as the second born and a female at that. Weaker, sickly, naturally averse to the atmosphere, barely tended to, locked away and not spoken about as to not stain the reputation of your family name; left fragile after Sparda’s ‘betrayal’, but still you persisted.

There were others like Sparda, though they held their beliefs less openly, not as strong as the legendary Dark Knight so fear of repercussions kept them silent; which in turn only fostered your neglect and abuse. Chained up in the times you weren’t used as an unwilling opponent for your more gifted sibling.

Experiencing hell in a deeper sense than just the place you were born.

But there is a night of perfect occurrences. A night you’re postured for display despite being told to attempt not to be seen nor heard. You slip away while everyone focuses on their meal you wouldn’t have been provided, eating voraciously but you hungered only for freedom; safety.

You get from the grounds of your home before you know little else to do after, ears perked for any sign of pursuit as you run for hours until your lungs burned and drawing breath was painful, until jagged terrain cleaved open the tender flesh of your bare feet only to be healed and for the process to repeat in a cycle of agony you pay little mind to.

Until you fall through a rift, a weakened portion of the barrier Sparda erected. Too startled to register the burn in your lungs has alleviated, if not marginally, as you continue to run. The ground beneath your feet is soft, wet, mud and loose grass clinging to your flesh before you take refuge in overgrown foliage, unable to run any longer. Resting for the moment, world altered but not acknowledged until it permanently changes the moment a body descends upon you.

Hair like starlight from another world despite his age and raucous in his announcement, “got you Vergil! Play with me!” And despite how you clawed and bit at him out of fright and defense, he still apologized, still led you home to his mother to see to your injuries that were already healing like his own.

She was sweet, an angel of a woman despite that being the petname the boy, Dante, he said his name was, gave to you until you told him what yours was.

You allowed yourself to feel comfortable, feel safe, with the family of Sparda’s.

Foolish thing. All good things go up in flames.

Your time with the twins of Sparda and their mother that treated you like her own was temporary when you’d hoped this feeling of tranquility would last an eternity. Listening to Vergil read out his poems and clapping when Dante mastered a new move he’d been practicing. Growing closer to the younger twin in particular despite how much awe Vergil himself evoked in you, the kind of older sibling you wished you would’ve had.

All of it gone in one night, even with your keen senses you couldn’t find any sign of either twin after the estate burned to the ground. The scent of Vergils blood scattering on the wind come daybreak with no trace of him, Eva’s body left for you to bury with a heavy heart before you slept in the still standing armoire that housed Dante’s scent the strongest; not yet choked out by char and anguish.

Life continued after that, suffering familiar but more mentally than physically as you aged. You still chased after whispers of the twins, baseless rumors that lead to dead ends more often than not. Unaware that Dante was doing the same, searching for you, feeling like he’s chasing a ghost when he feels he sees you out of his peripheral only for it to be a woman that bears a resemblance to what he thinks you’d look like now as an adult.

You settled in Redgrave City, opting to hide your physically inhuman traits to fit in, no education and lack of any sort of identification or registration limits the work you can find. Operating in a seedy brothel of sorts, lucky enough to not be forced to entertain, working as a maid and ‘receptionist’ for lack of a better term. You got to express yourself comfortably at least, ears tail and claws on display for the ‘costume nights’ despite how much attention it earned from men that took you being unavailable as a personal slight and challenge in tandem.

You’ve grown jaded, not entirely so but the world has eroded at your tenderness, forced it to be buried beneath something with teeth bared at anything that drew to close without warrant. You don’t know that the men you’ve maimed when they try to follow you home or corner you in dark alleyways have whispered about a demon of a woman as if they were innocent before their assault. Tables turned on them feeling like an injustice instead of absolution you dole out yourself.