Chapter Text
For the first time, the idea of staying here occurs to him. Vergil isn’t even sure where the thought comes from. He sits beneath a pine tree near the cottage, feeling its bark against his back and observing the woods along the horizon.
He, Vergil, Son of Sparda, heir to his power? He, the Alpha and the Omega, the Darkslayer, living out a human existence? Playing house, raising a child? It’s certainly not the life he’d ever imagined for himself.
A gang of feral cats fight and play with one another. They seem to like this existence as much as Camilla does: a cottage in the woods, away from the hustle of the city. They always hiss at him as they pass. Animals have never liked him. They’ve always sensed his demonic nature in a way that humans cannot.
Camilla comes into view with a clay bowl of old food on her hip. She sets some scraps out for them, observing him as she walks by. “It’s usually a bad sign when animals don’t trust someone,” she says.
Oh? Now you make idle banter with me? Vergil does not say because it would sound childish. “You did not strike me as an animal lover,” he says instead.
Camilla doesn’t look at him, watching the cats circling closer. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Clearly, she has no such qualms about the things she says.
Vergil only sighs. Stay here? And have this as his existence? Who needs power when he can have the daily ire of a woman half his size?
(Had Sparda ever considered such things? Had it been easy to leave them behind?)
“I can’t eat this food. They may as well have it,” Camilla says. “And… I don’t mind cats.” A peace offering.
Her rage is such a wonder: the way it seems to come and go like waves upon a shore. He will never understand it.
“What’s about you?”
Vergil hums. Both of them seem to be staring at the cats instead of one another. After fighting, a pair are grooming one another in apology.
“You also don’t… strike me as an animal lover. Did I use that right?” she says, the second part much softer.
Ah. She expresses herself so well that he forgets it is her second language at times. Camilla sits beneath a pine tree next to him.
“No,” he agrees. “Yes, you used it right, but no, I can’t say I’ve ever had much time for animals.”
Usually, he detests small talk. It’s such an inane waste of time: discussing things such as the weather instead of simply getting to the point. It’s yet another useless human invention he cannot begin to understand. But, with her? He strangely doesn’t seem to mind. There’s a long stretch of silence.
“There’s not a lot you do have time for, is there?” she says bitterly.
Vergil sighs.
“Did you never have a pet? As a child,” she asks after a while.
“No,” he answered. Dante had begged their mother for one, but she’d argued that her two boys were more than enough work. “Did you?”
“For a bit. I had a cat. Its name was Gattino.”
“What does that mean?” he finds himself asking.
“Ah,” she smiles. “Uh… male baby cat.”
“Kitten,” Vergil says. “Very creative.”
“Shut up,” Camilla laughs. “What’s a female baby cat?”
“Also kitten. It’s the same for both.”
“Ah. I forget. English doesn’t have that as much. “The silence isn’t as strained this time. The breeze tangles in her hair, blowing her scent towards him. Camilla has always had an indescribable fresh scent. Light and airy. Refreshing. “You’re hard to understand, you know. Sometimes.”
“Oh?” Vergil says, intrigued that she finds him as thoroughly confusing as he finds her.
“The words you use. You speak like… like a book. Like a dictionary. It used to irritate me.”
Oh. Yes. He supposes it would be difficult for her to understand his speech at times, the same way he can barely understand any of her Italian.
“Not anymore?” he says, raising a brow. At her shaking her head, he adds: “No? Found other things about me to annoy you, then?”
She laughs again. And he’d forgotten what a lovely sound it was. This, he recalls. This was why he had been tempted to stay.
“Do you have any family?” Camilla asks.
“Why?” Vergil says. Why does she need to know so much about him?
“Because I barely know you, even though we have a child together. Because you owe me for leaving. Because I saved your life. Pick one.” Vergil bristles, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “You mentioned your mother. What about a brother? A sister? A father?”
“Oh, you’re more than familiar with my father,” he smiles to himself.
“Do you enjoy being vague, or is it more of a habit for you at this point?” Camilla narrows her eyes at him angrily, crossing her arms.
“Pick one. Which one is your question?” Vergil answers her. There’s the scent of rot in the air. The breeze carries the smell of over-ripe berries drying in the sun. The stifling heat: that is something he’s not missed.
“Who is your father? What did you mean?” she asks, frowning. Her dark brows arch in concern or confusion. He finds himself staring at her lips, their fullness, the natural redness they seem to undertake. He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away.
“You recall that I am not human, correct?” he asks.
The cats startle a flock of birds, who take off with loud cries. Camilla startles at the sudden sound.
“Yes,” she says.
“What do you know about Sparda?”
“I feel like I’m back in the Order. What is this, a quiz?” she looks at him, then, seeing his expression, continues: “Fine. He ruled over hell. He realised demons were cruel, eccetera, eccetera. “
“That’s it?” Vergil asks. “There’s much the Order doesn’t know.”
“If you asked someone more faithful, I’m sure they could tell you more. But I haven’t been a believer for a long time,” she says. She shifts, stretching her arms out and crossing her legs. Camilla lounges like this, gazing at the canopy of pine needles.
He’s not sure why he tells her, but he finds the words forming on his lips. “I am his son.”
“Whose?” Camilla asks, frowning at the sky in confusion.
“Sparda’s.”
She stares at him like he’s crazy, her eyes searching his like she’s looking for any hint that he’s joking. She’s silent for a long while, biting her lip as though thinking.
“Oh. He was real, then?”
“Indeed.”
“Hmmm. I suppose I thought you looked a bit like him when you were in that form. When you were rescuing me.”
“That’s it? No need to repent for being a heathen? No returning to the church as a woeful sinner?” Vergil teases.
She’s returned to gazing at the sky, lolling her head back. Her hair hangs with its beautiful dark curls touching the grass beneath them. “If god is real, if he’s been here all this time, then it’s not me who needs to beg for forgiveness,” she says.
The profound weight of that statement hangs in the air. The sun starts its slow descent along the horizon. Crickets chirp to herald the beginning of the evening.
“If…” the words are halting on his tongue. Vergil, a lover of words, and a man who never speaks without purpose, cannot say this happens often. “If you have so much ire for me, and had even more so back then… why did you,” his throat dries as he looks for the word…” why did you aid me, back on the Temen-ni-Gru? Why tend to my wounds?”
Camilla looks at him like he’s crazy, or stupid, or both. “Because I love you, idiota," she says, as though it's that simple.