Chapter Text
How cruel fate was to him; at the rate he was going, he wouldn't be able to fulfill the oath he made to his brother. The claws of death caressed his skin every night he spent in that bed. Such a pathetic end was foretold for him.
"It's just a cold," the goddess spoke to him from across the room, his itinerant companion. She appeared and disappeared from his chamber without prior notice. Sometimes she just watched him; other times, she offered a few words before vanishing.
Vergil was bedridden. After all, humans are advised against walking in the rain, not because of the rain itself, but because of its subsequent effects if the person possesses a deficient immune system.
"The worst of my life," he answered her.
"It's the first one you've had in your entire existence, son of Sparda."
"Exactly."
He was no stranger to illness itself, neither as a torment for the body nor as a simple human difficulty. Normally he had found himself on the other side, taking care of his grandchildren when Nero was busy working and his wife couldn't watch the children either. He remembered little Carlo whimpering for him to stay in his room all night. So he did, even though he had to doze on the bedroom floor. He remembered Kyle asking him to tuck him into the mountain of blankets he slept under because of the cold. He did so. He remembered having to drag stubborn Julio, the eldest, to his room and force him to rest. Just like his father, the boy couldn't stay calm if someone else was unwell, even if he found himself in the same or worse condition.
He remembered it with a vividness that could be attributed to his feverish state. Those kids—Julio was in college when everything happened. He was studying philology abroad but had gone to visit his family that week. His brothers were in high school. They had been invited to attend a basketball game at their school the week it all started. The children were so excited…
The bedroom door opened, giving way to Sparda, who had been taking care of him all this time. What a curious situation he found himself in, being cared for by his father, without his father knowing it.
"How are you feeling?" Vergil took a sip of the soup offered to him.
Humanly, he felt terrible. "Much better," but he had endured worse things in life, so he had no reason to complain now.
Sparda nodded and gave him a polite smile.
His childhood memories were scarce and brief; those in which his father was present were even rarer. He always saw him as that powerful, stoic figure worthy of admiration. Always maintaining his composure, never letting himself be disturbed by anything.
In reality, his father was a liar. He engaged in idle chat with him, legs crossed, impeccable posture, and a perfect smile. All of it was a mere fabrication to appease the human in front of him.
Behind that small talk, Sparda analyzed him like the ultimate predator he was. Every reaction, every answer, evaluating whether this human was a threat to his family. Perhaps by human standards, he would pass merely as an eccentric person or someone with unorthodox manners; that was how they would justify the feeling of seeing a person who wasn't quite "right."
Trish had the good fortune of having lived longer on Earth, among humans, than in her native world; she was almost indistinguishable from a human. Vergil himself caused more chills in humans than the deviless did. It was thanks to her and his brother that he managed to pass for a "weirdo," at least.
A furious rumble of steps approached at high speed down the hallway. "Damned demon! What did I tell you about touching the kitchen?"
A tiny old woman burst into the room waving a wooden spoon in her hand. Matier, the elder protector of Vie de Marli. He didn't have the pleasure of knowing her or her successor, and at the time of the catastrophe, there was no way to contact the outside world.
"Are you trying to poison someone?! You empusa-brained!"
It was a shame not to have a camera or phone with him; Dante and the rest would love to see a tiny old woman give a beating to the giant Sparda.
"The boy wouldn't be so calm if it weren't edible, Matier," Sparda tried to excuse himself while fending off the woman's attacks.
The woman turned her gaze toward him: "Boy, be honest, how does it taste?"
"Horrible," Vergil answered dryly. He calmly took his last spoonful of soup and set his plate on the nightstand. "Too much salt. The chicken flavor is nonexistent."
The old woman looked back at Sparda in pride at having proven her point, until both realized that the young man had finished the entire plate.
"And you ate it?!" Matier asked, in a tone between disbelief and a scolding.
"It's not the worst thing I've eaten." That would be Trish's cooking.
Among the things demons couldn't replicate from humans was the sense of taste. The deviless could feel the texture and temperature of the food; she could perceive the aroma of the ingredients that comprised it, but she was unable to taste anything. She had admitted that her fondness for pizza was due to its aroma and texture, besides it being the first food she had upon starting her life in the human world.
In her eagerness to imitate her companions, she made an attempt to cook. Vergil, judging by the reactions of his brother and Lady, assumed it wouldn't be her first time trying. His brother played with his food while striking up a conversation to prevent attention from focusing on his untouched plate. Her companion was cleverer, he had to admit. Upon noticing that Vergil was about to finish his plate, she took the first distraction from the blonde to swap her plate with his. Vergil didn't argue; he continued with his new plate until he finished that one too.
When Trish asked what they thought of it, Vergil was the only one to tell her to her face that her food had been horrible. Dante and Lady wanted to kill him with their glares for his bluntness, and he was ready to fight them if they intended to make him apologize.
The deviless, on the other hand, let out a laugh: "At least I know you're not a liar like others."
She asked him what was wrong with her dish. Vergil told her every single one of her mistakes. The deviless took it calmly, taking note of his observations. It turned out she already knew her food wasn't exactly the most suitable for human palates and was just waiting to see how long Dante or Lady would endure before telling her the truth.
When the story got out, Nico called Trish's condition "taste-blindness."
Sparda, being a pure demon like her, suffered from the same flaw.
"I don't know how," Matier said to Sparda, "but I'm not going to let you poison that poor girl. I'll stay until those two spawns of yours can defend themselves from your cooking, if necessary."
"It won't be, Matier..." Sparda was interrupted by another round of furious scoldings from the old woman.
Although he personally didn't remember it, Dante had mentioned to him back then the endless number of private tutors and governesses that passed through their early school years. None of them lasted long; the one who endured the most was a woman who, according to what his brother told him, was the worst of all. Not even Vergil could stand her.
Naturally, a human couldn't keep up with their bottomless energy and learning capacity. And when children get bored, they always find a way to keep themselves entertained, even at the expense of others.
Sparda might be good with humans, but he was still a demon, territorial by nature; if he wanted to stay close to the family to ensure history didn't repeat itself, he had to find an excuse.
This was his chance. "I can help," he interrupted the other two, earning their attention and an intrigued look from both.
Vergil played the role of the poor wretch who had been saved and said, "I have no money or belongings to pay for your hospitality and goodwill, sir. I…" With a lump in his throat, he forced himself to let slip a small part of the reason he was there in the first place: "I lost everything, sir."
Although by nature demons couldn't feel compassion, empathy, or love, they were intelligent creatures, capable of learning. Sparda was the first of his species to feel love, something profoundly human. The look on the man in front of him, filled with compassion for the poor devil before him, almost made Vergil vomit. Those blue eyes were the spitting image of his brother's eyes.
"What do you mean, boy?"
Vergil clenched the fabric beneath his fists: "My home… was devastated by demons. I was the only survivor."
Somehow, that sentence was as false as it was true in his life, no matter when he said it.
"Demons?" Sparda asked again to make sure he had heard correctly.
"Mundus’ lackeys." The temperature in the room plummeted when he pronounced that damned name.
"How do you know that name, kid?" the old woman asked in an accusing tone.
"Who doesn't know the legend of Sparda?"
"And you think it's real?" Matier insisted, as if mocking him.
It was fair. If he was going to work in that house, knowing about the existence of demons and Sparda himself, they had to ensure he wasn't some lunatic like Arkham or the zealots of Fortuna, for the children's safety. Also, someone who thought all demons were evil could be counterproductive if the children showed their superhuman qualities.
"I once saw a devil cry. If that is possible, nothing stops one from being capable of love."
The legendary knight nodded, thoughtful at his statement. "Have you cared for children before?"
"I had a son."
The heavy silence returned. "I'm sorry to hear that."
To break the discomfort left behind, Matier approached Vergil to interrogate him. Yes, he knew how to cook, of course he did. After seeing his brother survive on a diet of pizza, he took charge of the meals. As for doing household chores, cleaning any place was child's play compared to the shop.
"Those little ones, right now you see them sweet and adorable, but I assure you that when they grow up they'll be two absolute terrors." Matier was testing his mettle.
"I am aware of that." My, was he ever; which was why he was more than ready to deal with them. He wouldn't allow these new versions of his brother and himself to make their mistakes again.
He wouldn't let bitterness cloud the judgment of his younger self. He and his brother were each other's half, just like their amulets.
From the second floor, the crying of one of the babies could be heard. Matier excused herself to go help Eva, who had recently given birth. Sparda seemed to be pondering his decision. Whether he let him stay or not, Vergil would find a way to get close. If he couldn't stay to prevent their departure, then he would wait. As Matier rightly said, dealing with them as children was not going to be an easy task. That way, he could change the destiny of all three. He would save them.
Sparda took the empty bowl and headed for the door. "The weapons are on the dresser. I took the liberty of doing a bit of maintenance on them."
"Thank you."
"They impressed me, young Redgrave." Sparda paused in the doorway and turned back to look at him. "Without a doubt, the artisan behind your handguns was nothing short of a virtuoso."
Vergil looked at him puzzled. "You're mistaken. They were… One of them belonged to my brother."
"Oh. So Tony Redgrave is your brother." Vergil made a monumental effort not to narrow his eyes. He reviewed what he had said in an attempt to find anything that might have sparked Sparda's suspicion about him. "He had good taste."
Debatable, but he was never a gun enthusiast to dispute it, although the boys were always interested in those twin pistols. Dante even joked about inheriting them to the child.
Sparda left the room with a soft click of the door. The crying of the babies quieted upstairs; although muffled, the lullaby Eva sang to them could be heard through the wooden floor. Vergil closed his eyes; his body relaxed out of pure instinct thanks to the woman's sweet voice.
Matier stayed for the first few months of the children's lives.
In addition to helping Eva, she took charge of teaching Vergil everything he would need to care for the pair of little devils. It hadn't been by Sparda's decision, but through Eva's intervention—and a small taste of the broth her dear husband made—that he remained in the house.
He could feel Sparda's presence watching him at every moment, in every corner of the house. It was like returning to the time when Nero was terrified of leaving him alone with his children. He found his former father's overprotective attitude as annoying as it was endearing.
Old Matier was a good teacher, though her instructions had been limited to what pertained to the care of a human infant, completely omitting everything related to their other nature. Naturally, a person wouldn't expect those two pink little bundles to be anything more than normal babies.
Although there were occasions when he found himself wondering if he was the only one who had traveled back in time. Dante, even at such a tender and seemingly innocent stage, was as annoying as ever.
Every time it was his turn to change his diaper, the brat took the opportunity to pee right as he opened the diaper. Matier told them, since Eva accompanied him at times, that it was normal. It would be if he didn't do it exclusively when it was him. He would even swear he saw him smile while doing it. At least with that, it became a matter of preparing himself before opening the diaper. The most irritating part was when he let out a mischievous giggle because he had leaked through his diaper, meaning both of them now had to change clothes.
"Lucky you, that you are still adorable," he told the infant while changing him. His brother merely smiled at him.
Although he might want to boast that his infant version was better behaved than his brother, it would be a blatant lie. Little Vergil was just as troublesome as his brother, just in different areas.
He wept incessantly if he felt his diaper was even slightly dirty and refused to relieve himself unless they changed his diaper, even if he had only peed and the diaper could still hold it. He demanded to be fed with the precision of a clock and would cry with all the force his tiny lungs allowed until they fed him, because to make matters worse, he wouldn't eat if he didn't have his brother nearby.
Eva and Sparda found it adorable; Matier told them to wait for the day when they couldn't look at each other's faces without fighting. Oh, sweet irony! For Vergil, while he completely agreed with the old woman's words, he knew well why the baby did it.
It wasn't an older brother worrying about the younger one. It was him stopping his greedy brother from eating twice and leaving him with nothing.
His mother was beginning to notice the subtle peculiarities that differentiated the twins, starting with Dante's insatiable appetite and his surprising ability to fall asleep immediately after eating—a quality he would retain well into his adulthood.
As for Vergil, he was the twin of extremes: he was either no trouble at all, or he cried like a banshee. He was, even for his short life, the more observant of the two twins and the most expressive about his needs.
Vergil was the first to notice Sparda's presence, even if he was in the nursery on the second floor and their father had barely entered the house. The baby would turn toward where he felt his father's power and do everything possible to reach him.
In the afternoons, while Sparda was busy in his study and Eva took a nap, leaving him alone to care for the two little devils, he noticed how the child's gaze turned to the phantom figure of the goddess when she accompanied him. Vergil was the first twin to notice her, but it was the intrepid Dante who approached and tried to touch her with his chubby little hands.
"You don't seem surprised," Vergil commented, cradling the small version of himself on his lap.
"At this tender age, even humans see the truth of the world around them." Little Dante grasped part of the goddess's mane between his tiny fingers. "They just… aren't able to comprehend it."
The deity withdrew her hand from his brother with a soft "Back, little fighter," by way of reprimand. As if his brother cared, no matter the age.
That wasn't the only thing little Vergil noticed. Right there in the nursery, his eyes would drift to one of the corners of the room. His brow would furrow deeply whenever he approached that spot; his small hands clung to whoever was carrying him, but his gaze did not falter.
It was unusual; there was no colorful decoration or toy that could attract the child's attention; nevertheless, he wasn't going to distrust his instincts.
He placed the babies in the crib and verified that the door was open and that there were no toys obstructing the path. Then he approached; hidden between the wallpaper and the ceiling, protection sigils were carved into the wooden trim. He didn't need extensive knowledge to notice how a couple of them looked more worn down than the rest. It could be due to time itself or some interference.
His brother had told him how several of the first protection sigils he used were taken directly from the house and modified by him later on. There was a blind spot in the estate's defenses, the very one used by the demons that attacked the mansion years later. Dante had noticed it.
Even a drop of water can pierce the hardest skull given enough time.
That night Vergil couldn't sleep, thinking about how to convey his concerns to Sparda. If he was too vague, the warning ran the risk of falling on deaf ears. If he were too precise, Sparda would suspect him. It was not common knowledge among humans, and those who possessed such knowledge were not known for their good relations with demons.
How he wished he could go himself and fix the sigil, but there wasn't a single trace of his former power in him. There is no better lie than one built on the truth; the best disguise at his disposal was his fragile humanity, the mask of a man who had lost everything.
He wandered through the dark hallways of the house. It was so strange to see it that way, in its full prime, under the bright moonlight. The shattered, battered image of his home after the fire was burned into his pupils, playing tricks on his perception.
The present, past, and future converged in his head. Soot stains and moisture that had no reason to exist yet; a picture once destroyed had not even been painted yet. How strange it was to have memories of things that were only just about to happen.
He went up the stairs, intending to go to what had been his childhood room. What a surprise it was to run into the ethereal body of a Sin Scissors hovering above the children's cribs. His first instinct was to reach for the hilt of his sword. It was no longer there, and the Yamato of this time was still under Sparda's care.
Vergil didn't think twice; he grabbed the first thing at hand and threw it at the intruder who had somehow managed to sneak in. The demon, enraged, lunged at him.
He might not have the power that once would have allowed him to slay the vermin in the blink of an eye, but he knew that house like the back of his hand.
Vergil darted through the hallways with the agility of a cat, while the demon stumbled along. He slid down the staircase bannister, stopping at the exact spot to avoid knocking over his mother's beloved vase—the one she would scold them over in the future. The demon crashed straight into it.
Vergil mocked the demon with a disapproving gesture before running toward his room.
He burst into the room straight to the dresser where he kept the pistols stored. He loaded the cylinder of Blue Rose and in the same motion fired directly at the demon's head. Two bullets straight to its head.
If the noise of the chase hadn't alerted the occupants inside the house, that double gunshot certainly must have. However, Vergil wasn't going to wait to be rescued. In that narrow, suffocating room, he was going to make sure he finished off that filth.
The edge of the scissors cut his arm as he tried to gain ground; Vergil lost his focus due to the sharp pain, stumbled, and fell backward. The demon's mask was cracked. Both Blue Rose and Ebony ran out of ammunition before he could deliver the finishing blow.
The Sin Scissors hovered over him, laughing at his incompetence. So weak he couldn't even defend himself.
"Die," a guttural voice came from behind him.
The demon disintegrated into dust under the blade of Yamato. He knew what had happened; he had executed that move so many times, but to his human eyes, it looked like magic. Sparda, outside of his human guise, sheathed the sword once more.
Vergil's heart beat at a thousand miles an hour. "The seal…" He spoke between gasps. "The seal in the nursery is defective."
Sparda didn't answer; he approached him, emitting a warning growl. He understood the point: he wanted to frighten him; in his eyes, he had threatened the safety of his offspring. Regrettably, he wasn't his brother to crumble over so little.
Vergil faced Sparda as he had faced death itself: "See for yourself, if you doubt my words."
Sparda left him, going straight to the children's nursery. There, old Matier kept another piece of filth at bay that had managed to cross over, while Eva held the children with her. The twins cried in distress, not understanding what was happening but sensing the presence of an enemy.
Watching the mastery with which Sparda finished off that demon was a delight for the former wielder of Yamato, almost as much as the first time he saw his son use it.
Sparda rushed to his family. The infants' sobs were drowned out beneath the purring their father emitted. There they were, wrapped in the embrace of their parents, loved and protected, just as it was meant to be.
The old woman pointed at the worn sigil. Its damage didn't come from the inside; it had been actively forced from the outside, gradually eroding its effectiveness.
The blind spot his brother had noticed ran from his room to the boundaries of the property. Perhaps that attack wasn't something orchestrated overnight. Years of working to break down Sparda's defenses, and without the Dark Knight to protect them, that bloody end was inevitable.
"Boy," Sparda's deep voice called to him, "I will see you in my office."
A chill ran down his spine. He wasn't Dante to be frightened by his father's demonic nature, but being summoned to their father's office had never meant anything good.
He forced himself to remain impassive, nodding politely. If the demon noticed his legs wavering as he turned around, he couldn't prove it, nor was it a question that would haunt him.
Forty-five minutes passed before Sparda arrived at the office. Enough time to forge a consistent story, one might think. Vergil thought so too, until he found himself absorbed by the memories of that room. How many times had he not been there, lying on the floor reading a book while his father did "grown-up things"? How many times had he not rummaged through his father's mahogany bookshelves, looking for a book "for grown-ups," because he believed the books they had were beneath him.
His father's scent was embedded in every inch of that place. He had forgotten it completely. Vergil had become so immersed in his memories that he completely forgot to construct a plausible story to tell Sparda.
Now he had him right in front of him, flanked by the old woman, and he was regretting his choices.
Sparda hadn't uttered a word since he walked in. He went straight to his desk, sitting behind it in his leather chair. His inhuman blue eyes pierced right through him. Vergil stood firm; he would hold his ground. Innumerable psychological battles he had fought; this would not be the one he lost.
"Oh, please!" Old Matier snapped her fingers in front of them. "Just ask him."
Sparda blinked first.
Good. Vergil remained undefeated. Because no matter how much his brother claimed otherwise, the times Nero intervened did count. And Dante lost.
An absurd record to keep track of, now that…
"How did you notice?" Sparda went straight to the point.
"The child noticed."
"Which one?"
"Vergil, sir."
"Can you tell them apart?"
"Yes, sir."
Sparda's expression soured. His father, as much as he tried, was unable to recognize the twins. He couldn't now and would only start pretending to once Eva began differentiating them by colors.
"You…" Sparda narrowed his eyes, "did not react when you saw me."
Was this, perhaps, a trap? If he said no, the lie would be obvious, causing Sparda to doubt all his answers. If he told the truth, which truth?
"No, sir."
"Why?"
No one in the world was a stranger to lies. In the Underworld, a bad lie would cost you your head at the very least. Half-truths kept you safe for a while.
"I lived, along with my family, in Fortuna for a time, sir."
The truth, ironically, even in hell, was the best option. But it was also precious and had to be used with care and moderation.
"Why did you move?"
"My brother was considered persona non grata by the Order due to his… line of work."
Dante had indeed been persona non grata in Fortuna until Trish and Nero vouched for him.
Sparda inquired about said line of work.
"He hunted demons unofficially and handled the jobs the Order didn't want to get involved in."
Part of the reason for the conflicts between Devil May Cry in Fortuna and the Order was a clash of interests. Dante wasn't the one responsible for this. Nor did he have much to do with Fortuna's affairs; that was Nero.
Nero was the one who carried out the Order's dirty work, even before having the mobile branch.
Sparda's judgment weighed heavily upon him like a yoke; one wrong move and his plan would be ruined. The devil could be compassionate toward humans, but between them and his family, his instincts forcefully dictated the winner.
"Hey, boy," Matier's playful voice broke the tension in the room. "Do you know how to use magic?"
"I'm afraid not."
Matier raised her eyebrows: "Would you like to learn?"
His throat nearly choked him from the force of the lump that formed in it. An illusion. A fundamentally different question from a young woman who had nothing to do with the old woman, yet delivered with the exact same tone and phrasing. Vergil summoned all his strength to keep his voice from breaking.
"If it is possible." The same thing he answered on that occasion when Nico asked him if he wanted to learn how to drive.
The vivid memory of the squabble that followed his answer overlapped with the argument between Matier and Sparda. How strange it was. Dante always pointed out the ways Nero resembled him. It pained Vergil to admit the similarities Nero shared with Dante. Neither imagined how much the boy resembled his grandfather. The same love for humanity, the same fervor with which they watched over their own, forged from a different source.
He had to bow his head, or the tears stinging his eyes would escape.