Chapter Text
Nero, for all his previous hesitance, clung to Vergil almost instantaneously. The boy’s shoulder was brushing against Vergil’s knee as they exited the forest, inches away from colliding with it. For reasons unbeknownst to him, Nero grappled to Vergil like a lifeline— like Vergil would somehow protect him if only the boy stayed close. The man submerged another heaved sigh upon feeling the tell-tale cloth from Nero’s shirt rub against his leather pants once again. It was irritating at best, but at least the child was quiet; Vergil could commend him for that. Although a question presented itself to him: why was Nero so clingy? Logically, Vergil could assume it was because of their shared blood, but he knew well enough that the ties between blood were flimsy and weak– not nearly strong enough to elicit this strong of a reaction.
Was the boy that trusting? Surely not, considering Nero’s childhood had been nothing but manipulation and abuse. Yet there was an aspect Vergil was forgetting-- one that made itself clear to him as he watched Nero’s eyes widen and his lips split into an awed grin at a passing butterfly. Nero was human, far more human than he and Dante ever were. And even his brother– sharing that same amount of demonic blood– still acted in ways guided solely by his human heart more than Vergil ever did. It was a defining factor that differentiated the two– now three– of them. The weakness that echoed in Nero’s need to be closer to Vergil stemmed from his nature, the useless blood that watered down his heritage, and that Nero chose to stick to; yes, Nero was undoubtedly Dante’s son. With all the feeble aspects of being so included.
Why couldn’t they understand the strength behind the demonic? The protection bestowed upon those who beheld it. Why had Nero and Dante chosen such an obviously fragile path? Infernal power entangled their being— their true identity— so why were the pair of them so desperate to forsake it? Such questions drilled a hole in Vergil’s mind, a headache forming from the onslaught. Nero was young, Vergil reminded himself. Where Dante led too far astray to have his motives changed now, Vergil could still instill some values in Nero. The kinds of things a grandson of Sparda deserved to know— ones that would harbor the boy’s true strength, like what had changed Vergil all those years ago.
He shook those thoughts away— planning for later, he supposed— as the two made it out of the woods without incident. He peered over at the pocket village that lay beyond, one Vergil had strategically chosen. It was small, and while that meant more people would notice him, it also meant that there were no authorities or– Sparda forbid– knights of the Order to get in his way. Even so, Vergil’s heightened senses took notice of how sharply Nero’s breathing had increased. He began to tremble, fiddling with his shirt once more, and when Vergil made to step in the direction of the town, Nero’s arm darted out.
And his hand wrapped around Vergil’s own.
Vergil stood frozen for a moment, the leg halfway into taking a step stilling in midair. How long had it been since someone had-
No. Vergil waved away the thought, yanking his hand back so harshly Nero tripped over himself. This boy is a hindrance , Vergil thought, a low growl brewing in his throat. One that deflated when he saw the state of the child. Nero’s anxiety had escalated tenfold, and he stood curled into himself a ways away from Vergil as if hiding. His hands cupped his ears, his eyes squeezed shut, and he shook his head ferociously as if trying to make something go away.
Perhaps a memory had seeped back in at Vergil’s act, one Nero had not wanted to remember and was trying valiantly to shake away. Vergil’s eyes cast down to his hand, at the phantom pain that lay there from thousands of nights past, and turned his attention back to the petrified child.
“Nero,” he called, and the boy visibly flinched. Vergil tried again, softer this time.
“The Order cannot find you here.” He surmised that was what had Nero all worked up, and was proven right when the child relaxed slightly. Vergil continued walking. “Never do this again. You said you wanted to become strong? Then your first lesson is this: you cannot rely on anyone. You must learn to protect yourself on your own.”
Nero quickened his pace, nodding his head at Vergil’s words. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Vergil glanced at him but said nothing.
He led the boy to the apartment he’d rented out, stopping only briefly to request a second bed added to his rooms. The attendant gave him a questionable look, but upon seeing Nero shyly clinging to Vergil’s leg, she smiled and said, “your son is very sweet.”
Nephew, Vergil almost corrected but stopped himself on the guise that having to explain why he was in custody of his nephew would be more trouble than it was worth. Nero, however, answered for him with a cheeky grin and a quiet, “thank you!”
Perhaps they could get away with pretending to be a tourist family for a while.
-
“Mister,” Nero called eventually, swinging his legs back and forth atop his bed and snacking on a bowl of sliced apples Vergil had provided him with.
“Hm,” Vergil replied, not looking up from his— stolen— book. His apartment was sparse; no decorations donned the walls aside from what was there initially, and the only things furnishing the three rooms Vergil had rented was a wide array of novels. Most detailed Sparda or the Underworld— books he’d read his first time in Fortuna but poured over a second time in case he’d somehow missed something— but a fair few were solely for pleasure reading, not that he’d ever admit to it. Nero, surprisingly, did not comment on Vergil’s blank walls. Vergil reminded himself of Nero’s past— mostly spent locked in the labs underneath Fortuna Castle— and the surprise faded.
“How does your sword work?” Asked Nero.
Vergil set down the book. His hands sought out the Yamato, safe in her saya, his fingers fiddling with her hilt. “Her name is Yamato.” He said after an elongated silence.
“Her?”
Well, at least the boy had more wit than his father. Vergil worked his jaw, trying to decipher how best to describe this, and settled on motioning Nero over. With the boy in front of him, Vergil unlaced Yamato from his side and held her horizontally. He presented her to Nero.
“Yamato is a devil arm— a weapon with the spirit of a demon inside it. You’ve no doubt encountered ones before; the Order of the Sword is infamous for its massive collection.” Nero jerked a little at that, and Vergil recalled the child’s previous words of having been abused by such weapons.
“This was my father’s sword,” Vergil debated telling Nero about Sparda— given the island’s estranged, religious infatuation with him— and settled on no. For now. “It is imbued with his power.”
“Your father was a demon?”
Vergil nodded. He unsheathed the Yamato, letting the boy gape at the brilliant blade. “Do you hear her?” He pondered aloud.
Nero, mouth wide, tilted his head. “Yeah. She’s singing to me.”
Vergil’s lip twitched; indeed, the sword was strangely active around Nero. It must have been the boy’s relation to Sparda. “Hm. That would be her concentration of demonic power. High ranking devil arms tend to have a mind of their own.”
Nero’s eyes lit up at that, and Vergil got the sneaking suspicion he had just messed up. “Oh, well, then hello, Ms. Yamato!” Nero exclaimed, bouncing on his heels. Vergil wrinkled his nose.
“Not like that. No matter how mighty she may be, Yamato is merely a weapon without consciousness.”
Nero tilted his head, a look that meant he had understood zero of what Vergil had just said, and Vergil exhaled through his nose.
“Enough of this.” He returned Yamato to her sheath. “I will demonstrate her abilities another time. For now, you are to rest.”
Nero’s face fell, and he darted over to his forgotten snack. “But my apples—!”
“Will be there for you in the morning. Never miss an opportunity to rest, child. You do not know when you will get to again.”
Nero didn’t look convinced. His fingers tightened around the bowl as if scared it might disappear forever should he release it, and Vergil put two and two together. Either Vergil sent the boy to bed without finishing his apples, establishing his position over Nero, and finally giving himself some much-needed time to figure out what on earth he was going to do. Or he let Nero eat his snack and built a bond strong enough with him that Dante would have no choice but to cower as he and his son— now Vergil’s apprentice— rose above him. An act of fitting revenge, Vergil supposed, using Dante’s own weak familial ties against him. Although, the insufferable amount of time he’d have to spend connecting to a child to achieve such a goal was not preferable. For the first time in a long time, Vergil felt unsure. And yet, for some reason, in this malnourished, traumatized boy’s presence, Vergil had a hard time saying no.
“Fine,” he relinquished. “You may finish what you’ve started. But you are to go straight to bed afterwards, no exceptions.”
“Thank you, mister!” Nero cheered. With that, he began to run in circles around Vergil, chanting “apples” over and over again under his breath. Vergil rubbed his temples. Perhaps this was the wrong decision.
-
The boy fell asleep easily. Despite his protests, it seemed Nero truly was exhausted. Children . Vergil groaned, settling back into the apartment’s couch. His eyes glazed over the numerous texts he had laid out on the coffee table in front of him. He’d seen the artifacts and scripts countless times before; there was nothing new for him here. No purpose, no drive. Except for that child, resting soundlessly in his bedroom, seeking the unattainable from Vergil.
Vergil had long since sworn to never care for any living thing again. For one, it was an utterly human trait. And for two, it only ever ended in disaster. Vergil could not protect anything— not even himself. Yet Nero expected that of him— sought that from the man covered in ichor and burning with hellish energy. The boy was a conundrum in and of himself, a being whose wants and motivations Vergil couldn’t quite nail down. Such was the chaotic nature of children, he supposed. But it posed a problem: was taking in Nero a good idea? It would be a jab to Dante’s heart, surely, but the detrimental effects Vergil’s siring of an apprentice could have was concerning. After all, he was no parent. Even a mentorship sounded unheard of for a man like him.
Vergil leaned back, folding his hands on his lap and staring at the ceiling as if the answers lay there. There were two options: either he raised and trained the boy or Vergil deposited Nero at Dante’s doorstep and left without a word. Two options, or so he thought.
Dante’s shop in Red Grave was a whole ocean away from Fortuna— an ocean that Vergil and Nero couldn’t easily cross without someone realizing they had no identifications or worse. Vergil could devise a plan to get to Red Grave without going through governmental assessment, of course, but the journey would take time. Time Vergil could spend influencing Nero, training him in all the ways Dante could never, before leaving the boy to his father. It was simple-- straightforward. Vergil had no use for Nero, but he was a descendant of Sparda nonetheless. Whatever meager ideals Vergil could instill would have to do. Perhaps he could convince the boy to join him later— or perhaps not. It was of no consequence, Vergil told himself.
But still, having a plan soothed his anxious nerves. And having something to do for once made it all the better. Yes, Vergil would return Nero to his father, through whatever means necessary. After all, he’d promised the people of Fortuna something long ago…
They would not forget this devil’s power.