Chapter Text
Dante knew he shouldn’t have done that.
Verge and the kid were having a not-so-pleasant conversation in Nero’s living room, and he figured they needed some time alone to sort things out. Fight it out. Let the kid scream. Let Verge try to explain everything about his life. Dante was well aware that he should be there, too –and no, he was not delaying the inevitable. There would be a time and a place for the three of them to sit down, talk it out, and have a heart-to-heart, but today was not going to be that day.
He walked aimlessly through the forest, breathing in the earthy scents of wet soil and tall grass. He knew Nero had been working hard to keep the island safe, but he expected to see, at least, a couple of lesser demons prowling around, eating hares, and clawing a couple of trees, roused by his presence alone. It was all too still and quiet. He couldn’t hear anything. Not the birds, nor the gust of wind that gently rustled the leaves and vaguely carried the scent of the sea.
Something was going to happen while he was all alone in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t it?
He could hear something appearing behind him, whooshing and humming a low tune that resonated on his ears and felt like it was faintly rattling in his skull.
...Was that a portal?
It didn’t look like a Hellgate or Yamato’s doing. Those were usually cold, and felt like small needles were prickling his skin when he got closer to them. A purple haze always shifted inside them, not quite threatening, not quite dark. But this one? It resembled a black hole with yellow flames twisting towards its void core. He could feel the warmth emanating from it, not quite unpleasant, but not exactly something that gave him much comfort.
He took a couple of tentative steps towards it, trying to see if there was anything looming in the shadows. The portal began to suck in a couple of small sticks, rocks and dried leaves by his feet, and any sane person would've taken that a warning to step away and get the hell out of there.
Dante walked even closer to the portal, frowning as he did so. The warm air engulfed him whole, and the darkness around him blinded him and made his body tense until he was violently thrown on the ground. The side of his face smacked the soil with a thump, and he felt something on his cheek crack with the pressure. He stood up with a grunt, bringing a gloved hand to his chest where he could feel a couple of broken ribs unpleasantly twisting in place as he stared at the vast clearing that now surrounded him.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that he was no longer in Fortuna. The cloudy skies of the island were suddenly clear, and the air lacked its distinct smell of the sea. The trees weren't as dense and dull over here, their tops almost impossibly full and vibrant. A couple of arrows and rusty armors were scatted around him, no doubt as remnants of a fight that, judging by the guts dragged across the land, hadn't ended that well for both parties involved. The silver-colored pieces of armor lacked any sort of demonic essence, smelling like nothing but the sweet notes of blood and the tangy scent of human sweat.
Above it all and beyond the green, he could see a city, one that looked far more medieval than the posh, Renaissance-style architecture he was used to observing in Fortuna. White smoke kept steadily flowing into the sky from a couple of chimneys, and he could barely catch a glimpse of the paved roads that, surprisingly, were not being used by any sort of four-wheeled vehicle. He could see horses moving through the throng of people, their silky hair blowing in the wind behind them as their rider's shinny armor glistened under the sun. He could see long dresses and wide skirts, loose pants, knights, and flags of red and black. It looked like something straight out of those fantasy movies Nero made him watch not so long ago -it'd been hard to pretend he was awake for the whole thing, but the kid looked happy as long as Dante opened his eyes and nodded every once in a while.
Maybe he’d gone back in time. Or maybe he'd, somehow, encountered one of those ‘glitches’ that Nico liked to talk about when she had a little too much to drink- was this was she was refering to? Or was it something else entirely that he couldn't remember? It ultimately didn’t matter; he needed answers, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting them by standing still in the middle of nowhere.
If he had any sort of luck still left, he would be back before Nero and Verge even noticed he was gone.
Luck wasn’t on Dante’s side, and he couldn’t remember the last time it ever was.
He was on his fourth pint of ale that night, knowing fully well that no amount of alcohol could make him feel anything more than a gentle buzz and a small ache on the back of his head. A couple of months had passed since he’d arrived with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a couple of cumpled-up dollars on his pockets –bills that, by the way, were absolutely worthless. He had no coin, no roof over his head, and not a damn clue about what to do, only a demonic sword on his back that caught the eye of more than one old man who begged him to kill the monsters that were eating their cows and chickens.
He'd grown tired of saying he was a Devil Hunter; the townsfolk didn't seem to grasp the concept of such a thing, forcing him to change the script. Monster Slayer seemed like a better title, but that somehow prompted people to call him a witcher. He adopted the title, always pretending that he knew what he was talking about.
Where was he from? Kaer Morhen, of course –he heard that place mentioned once or twice, and he’d gotten nothing more than acknowledging nods and a couple of ‘ahs’ for it.
His medallion? Lost in battle, but he could manage just fine without it.
His strange sword? It was a relic. Very rare. Very powerful. witcher gear. They wouldn’t get it. The appearance of Devil Sword Dante was a little too much for them folks, and he'd struggled to get it to morph into something that would be easier to strap on his back.
His second sword? At the Blacksmith, he would pick it up later –he actually had to buy one, lest his little theatrics could burn in flames.
His eyes? Shit. His eyes. It took him a couple of days to figure out that witchers had amber, cat-like eyes, and he, for once, was thankful that he didn’t sleep through Trish’s explanation of how to use a small bit of demonic power to make a realistic disguise.
He heard that Mages and Sorceresses could open portals, but every single one he’d encountered had turned down his offer, and his chances of getting out of there seemed slimmer by the day. He’d tried triggering in the middle of the forest, away from civilization, hoping that would create a sort of distress signal to let Verge know that he was out there, but it all proved to be useless, and even counterproductive: he saw a contract a couple of days after that incident where a wealthy man sought a witcher to hunt down the strange horned and winged creature that had appeared in the forest. Turns out he'd triggered a little too close to the secret spot that old fart used to shag his mistress, and he was, understandably, upset about it spooking her – Dante took the paper down as soon as he saw it and burned it to a crisp.
He could picture Nero pacing around, trying to find him. Kid would be pissed at first, then worried, and then both pissed and worried that he’d left just like that. Verge would be dismissive, then furious, and then worried that he’d disappeared out of thin air, but Dante was trying. He’d been trying for days, weeks, months to go back to them, hoping to one day get more information about that powerful Sorceresses who could, maybe, solve all his problems –or give him even more problems. It was hard to tell.
“Vergil!” A gruff voice spoke, drowning away the drunken chatter around him and the joyful screams coming from the couple who was playing Gwent at the adjacent table. “Fancy seeing you here without that brat of yours.”
Dante looked up, slowly lowering the mug full of amber liquid that was dangerously close to his lips. He locked eyes with the chubby man clad in noble wear, noticing that his beady eyes immediately widened at the sight of the hunter’s scruffy beard.
“My apologies, I mistook you for someone else.” The man said it far too quickly, embarrassment coloring his features as he took a small bow in front of him before he turned to walk away. Dante was quick on his feet, minding very little about the fact that his legs managed to drag the heavy wooden bench he was sitting at with a loud screech. He placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, preventing him from walking any further as the tavern's occupants turned to stare at them.
“Tell me more about Vergil.”
Dante sipped his fifth ale that night, listening carefully to the man's tales. Simond took a sip of his own ale, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the several marks and scratches that adorned the old wooden surface of the table.
“I didn’t know Vergil had a brother.”
“Doubt he wants to talk about me.” Dante let out a low sigh, mulling over the information. There was a Vergil here, a witcher who sounded very much like his older brother: white hair, nasal voice, chiseled face, kind of an ass. “What can you tell me about the kid?”
“He’s his son, naturally.”
“Witchers are sterile.”
Simond muttered an awkward ‘oh’ and filled the heavy silence that had fallen between them with a loud sip of his drink. “Perhaps he won him at a game of cards, then? I’m not entirely certain, but Nico seems fond of him.”
“Nero.”
“Ah, yes, Nero! That’s his name.”
Dante leaned in closer, breathing in the smell of malt coming from Simond's pores as the chubby man let out an airy chuckle. “Know where I can find them?”
He knew the answer before Simond even opened his mouth.