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Blood pounded in Vergil’s ears as his katana slid through his brother’s chest, deep and deadly.
“Might controls everything. And without strength, you cannot protect anything.” Vergil pulled the Yamato partially out, giving a small, painful twist, and set his hand on Dante’s shoulder. “Let alone yourself.”
He spat the words out, shoving Dante away and extricating the Yamato from his brother’s rib in the same fluid movement. Dante fell backward, his body arching with pain, his arms flailing out in a reflexive but pointless attempt to keep his balance. And as he fell, Vergil reached for his prize: he clasped his fingers around Dante’s silver half of the amulet, snapping the chain, and slashed his twin’s hand to keep him from touching it.
Dante hit the Temen-ni-gru’s stone floor, but Vergil already paid him little mind. Heavy raindrops hit the amulet’s surface, dulling its beautiful red, yet it still caught the moonlight, reflecting it back at him. It had done that, too, on the day they had received it, only the light reflected had been the kitchen’s lamp. Vergil remembered marvelling at it and the swirling depths of the gem, like crystallized blood in his small hands. He’d been so fascinated, he had never noticed his bangs falling back over his face, not until Eva pushed them back and placed a kiss on his forehead.
She’d done that a lot, had been the first to slick his hair back like his father’s, and he had never grown out of the habit.
The wet bangs plastered to his head now felt like they burned, as did the pit of his stomach. Vergil pressed the amulet against his forehead, swallowing past the lump in his throat in a desperate attempt to bury the memories deep within. With a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it backward. The chain of Dante’s amulet clinked in his ears, an insistent reminder, dogging him despite his will to forget.
She would have hated to see them fight now, to see the blood sprayed on his blue coat and pooling under Dante. Would have blamed him for it again, told him that as the older brother, he should be the better person and take his responsibilities.
Well, that was what he was doing now, wasn’t it? He would gain their father’s power, the power of the Legendary Dark Knight, Sparda, and pay whatever cost was necessary for it. Whereas Dante… Dante only wanted to party, refusing the strength that was rightfully his. He had no sense of duty.
Vergil cast his brother one last look, scoffed, and turned heels. His long strides carried him to the Rebellion, and as his hands wrapped around his twin’s sword, Dante groaned, twitched, and pushed himself partly up.
Still awake, then.
Perhaps he ought to receive one last brotherly lesson.
Vergil yanked the Rebellion out, spinning around. He was upon Dante in a single stride, plunging the broadsword in his brother’s chest, piercing through ribs, muscles, organs, skin again, and the stone beneath, pinning him firmly to the ground. There would be no escaping it this time: Dante either accepted Sparda’s power and awakened, as Vergil had a decade ago, demonic blades piercing his small body, or he would die.
Might controlled everything. Without it, Dante might as well die here, by his hand, instead of taken by one of Mundus’s hordes, as would inevitably happen.
One last favour from his older brother, here in the destructive storm where their lives would once more change in a brutal, irremediable fashion.