Chapter Text
I can’t get Mother’s book to work, whispers the other voice in his head. Vergil has been puzzling over the book, their mother’s Grimoire, for weeks. They can both recall how she used it, but they had never gotten far enough in their studies to be allowed to try themselves. It isn’t cooperating.
“What have you tried?” Vergil asks aloud, flipping through the suspiciously blank pages with mild curiosity. He can feel the other’s frustration, a broiling sea under exterior calm. They are 10 years old, today. They’ve been trapped in Hell, alone, for nearly two years.
I have opened the pages. I have written things myself. I read what it showed me. Nothing happened. Vergil runs a hand over the rough parchment as he listens, considering carefully how they might proceed. They’ve been puzzling over their witchery in what little free time they have, picking apart what knowledge their mother left them. They have discovered some things, they’ve used the book unintentionally a few times, but simply getting it to cooperate has been an issue. The other, briefly, takes his hands, closes the book, and lets it fall open again. The words that appear on the pages swim before their eyes, and they both groan, shutting the cover quickly. Looking at pages like that for too long usually gives them a headache.
“The book won’t let us read if we just try to open it. If we let it fall open, sometimes it gives us a page, but we usually can’t read it.”
Right.
Vergil puzzles over this, running his hands over the raised designs on the cover. The Grimoire is special, an heirloom handed down through their mother’s family only to eventually land in their small, unpracticed hands. It means the same thing to both of them.
“I think we should drop it.”
What? The other is incredulous.
“I think it might work if we climb-” No, stop- “up the tree-” Why would that work- “just outside, and-” any better than what we’ve already- “drop it! Maybe if-” tried, and what if- “it opens to a page, it’ll-” we damage it? “work better than before!”
No, no, no. That’s a horrible idea.
“Do you have a better one?”
The other doesn’t respond. Smug, Vergil picks himself from the floor of their make-shift home, grabs hold of the Yamato’s scabbard (just in case), and peaks his head out of the entrance to their cave. He’s not keen to venture out of there’s demons around, nor is he really keen to get in a fight right about now, but… the area just outside of their home seems to be more or less deserted. Sure of his idea, he tucks the book under his arm, and slips out.
The tree in question is a large, ugly, gnarled thing. The black honey-comb structure of its trunk, however, make it easy to climb. It takes a bit of maneuvering to secure the sword, and a little more maneuvering (and protest from the other) before he settles on simply biting down on the spine of the book. With practiced ease, he climbs up as high as he can manage without fear of snapping a limb, and scoots out onto the branch. Careful to avoid the spiny, stinging leaves, he settles about halfway out, sits up, and holds the book for a moment. The other protests, but he pays no heed.
He takes a deep breath, puffs out his chest a little, and…
The book falls, landing on the dark, damp ground beneath the tree with a wet thud, spine flat on the ground. As if caught in a wind, the pages flip on their own, and the other finally, finally, stops complaining. They watch with growing excitement as it settles on a page so brilliantly and distinctively decorated, that they can identify the witch who created it before their feet even touch the ground.
Clambering as quickly as possible out of the tree, they rush towards the book, crouching before it.
Mother.
The pages are covered almost entirely by a watercolour illustration of a beach. It shifts, moves as though it were real. The waves lap at the shore, the setting sun casts a pinkish glow across the water, and they can almost hear the squawking of seagulls, the sound of muffled voices. As their mouth begins to form the words scrawled across the sky in vivid, looping red ink, the ugly, dim world around them falls away. What they speak isn’t English- it’s something far older, far more powerful than any human tongue has ever been, and it feels as electric, as all encompassing as it ever does. It’s a poem, a song of loneliness, an offer of companionship.
In the scene on the page, they look around. A woman stands at the edge of the ocean, her long, robe falling loosely down her arms. She’s removed her sandals, tied her long, blonde hair into a neat bun, and rolled her pants up just enough to keep them from getting wet. The water laps at her feet, and when she notices them, she turns, smiling warmly. Her poem weaves through the scene, as physical as the ground beneath their bruised knees. She approaches, her presence feeling so strongly of home it’s easy to forget that she’s gone. She crouches, eyes sparkling in the knowing way that they always did, and she mouths something that they can’t hear. And then, she takes their hand.
The book snaps shut.
A force, unfamiliar to them and altogether alien, shoots them backwards. There’s a thud against the tree trunk that Vergil feels against his back as clear as he can feel his own back against the dirt.
“What happened?” says the other.