Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When those voices deep within

Bring you down to your knees again…

The situation was nightmarishly familiar.

A heavy weight on his back, pinning him to the ground and a cold blade shoved through his ribs like a shard of ice.

He shouldn’t have come. But what was the other option? Watch uselessly from a distance again?

But he hadn’t been of much use here, either, had he?

The blade in his ribs twisted, forcing out a broken, pained sound from his lips. His vision started to blur, the colours all bleeding together and fading out. He couldn’t heal properly with the sword still impaling him—especially when it was wedged right into one of his lungs, obstructing breath.

The world continued to dim, bleaching away save for one splash of colour, floating in front of his vision, just out of reach. A sharp, aching pain in his chest, even keener then the blade—a desperate, bone-deep need that had his arm straining forward, fingers stretching so hard his joints ached. Uninvited wetness sprung up in his eyes.

Three names ran through his head on repeat, bouncing off his skull like gunshots.

The sword twisted in his ribs once more.

Redemption calls unto

All of those who persist

With the strength of the few…

Chapter Text

Through vacant halls I won’t surrender

The truth revealed in eyes of ember

We fight through fire and ice forever

Two souls once lost and now they remember

Time passes differently in the Underworld, something Vergil knew with painful clarity. A long, horrid, dark, agonising stretch of lost days that made his life feel somehow indefinitely longer than his brother’s—although Dante was the one who really looked their age, face all deep lines and unkempt beard. He preferred not to think about how many of those lines he might be responsible for; as V, he had noted the wrinkles, but had a bigger task at hand than analysing his brother’s appearance.

That memory sends his mind bouncing back forth again.

He is V—he isn’t V.

He isn’t Urizen—he is Urizen.

Both of them are familiar and alien to him—one all thoughtless rage, hatred, and ambition, the other so much thought it hurts.

Then Dante was shouting again, yodelling in delight as he cleaved another demon in half. He was, as always, the very definition of not taking things seriously, despite the weary crinkles around his features. Still… Disposing of his remaining opponents with a wide sweep of the Yamato, Vergil took advantage of the following moment of quiet to watch Dante dealing with the last few demons around him in his typically haphazard style, sinking down to sit on the ground for a bit.

As V, he hadn’t thought too hard about how tired Dante looked, but now… Now it seemed so obvious, the permanent exhaustion in his brother’s face mirroring the deep set fatigue still clinging to him like an old coat. Yet another thing in which they’re balanced in a way no one else could ever understand.

Both his halves had felt the lethargy, eating away at them.

Urizen had labelled it a remnant weakness, done everything possible to deny and erase it.

V had originally classed it as a side effect of their deterioration, but slowly began to wonder about its real source, right at the end.

As Vergil, he has a hunch, based on an old, dim memory neither half had put much focus on—too painful for both of them—but even then…

“Are you taking a nap?” As usual, Dante interrupted his thoughts, words accompanied with a soft grunt and a scuffing sound as, he presumed, his brother plopped down on the ground nearby.

Vergil cracked his eyes open to glare at him. “I was thinking, but it seems, as usual, you are determined to interfere with that.”

Dante snorted loudly, looking away. “Tch. Smartass.”

“Imbecile.”

Silence. True, complete silence, because there was no breeze or ambient sound in the Underworld when there were no demons nearby. Neither insult had been their best work, but that hadn’t been the point, really.

The quiet stretched on, but not in a heavy way, surprisingly. Instead, despite their hostile environment, it felt… Peaceful. A sensation he hadn’t experienced in… Years—and especially never in Dante’s company.

“So…” Of course. His brother could only hold his tongue for so long. “… Now that we have a moment…” Dante crossed his legs, twisting around to face Vergil and lean forward, resting his chin on his hands like a small child getting ready to hear a long story, complete with cat smirk, “How about you tell me that story now?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Vergil lied, looking sharply away.

“Oh, don’t be a stooge.” Dante’s voice was a mixture of carefree amusement and genuine seriousness, “I just wanna know how the hell someone like you wound up with a kid.”

Vergil prickled immediately at the wording. “I did not-” He stopped himself just as fast, biting his tongue to prevent habit from taking over and making him snap back. With a sigh, he glanced sideways at his brother, to find Dante sitting in the same rapt attention, eyes comically wide. There was something overwhelmingly earnest about the look that made that obnoxious, persistent, distantly familiar, soft feeling rise up in his chest again—the one V had felt when seeing home again, the one that refused to go away ever since his wayward halves had knit back together, the one he’d felt when looking at… The boy, right at the end. One that almost made him answer.

But this… A face flashed through his thoughts, twice. A voice, one he hadn’t heard for twenty odd years, and would never hear again. At the same time, he felt inside himself, seeking out a spot he knew well—where a small shard of his energy, his soul, was missing. He’d gotten quickly used to the scar, enough that V had noticed its absence and Urizen had sought it out when plotting—although the latter had lost all memory of its meaning. Of what had almost been. On instinct, his hand clutched tighter on the Yamato’s sheath, seeking the familiar comfort there.

No. This was something he wasn’t ready to discuss. Not even with Dante, and probably not with the child, either. Not yet.

Not this. Not now. Not them. Not her.

Instead, he pressed the tip of the Yamato’s sheath into the sand and used her to leverage himself back to his feet. Gritting his teeth as if that would stop his hands from trembling, he made his way over to sit stiffly on a nearby rock, putting some distance between them. He’d learned the hard way the first time that wandering alone in the Underworld was a recipe for disaster, but if Dante was going to be asking troublesome questions… Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to force himself to relax as much as possible under the circumstances—an act his entire being rejected with every fibre of his body. Maintaining his guard had been paramount for the majority of his life, to the point that since that day, he had only been without it twice.

Once it had been taken from him by force. The second time, he had still been dazed from the experience of his entire self merging back together, from a resurgence of emotions he’d long thought buried and forgotten. If it hadn’t been Dante, if his brother hadn’t shouted before charging… He frowned slightly at the realisation that the attack might not have registered on his awareness.

For V, death had been a suspected inevitability from the start, the part of him that craved connection and hope, but was eventually resigned to oblivion.

Urizen had done everything possible to defy that destiny, raging against what he was convinced had doomed him to it.

When he had remerged, both stances had remained prominent. The resolution to fight, because his pride would allow nothing less—but also the acceptance of fate, no expectations of which one of them would be coming back from that duel.

Until…

Before he could muse any further, that familiar presence was moving, coming closer once more—his fool of a brother refusing to be intimidated or deterred by his attempts to end the conversation. “Oh, come on. The least you owe me is a few answers.”

There was an odd edge to the words, something in his twin’s tone, that he can only barely notice but can’t identify. The complicated mess of feelings V left him with was alien enough—trying to understand others… He felt like his brother had once been easy to read and understand, as clearly as his own mind, but now… He tried to reason it out, but that part of him felt slow and weak, like long-unused muscles. He’d relied only on himself and the Yamato for so long… Even without all the demon blood-fuelled rage and resentment, it had taken V a long while to even partially reach out to others, much less think about them, and even then…

He shook his head. Trying to figure all that out now was just going to result in another headache. The emphasis, for instance, was much easier to understand—the least he owes, after all he’s done. The least he owes Dante, as opposed to… Once again, the subject of that person, his mind ground to a halt. He still wasn’t ready to fully deal with the enormity of that revelation, and all its implications.

But he was still not ready for this, either—and yet… He couldn’t shake the thought that he couldn’t keep quiet, either. That, just maybe, this time, he didn’t want to.

Except… He’d also kept himself locked up for so long that the answers would not come easily—nor would anything else.

He was spared from further questions when a familiar prickle of approaching demons registered on his senses. He knew without checking that Dante detected them to, heard the now-familiar sound of his brother summoning his sword again, and the noises of boots shifting on sand. This had been one of the few times they’d taken the time to rest rather than continuing their own sparring match, and Dante had actually dissipated the blade rather than boasting over it like he’d taken to doing whenever there was a spare moment. And his brother called him obsessive about the Yamato.

As he thought her name, the energy of the sword in his own hand shifted, rising in pitch at the approaching threat, the ribbons on her sheath standing on end, but still slightly… Off. There had been a slight discord between them ever since he’d taken her back—not enough to completely sever their connection, and all the fighting they’d done since jumping back into the underworld had let them reestablish their usual rapport, but… There was a hesitation, an uncertainty. A bit like… Disappointment. He knew why, but it was something they hadn’t had time to properly deal with in all the fighting, and it needled at him like a thorn. He certainly couldn’t bring it up to Dante—his twin would inevitably turn it into a joke, or bring up his ease with acquiring other Devil Arms. He didn’t understand what it was to bond so deeply with one weapon that missing it felt like missing a limb or organ (something in the Yamato’s aura twitched at the thought of ‘limb’ and he quickly urged her to stay quiet for the moment).

At the time, the relation hadn’t even registered. Only how much he needed her.

Later, V had rationalised, like he always did, that he hadn’t known, that the boy’s powers would come in eventually, that this was his nephew, that soon enough he’d be paying the price regardless…

Urizen had forgotten the event the moment V was gone.

And now…

“Oi, Vergil! You actually taking a nap this time?” The question was punctuated with the hiss of Dante’s sword swinging through the air as his twin assumed a stance, “We’ve got company!”

He bit back the urge to retort again, instead heaving himself off the rock and preparing for another swarm, partially grateful for the interruption. The demons providing him with a temporary escape from Dante’s questions, and the familiar rhythms of battle providing some space to think. Ironically, he still felt safest in the middle of a fight.

Even more ironically, his brother hollering and and joshing at his back, cracking foolish jokes and charging about in his all-or-nothing way… He felt even safer.

When the last bits of the new wave were dealt with, they returned to fighting each other, an age-old pattern they knew well and were both comfortable in, a beat as familiar as his own pulse. They bounced off each other like perfectly balanced magnets, neither of them able to hold the lead for very long, but… That didn’t bother him as much as it used to.

During another stop to breathe, Dante glanced up at what passed for a sky in Hell, smirking bitterly and swinging his sword up to balance it on his shoulder like he was wont to do, even when it had just been Rebellion, or one of their wooden play swords as children. “You know…” He began slowly, straightening stiffly up and rolling his shoulders, “… Any idea how long we’ve been down here?”

Vergil returned the Yamato to her saya, then looked her over in his hands, watching as the ribbons on her sheath twitched and danced in their own private code, only half listening to his brother. “Who knows.” He murmured, running his hand over the scabbard slowly, “Time is irrelevant here.”

A few yards away, he heard Dante scoff. “Dramatic-ass bastard.” His twin muttered, but there wasn’t much venom in the words. “I’m just saying, unless you’re absolutely attached to the decor, we should probably at least start thinking about how to get home.”

Home. That word had many connotations, and Vergil still wasn’t convinced most of them applied to him. Did his brother mean the human world in general, Redgrave city, his office? When he thought of those places, he thought of things he had nothing to do with—Dante’s friends, Dante’s life.

Both his halves had disagreed on what ‘home’ would be to him. On whether he needed one at all.

V had missed the sense of belonging, the place to go back to.

Urizen had shirked the word, and all the painful memories associated with it, casting it away as he had everything else.

When Vergil thinks of it, he thinks of a sensation, wafting from the distant past.

“… What do you mean?” A weak question, but it was the best his weary mind could come up with.

“I was just thinking, probably shouldn’t keep everyone waiting forever.”

Vergil left a very long silence after those words, just to draw attention to how foolish they were. He’d originally accepted his twin’s supervision down here in the name of dealing with the Qliphoth and to more freely continue their duel—and however slightly… Pleasant that had turned out to be… He had ultimately harboured very little expectations about returning. His twin had something, multiple things, to go back to—people who wanted him. He didn’t.

Except, whispered a voice, one that came from him but sounded so unlike his own, one he’d gagged and ignored for decades, until a choice meant to silence it forever had unexpectedly made it stronger, except… Just maybe… That person. Again, his mind automatically hesitated over the name, but the voice didn’t let up—after all, it reminded him, you said ‘next time.’

He shook his head once, pushing the murmurs of his deeper selves away. Whatever had come over him when those words left his mouth on the Qliphoth had faded back into the confusing, painful turmoil his self had become. The Yamato’s reticency was a heavy reminder of the reason it was better not to put too much stake in that situation improving. He still wasn’t sure he could get into the habit of being human again, let alone a… A father. Some of his last convictions had even been that allowing that particular relationship was pointless and restricting. Where would he even begin? Arkham was certainly no reliable guide, given his fate. He only vaguely remembered the behaviour of his own father when he’d been present, but they had been children and his… Son, was grown. The boy had clearly done well enough without him all this time, was there any point in trying now?

And yet when he thinks about him, V’s voice becomes stronger.

And yet he gave him the book.

And yet he said ‘next time.’

And yet…

Recollecting himself, he quickly pushed aside that same voice insisting that he wanted to try, and risked a glance at Dante—to find his brother watching him with an unexpectedly complex and… Sad expression, which caused another, fresh pain to surface in his chest that persisted until he looked away. “… You profess in being an incurable romantic.” He declared in an effort to cover up… Whatever it was his humanity was making him feel again, dropping both arms and the Yamato back to his sides, and turning fully away, using his back as a shield. “… Those people out there…” Despite himself, he hesitated—but he’d never believed it beating around the bush. “… They’re waiting for you. Not me.”

Dante stayed quiet just as long as he had—Vergil could feel his brother’s eyes boring into his back. Finally, he unexpectedly heard the sound of his brother’s sword vanishing—that was unusual, they normally didn’t break off sparring until one of them called winner, enough to make him sneak a look over his shoulder. “I don’t know…” The odd edge was back in his twin’s voice, or maybe it was just becoming more noticeable again, but he still couldn’t figure out what it was—but the usual cheshire cat smile was gone from his brother’s face, “I think Nero might be at least a bit curious.” The name felt like a thorn in his side. A hesitation, and something flashed across Dante’s face that Vergil could identify from his time as V, when it had been an overbearing ghost the followed him everywhere—regret. “We… Did just kind of dump a lot of information on him and then left.”

Yes, it seems leaving is one of his few, inevitable, habits. He left his brother, he left Redgrave, he left her, them, he left his son, he left Fortuna, he left the human world, he left his family, he left himself (although that was by force), he left Hell, he left his humanity, he nearly left everything, he left his son again… Because it was always easier to leave then to be left. But to Dante, the practice was new.

“I told you I was perfectly capable of handling it on my own.”

A loud, familiar elephant snort that was inexplicably… Comforting, and he felt his lips twitch toward something like a smile despite himself. “Right, you alone is the last thing anyone needs,” Dante scoffed, and Vergil was halfway to being angry when his brother added, in a much softer tone, filled with that regret again, “… Especially you.”

Vergil actually spun around in surprise, but this time it was Dante who clammed up, expression flipping back into that unreadable, constant smirk—but this time, it clearly did not reach his eyes, which inexplicably made Vergil think of a stone layer over magma; blank and cool, but hiding a heated, molten well beneath them, just out of reach. His brother turned away, looking off at the unnatural horizon with a casual, careless air that Vergil was beginning to suspect was a front—as if those two words had been a massive admission that had taken all he had.

Silence stretched between them for the third time, this one tense and fragile, neither of them quite looking at each other. After a moment, Dante began to fidget, and once again it was oddly reassuring to see another thing that had stayed the same since they were young, when so many other things were different. Watching his twin fiddle with his gloves, Vergil couldn’t shake the sense that Dante was waiting on him—that the proverbial ball was in his proverbial court.

He was still processing what his brother’s words had meant, on top of everything else. What was he, who was he, if not the Dark Slayer, Dante’s opposite, alone, eternally? All this time, he’d relied only on himself and the Yamato to survive, no matter what. That was all that had mattered—the world showed no compassion to him, there was no point in expecting anything else. All he could do was fight tooth and nail to survive, to be strong enough to weather anything, letting no one in. He was the only one he could trust, in every way. He’d learned that lesson again and again and again…

Except… Dante, who had friends, home, a life, who gave a piece of himself to everyone he met, the good brother, who didn’t leave first to avoid being hurt, the one for whom it was easy to be kind, and caring, for whom emotions didn’t carry an insurmountable mountain of pain… That Dante had left everything he had behind so as not to leave him—and beyond the instinctive annoyance at needing to be ‘babysat’… He could no longer deny the part of him, long thought lost, that was truly… Grateful. That had desperately longed for companionship, to be able to trust unconditionally. That realised just what his brother had left behind, for him, as much as everyone else. That understood what that meant.

The rift between them was deep and wide (mostly, that reedy voice reminded him, because of him), and his twin’s presence and this admission weren’t so much an extended hand as a gauntlet being tossed across the chasm. A challenge, like almost everything between them was, even as children. And Vergil would be damned if he didn’t pick it up.

“… V never expected to outlive Urizen.”

Dante’s head immediately snapped around to stare at him, the contained, stony look in his eyes giving way to shock mixed with horror. Vergil locked his jaw to keep his own expression impassive, focusing his eyes on a random point in the distorted horizon. The words had come out easier than expected, but the distressed, almost hurt way his brother was looking at him was making it hard to think.

Instead they stood there in silence again. Just… Staring. Dante at him, him into the distance.

Vergil clenched his jaw even tighter. Was this supposed to feel… Better? He didn’t know. They’d both admitted… Something. Guilt? He wasn’t entirely sure, was trying to activate parts of his psyche that had been atrophying since that night when they were eight years old, when the only way he’d been able to keep the pain at bay was to stop feeling anything at all. But he thought… He’d expected… More? He didn’t know. But the words felt more like mere pebbles cast into the large canyon between them than the founding of any kind of bridge across it.

Could they even bridge it? Could… Could he ever be something Dante, or Dante’s companions, would approve of? Could they ever come back from Urizen, from Temen-Ni-Gru? From… All of it? Could he go back, and live… Something like a ‘normal life,’ after all this time? Could he go back to his… His son, be a… Family? Could he do more than just survive the day, be more?

Could he change?

Something bubbled out of the depths of his memory, lodged deeply beneath twenty years of solid agony and cold. A phrase, murmured in a voice long gone, a language he’d only barely known, even back then. Some sliver of… Something like sanctuary?

Ubita na kita agig meenzèen ili aeštubku. The past stones below high water, you rise in the high tide.

“Naabbéa ina šìrkug.” The words poured from him on some equally old instinct or habit he hadn’t known he still had, fortunately too soft for even Dante to hear. Equally surprising, he still knew their meaning—‘thus does she speak in her sacred song.’

The words ring familiar to both halves, beyond all comprehension.

His humanity wilts into sorrow, mourning missed opportunities.

His demon half bristles with something slightly different than the usual fury, something more akin to disappointment.

The whisper persists—an echoing, murmuring insistence that he’s forgotten something important; not the events, but… A feeling. A meaning.

Perhaps… Perhaps there is something to work with, after all.

Nero stared at the book sitting on the bedroom table, still half expecting it to flicker out of existence, or turn into something, or… He didn’t know what. It was, he knew, an ordinary book—slightly worn and faded, but (according to Kyrie), made out of fine quality paper and leather with hand drawn illustrations for the poems. She had been ecstatic when he brought it home, had fussed over the binding and the design, only coming to a pause when she discovered the name written in the back cover—which, Nero had to admit, he had missed, despite having flipped through the book multiple times. Then she’d begun questioning where he’d gotten it, and…

And the whole painful tale had come out.

She had been patient and comforting as he started and stopped, but there had been a visible change in the way she looked at the book in her hands as he completed the story of what he knew of its owner. She had handed it back to him with a certain solemnity, meeting his eyes with a questioning look, as if to make sure he was certain. Then she’d asked if he wanted some time to process, and warmly told him she’d be working in the yard if he needed her.

That had been a full month ago.

He squinted at the book again. Still nothing, naturally. It was a book. And yet… Getting back up, he picked the anthology up and began to pace slowly, looking the book over once more. He knew it was just a regular book, but… It felt… Odd in his hands. There, but also… Not quite. A little like the Yamato, actually—present, resonating with him, with his need to be stronger, to protect, but also… Longing for something, someone else. A strange, soft call like the hum of a siren that he could only just barely detect, like searching for something with sonar. It had created a weird sense of… Companionship. Like the loneliness, the desperate wishing he had felt for most of his life was reflected in the sword, as if she felt as misplaced as he did, as incomplete.

Like they were both missing someone mysterious and long distant, with a need so deep it ached—and now he’d even learned they were missing the same person, in a way. Him a family he’d never met, and her… Her wielder.

Vergil. Dante’s brother and… His father.

And the one who’d ripped his arm off, and Urizen, and… And V. And this book, and the childish yet precociously neat handwriting tucked into the back. And that lonely, wistful, stinging missing in the Yamato. And who knew what else.

It was a weird situation, to say the least.

His… Father’s demon half had destroyed most of a city, caused massive destruction—but his human half had gone and recruited others and collected weapons to stop it. He remembered the way V had talked about Urizen, all veiled disgust and something that was beginning to seem like disappointment. Urizen’s hatred had been obvious the moment he laid all those eyes on V on the Qliphoth. How badly messed up did you have to be, to have your literal halves hate each other that much?

He’d spent so much time thinking about it that Nico had begun referring to him as ‘Mister Moody,’ but for once he didn’t rise to her prodding. The more he thought, though, the more confused he became—it didn’t feel quite right to completely equate Vergil and Urizen, knowing that V existed, knowing that they had been two halves of a whole. Urizen hadn’t been a sparkling conversationalist, all anger and hunger for power, while V had been philosophising and offering moral convictions. V had also been the one to hire them to kill Urizen. Had it been an uneven split? Urizen had gotten most of the power, but V had gotten everything like the conscience and the reason? Didn’t mean that his father hadn’t had a part in causing the disaster, but it was beginning to feel more like a psychotic break, or amnesia, or… He didn’t know. How did you classify actions committed by only half a person, actions that left hundreds, maybe more, dead or wounded or homeless, or…

And that didn’t even begin to address his arm, the event that had left him with multiple sleepless nights and nightmares. The secrets V had kept. The glimpse he’d caught of Kyrie on her knees in the garage, desperately trying to bleach the blood off the cement floor, tears springing in her eyes. He’d tried to tell her he could clean it, but she had refused to let him back in the garage for weeks afterwards—and she was right, because a wave of nausea hit him every time he crossed the threshold. The arm might’ve grown back, and he might’ve resolved that, history longer than he’d been alive or not, no family he had any relation to was going to kill each other like this, but… It was a large, ugly, personal scar on any future they could have.

And yet… While he would never call the fight ‘easy,’ stopping them had been… Strangely… Simple? And the way Vergil—his father—had behaved… Almost… Contrite?

Thank you, Nero.

The very fist words his father, at least, his father as a whole person, had ever spoken to him. The gratitude had seemed… Genuine. And the more he considered it, the more the fight at the top of the Qliphoth had felt… Hesitant. Far more than the way he’d seen the brothers go at each other, Vergil snapping out of what looked like quiet retrospect the instant Dante moved. He could feel the weight of a history he didn’t know behind that moment, that alien feeling that kept him from understanding why everyone was just… Okay with family killing each other. But at the same time, he also wondered if that had been what allowed him to see more clearly.

He looked back down at the book. The book his father had stared at so intently, so… Tenderly, almost. That had his father’s name written in neat but young lettering in the back. That V had clung to like Sabina, the youngest of his and Kyrie’s wards, clung to her security blanket.

The one he’d tossed to Nero, almost like throwing something into deep water to test for predators, with all the purport and dignity of throwing out a glove as an invitation to a duel (not helped by the pronouncement that had accompanied it). The air had been a bit rigid for a peace offering, but it had ultimately included more promise of return than anything Dante had said (which was probably more because Dante was a petty bastard than anything else). Giving him something that seemed to be so personal… He couldn’t help but think, or hope, or wonder, or wish that his father had been testing the waters, that this was some sort of question as to whether Nero was willing to try again.

With a loud groan, he flopped back onto the bed, flipping through the pages again, running his fingers over the lettering. Was he willing? A very large part of him, thinking of V, of the way Vergil had acted during their last fight, of the Yamato’s sorrow, of the book in his hands, wanted to say yes. But everything else… He needed more information before he could really give an answer—and he had no idea when those two were intending to be back (if ever, added a more pessimistic part of himself, the lingering resentment of an outcast, lonely child).

A loud banging on the door and the sound of children’s voices raised him from his stupor—it seemed the kids were home from school. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly and gingerly returned the book to the table once more, arranging it with more care than he would ever admit. Heavier thoughts could wait until the little rascals were settled—besides, brooding about it wasn’t going to make his father and uncle come back from Hell any faster.

Although, with the descendants of Sparda, it really seemed like anything and everything was up for grabs.

The deepest reaches of the Underworld were dark. The inhabitants needed no light, and all gates to the human world had been sealed off long ago to keep them at bay. Those who lurked and slept in the depths were too powerful to manifest through the everyday gates used by the rabble above, and were forced to wait and bide their time, eagerly anticipating the events that would cause the doors to spring open again, and set them loose once more.

He had not needed to retreat to the furthest bowels of Hell, where the others rested, to recover. The very precipice of the pit served him well enough, the dark powers welling there providing more than enough energy to heal and rejuvenate while plotting his next course. From down below, the presence of the other great ones fuelled his strength, impatient even in sleep to be free, unconsciously urging him onward, taunting him to release them.

But there would be no need of them.

In the absolute darkness, even the faded embers crusting the forms of the four kneeling before him shone brightly—a thin, warm glow in the cold shadows, even as mere husks of what they had once been. He had not expected to find them here, fallen into the very depths of their world, but it served his purposes perfectly. He had need of new generals, particularly ones that would not fail.

With a wave of his hand, he commanded them to go, and with prompt obedience, they rose and each vanished from his sight—heading to the higher reaches, where they could slip through an open gate unnoticed. He curled back into himself, preparing to wait until the time was right once more. How long had it been, since he’d been driven back down here by Sparda’s kin? Ten human years? Twenty? To him, it seemed like yesterday—which made this all the sweeter, especially after the tales he’d heard, brought down to him by those still loyal, who knew the truth.

The process would be rather unsavoury, distasteful, but he had no doubt the results would be more than satisfactory. This time, he was more than prepared. The children of Sparda would suffer in a way they had never imagined.

A low, heavy snarl rumbled through the darkness nearby—a massive creature moving and growling it is sleep. Had he been the sort to smile, he would have, turning his gaze towards the monster, watching it strain restlessly at its bonds.

Soon, he promised both it and himself. Soon.

Bury the light deep within

Cast aside there’s no coming home

We’re burning chaos in the wind

Drifting in the ocean all alone

Chapter Text

Breathe ashes

Breathe smoke

Breathe what you invoke

Breathe refuge

Breathe to live

Mother forgive

The air is cold, seeping into the cracks in his being, each breath agony from his withering lungs. The call is his only awareness—a persistent, melancholic summons that draws him like a tether tied to something deep inside his chest. She is singing, seeking, searching for him with single minded determination.

And he must answer.

She’s not in a form his eyes recognise, but he feels her mournful howl in his bones, each note a blaring reverberation in the furthest parts of his soul. There’s someone else, present, with a strange oddly familiar sensation echoing off them—but they don’t, can’t matter. He needs her. He cannot die here. He must survive.

He stumbles forward. Takes her back. Words wheeze from his lips, but they are mere remnants of a thought. She is all that matters.

But… A half glance back shows the floor painted in black blood, the pool growing. The other one—a young man—is laying on the ground, breath shallow, shivering, wincing in pain. And something, some strange force he can’t name, roots him to the spot.

That face is… Familiar. He feels… Something. Under all the pain and need and fear.

In a flicker of the light, a figure is kneeling beside the young man, hands partially extended towards him, hair escaping in a matted tangle from a low hood, dress bright red. The hands tremble as they land on the young man’s shoulder, gripping at the coat. More, fresh blood falls to the ground like rain. The head raises, turning to face him, the hood slips off.

And he knows her.

Vergil jerked awake, already biting back a sound threatening to burst from his throat. If there was one thing that was as instinctive to him as leaving, it was masking any and all signs of weakness, no matter the situation. Still, he found himself struggling to calm his breathing, holding his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. Since Dante had dispersed the last of V’s familiars, memories of Nero Angelo did not plague him so much—they still lingered there, carved like scars in stone into his being, but it they didn’t claw at him and haunt his dreams as much. That was meant to ease his rest—but now… How typical, for him, to merely exchange one set of nightmares for another.

“… You awake?” His brother’s voice, somewhere to his right and a little behind him. There was that… Off tone about his twin’s words again—not an angry edge, but something else, something he still can’t name. When he glanced over at Dante, however, he found his brother apparently more interested in examining his sword than the anything else—then, “… You were muttering in your sleep.”

Vergil froze, something tightening in his chest. He’d never tried to sleep in anyone’s presence since being broken from the armour—there had been no one at hand, not even the Yamato, to be present. Years as Mundus’ plaything had conditioned him to hide all vulnerability at all times, but it seemed that, here in a familiar (and comforting, added that voice that now refused to go unheard) presence, his guard had slipped. He gave Dante another, more cautious, questioning look. What had he said? How much had his brother heard? Would this… “… How so?” The words were clipped. Hard. Already setting up a shield to hide behind.

Dante just shrugged. “… Dunno. Couldn’t really understand it.”

Silence spread between them again like a winter draught. What was he supposed to say now?

Ironically, his brother spared him from having to reply, dispelling his weapon and stretching his back. “Whelp, since you’re up and at ‘em…” A familiar, cocksure grin as Dante kicked out his feet and leaned back against the stone behind him. “Time for my beauty sleep.”

“That’s a lost cause,” Vergil informed him coolly—but the only response was a loud, guttural snore, and he rolled his eyes. Typical.

With a deep sigh, he shifted so that he could see all angles of the landscape around them, crossing his legs and holding the Yamato in his lap. It was during these moments—as close as they could get to privacy in this place—that he’d taken to trying to parley with the Devil Arm, attempting to repair their relationship while they both simultaneously watched for threats.

Unsurprisingly, she was obstinate in her position—the very same dedication that had kept her by his side for this long coming out full force. Even more so because, loathe as he was to face it, she knew she was right—the sticking point between them was what was to be done about it. She had opinions, but… Even the progress he thought he and his brother had made had felt like sifting through a musty old attic, pushing away dust and cobwebs for something even vaguely familiar. He found himself wondering if it had ever been easy, seeing the point of ethics and consideration. And while they had begun properly talking in between bouts, his brother’s mask was as well crafted as his own, and evidently just as hard to remove; despite words themselves coming easier, they still found themselves (or he did, at least) balking on the heavier topics. After all, with his halves mixed back together, the exposed emotions that had allowed V to ask for help were again wrapped up in Urizen’s pride. It had been at least twenty years since he cared what anyone thought of him—why, still thought a not insubstantial part of him, should he start now?

An irregularity in Dante’s snores made him look over his shoulder to see that his brother was careening sideways, sliding half way down the rock face. It left him at an extremely odd angle that would definitely be hell on his back if he stayed there for too long.

For a moment, Vergil seriously considered the minor amusement of leaving him there and having the advantage when they next sparred—but that thought was ultimately chased away by the conclusion that such a win would be less than satisfying. So, instead, he unfolded himself and slid over, carefully reaching out a hand to use just the barest tips of his fingers to gently guide his brother’s shoulder to the ground proper so that Dante could lie on his side. Taking a brief moment to make sure his twin’s head was pillowed on his lower arm so that he didn’t twist his neck either, he made to pull his hand back.

Only for Dante’s other hand to shoot up and latch sloppily but tightly onto his wrist.

At first, his brother just held on as if for dear life—then, when Vergil made no immediate move to pull away out of surprise, yanked sharply, dragging him closer. Even with his own reflexes, he barely managed to stop himself from toppling forward with the Yamato, slamming the tip of her saya into the sand. There, he waited for another moment to see if Dante would release him, some inexplicable subconscious instinct satisfied.

If anything, however, his twin’s fingers curled tighter around his arm, tucking it into his chest and mumbling incoherently—just disjointed syllables and sounds… Except for when Vergil was almost certain he heard his own name mixed in.

With a short huff, he tugged experimentally—and got another clench and what sounded for all the world like a growl in response. A second huff gave way to a sigh. He could, absolutely, wrench his hand free of Dante’s grip. As firm as it was, it was nothing compared to what his brother’s hold would have been if he was awake. On the other hand, however… It just didn’t seem like the thing to do.

With another, more resigned sigh, Vergil awkwardly shifted the rest of the way over so that he could sit with his own back against the stone. He kept the Yamato in his left hand, and let the right arm hang by his side so that Dante could keep holding onto it. Once he’d situated himself as comfortably as possible, he resumed his watch.

At his side, the Yamato let out a happy hum that he pointedly ignored.

He’s been here a hundred times.

The floor of the training arena feels solid when he hits it, but the repetition means he knows he’s dreaming.

“You need to drop your elbow and turn your hips into the strike,” Says Credo, crossing over to offer him a hand up, “You’re still too stiff.”

In the memory this dream is based on, he insisted he wasn’t stiff at all, only to get beaten down by the same move again—but this is a dream, and it doesn’t have to follow the same path, so instead, he says, “I met my father.”

“Is that so,” Says Credo, pulling him to his feet, “Was he what you expected?”

“Not in the slightest,” He admits, brushing himself off, “In fact, he’s… Kind of a dick.”

“Hm.” Credo sheathes his sword, folding his arms and looking him over. “And yet you still seem pleased?”

He blinks, surprised into silence for a moment, and abruptly realises that there is a smile tugging at his mouth. “Well… I dunno if ‘pleased’ is the right word, but it is… Complicated.”

Credo nods slowly. “From the implications about your heritage, I can assume so. A demon’s bloodline is sure to make for… Interesting relations.”

“It sure as hell does.” He agrees. “The thing just is that… Even though he did some fucked up shit, I… I just can’t seem to think of him as all bad.”

A long, thoughtful silence. “People do things for many reasons.” Credo says carefully. “We have to rely on our better judgement to decide how worthy they are.”

“That’s the problem, though—I don’t know what the better judgement is. I feel like I’m getting pulled in two directions, never mind figuring out what he’s thinking.”

Credo is quiet for a long time, then looks him in the eyes. “I think the very first question needs to be… Do you think that you can forgive him?”

Nero blinked awake slowly to the darkness of his room, one hand fumbling up to rub his eyes.

Moving carefully so as not to wake Kyrie, he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard of their bed, staring at the dark ceiling. That was the short of it, wasn’t it? Did he think he could, ever, forgive his father for his arm, for… Everything? Before he tried to think about what his father might want.

He thought about how he’d felt on the Qliphoth, all single minded determination to put a stop to his father and uncle’s duel. He’d gone over those events so many times it was second nature—but this time… This time his mind hesitated on the expression on his father’s face when he’d told him that he wasn’t going to let him die, either. It had been a mixture between surprise and bewilderment underneath the analytic shell he’d quickly realised Vergil always wore when it never faltered during their fight.

Dante hadn’t hesitated to go for the kill for even a second; Lady and Trish had both defaulted to it; Vergil had just accepted it.

He remembered the way he’d felt after having to kill Credo—the overwhelming urge to throttle something, namely himself, the bile rising in his throat. The sheer horror at having to face Kyrie after what he’d done. The idea that this was just something that everyone was okay with when it came to the brothers…

“Nero?” He started slightly at the sound of Kyrie’s voice, looking over to find her pushing herself up on an elbow to squint at him through the dark.

Immediately, he felt guilty again. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shook her head. “No… You didn’t.” The mattress creaked as she moved to lean against the headboard beside him, shoulders pressed together. “I was just…” She trailed off, then took a deep breath. “Thinking about your father again?”

“That obvious?”

She laughed softly. “Well, it’s only been what’s on your mind for weeks now.”

He groaned, thumping his head back agains the headboard a little too hard and wincing. “I just… I don’t know what to do about it. All my life, all I’ve wanted was to know my birth family, my history, why I was different, but…” He raised a hand to rub his forehead. “I mean, Dante’s… Tolerable, most of the time, if a little full of himself, but my father… That whole mess happened because he pulled some weird bullshit in pursuit of power. And then there’s… Well, my arm…” Kyrie leaned even closer to him when he couldn’t finish the thought. “If we’re going to do this… Family thing at all, I have to decide how and if I’m gonna move past all the stuff he’s done.”

For a long time, silence followed that thought.

“People died because of what my brother did.”

He blinked, looking sharply at her. She wasn’t looking back at him anymore, gaze instead focused on their dresser against the opposite wall, hands folded over the blankets in her lap. If her voice had sounded the least bit shaky or tearful, he would have broken in—but it was completely steady, with a gravity that said she had thought about this for a very long time.

“I looked into as much of the research as I could.” She explained, just as calmly. “And because of his position, I have to assume he knew about even more things that I couldn’t even get access to.” A deep breath that he felt through her shoulder. “It wasn’t stated in so many words, but… It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. People, who knows how many, died in those experiments, by the demons that resulted. Even our parents.” She fiddled with the blanket anxiously. “He told me they died in an accident.” At long last, she turned back to him, and through the darkness he could see a wise clarity in her eyes. “I know he was trying to protect me—but I also know that’s because he knew it was wrong.” There wasn’t a shred of tears in her voice or her eyes. “I know I have it easier because he’s dead, but… I still had to decide how I wanted to remember him, think about him. Had to reconcile the kind, compassionate brother who raised me with what he did for the Order.” Reaching over, she took his regrown hand in both of hers, running her thumb over his knuckles. “I choose to believe that my brother was a good man. A good man, who meant well, but who made mistakes, and was led down a bad path.” She gripped his hand tightly. “I can’t undo what he did, nor can I ever make up for it. But what I can do is do what I can to make the world better going forward.”

One of her hands raised up to cup his face. “Nero, we cannot change the past. But if my brother can be swayed down a dark path out of good intentions, couldn’t the opposite be true?” He blinked, and she smiled warmly, hopefully. “I’m not going to pretend that your… Father doesn’t scare me. That sometimes I might have nightmares about what he did to your arm. But from everything you’ve told me, he’s also gone through some incomprehensible suffering himself. I’m prepared to believe that there’s more to him than what we’ve seen.” She leaned her forehead against his. “The final say is always yours, but… Like I said, I trust your judgement. You choose to save him on the Qliphoth. He let you save him on the Qliphoth. I think that counts for something.” With a kiss on his cheek, she shifted again to lean her head on his shoulder, cuddling closer against his side.

Nero turned her words over in his mind. It hit him that, even after all this time, he’d been so focused on his own failure to save Credo that the depths of what the man had to have done had never really hit him. But of course Kyrie had thought about it, and then kept it to herself—he shifted his arm around her shoulders, holding her tight, as a silent apology for making her carry all of that on her own.

He let you save him.

He thought again of his father’s expression, of the genuine gratitude in his voice when he’d thanked him before leaving.

I wanted to be loved and protected, V had said, as Nero half carried him up the Qliphoth, but I was alone.

Under all that anger and suffering and resentment, his father wanted to be saved.

And Nero… His eyes fell sideways, to the book sitting on their bedside table.

Hold onto that until then.

Resolution filled him where uncertainty had once been pooling in his stomach.

His father wanted to be saved. And Nero wanted to save him.

“Can we take the exit you used?”

“That would be… Ill advised.” An understatement, but it was better than trying to describe the excruciating slowness and agony with which he had had to claw his way back to the world by his nails, even as his body crumbled the same way V’s soon would. He had been operating on pure survival instinct, forcing his way through, but even like that, he remembers that the trip was a painfully unpleasant one.

Fortunately, Dante didn’t press the issue. “Alright then.” His twin announced, clapping his hands together, “My way it is, then!”

Vergil raised an eyebrow at him. “Your way.”

Another grin that doesn’t reach Dante’s eyes, and his brother flapped a hand in his direction. “Just… Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t, then.” He muttered back, attaching the Yamato at his hip. “But I maintain that you are overestimating the benefit of this.”

“Mad you lost?”

“We’re even. Unless you’d like to go again?”

The grin became a little more real. “I think I’ll pass.” Dante squinted around at the horizon—looking for some sort of landmark, Vergil supposed. Whatever he was searching for, however, he found, waving a hand quickly. “C’mon, follow me.”

For a long time, they travelled mostly in silence, save for the occasional demonic interruption. Vergil had long concluded his protests would fall on deaf ears, and was carried along purely by the Yamato’s cajoling, and that one shred of something he hadn’t felt in decades, that he still couldn’t identify. Dante’s quiet was stranger, but Vergil knew better than to question a blessing.

Then, freshly after clearing out a small herd of Empusa, Dante said “Why didn’t you tell me?” His twin’s voice is full of forced carelessness, looking anywhere but him. “About V.”

Vergil’s first instinct was to snap back, curl protectively in on himself and throw up his usual shields—but… The feeling of his sleeping brother’s fingers clinging to his wrist like Dante’s subconscious was afraid he’d disappear again, the peace they’d slowly been building between each other, and the resolution to follow the words of that faint, familiar song warred against it. Instead, with effort, he found himself stretching those long unused parts of himself, even as they ached like old muscles. Banking on Dante meaning his attempts at reconciliation the same way his human half had banked on Dante’s willingness to fight him, he extracted a less dismissive answer; “Would you have believed him?”

His twin considered the question, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, probably not. That’d be a little far fetched, even for us.” A few more steps before he continued, “I guess I owe you an apology, then.”

He blinked, coming to a full stop in surprise. “What.”

Dante stopped in the next instant, turning halfway to almost face him. “What I said to Urizen, in that place with the fruit. Seems like I was wrong.”

It took Vergil a moment to realise what his brother was talking about—Urizen’s memories were distinctly fuzzier than V’s, made up of the blind, obsessive ambition of his demon side. Eventually, however, he managed to call the scene to mind. “Ah.” He paused—then decided to go all in, forcing through the resistance. “I can assure you, it was an understandable assumption at the time; and V might even have agreed with you.”

“So what even was the plan?”

Another moment where Vergil had no right idea how to answer. Urizen and V had been so grossly out of sync to begin with that their early memories clashed within him. V had wanted to live, but had also harboured no illusions about his chances. Urizen wanted power at any cost, but had completely forgotten the entire reason why, outside of the pain, like a frightened beast. The latter’s mind had been largely unchanging, but the former… V’s increase in determination to survive had only been proportion to his uncertainty about whether he deserved it.

You need to see this through.

It had been a gamble, talking to her. Although he’d lost touch with the majority of their memories, Urizen had definitely felt a petty sort of satisfaction from transforming her into the very thing she had helped make them into. Meanwhile, V had retained the wherewithal to remember that she, too, was another of Mundus’ victims. Her resemblance to their mother hadn’t hurt, either, for once. When it became clear she had seen right through the whole thing, V had elected to risk it.

After all, most importantly, she knew their story with a clarity no one else did.

Of all the answers he had expected, however, an encouraging challenge had not been one of them. Anymore than he had been expecting her to dive forward and catch V’s arm before he could fall to make sure he could follow through. But what ‘seeing this through’ meant had changed when Nero interceded in their last duel—where before it had either been his end or Dante’s, now the goalposts kept on moving. While he may have decided to follow the tide, being unable to see the end of the river was disconcerting.

“The same thing, just in different ways.” He admitted at last, carefully not meeting his brother’s eyes. “Survive.”

Dante snorted, shaking his head, turning to start walking again, and Vergil had the distinct sense he’d done something wrong. But, as usual, had no idea what to do about it.

Then, buoyed by all the other memories and thoughts he had been digging up, another voice rose from the past—not quite as deep as the lyrics of the Song, but from a similar place. Deep and gruff, but also young and full of confidence bordering on optimism.

If you ask me, the world would be a lot easier if everyone else was completely honest, too.

A different sort of pang ran through him, a missing not quite as deep as the Yamato, or home, or… Her; but a missing all the same, twinged with a hint of… Respect. And regret.

Well. If he’s taking everyone’s advice now.

“Dante.” His brother stopped, but didn’t turn again. Mustering what little he had of a strength he hadn’t known existed until recently, he walked up beside Dante, and made himself look at his twin’s face. “I… I am not good at this.”

If he expected Dante to poke fun at his confession, he was taken by surprise when, at long last, his brother genuinely faced him, smile making it to his eyes for the first time in a while.

“I know.” In a few quick steps, Dante’s arms were suddenly around his shoulders, enveloping him in the stench of cheap beer, demon blood, and ash—and making him briefly wonder how often his brother actually showered. “I’ll help.”

Then, just as quickly as he had approached, his twin pulled away, leaving Vergil almost wondering if he had imagined the moment—but his brother’s hand lingered on his arm, tugging softly at his sleeve, smile still in his eyes.

“C’mon, old man. Let’s get back to the surface.”

At first, they were formless.

The initial pull had been sudden, would have been painful if they could still feel. Like being pulled abruptly to the surface from deep water, blinded by light and overwhelmed by sounds, reeling as it all rushed back in as air would to the lungs of a drowning victim—although they had never needed air to begin with. Just gaining awareness was the first obstacle—after that, for a while, they found themselves pulled along by their tethers, trailing powerlessly behind the shells that had once been their own.

But the more they heard, the more horrified they became.

Were they truly to be trapped as helpless, silent spectres as their physical forms brought ruin to their Commander’s legacy?

As long as they could do nothing but watch as their old bodies moved about and made preparations, it seemed so. But were they not soldiers of a sterner sort, handpicked by he whose orders they had followed without hesitation, even into irrevocable treason? Had they not, as one, concluded to follow their oaths, even to their deaths? So why not beyond?

As one once more, they waited—listening, focusing as intently as they could to strengthen their renewed ties to the physical world, beginning their own plans and preparations.

Come what may, in death as in life, they would serve him still.

Breathe inferno

To the grave

No one can be saved

Sanctuary

Fall from grace

Mother embrace

Chapter Text

They told me all of my cages were mental

So I got wasted like all my potential

And my words shoot to kill when I'm mad

I have a lot of regrets about that

They arrived at the shop in the middle of the night.

Vergil had waited in silence while Dante called Morrison, then rolled his eyes when his twin insisted on stopping at a late night (and cheap, thankfully) pizza parlour for some food—but, while he refused to touch the pizza, he did accept the bottle of water Dante offered him and sat down on the old leather sofa, so… Win? Definitely a win.

Dante flopped into the old desk chair, studying Vergil over his pizza slice, considering his options. His brother didn’t look at him, preferring to turn the bottle over in his hands. His twin might not have been running or even pushing back as much anymore, but he certainly wasn’t starting the conversation. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“It works better if you drink it.” No answer, but Vergil stopped turning the bottle around, which was something. He waited just a little longer just to see, but only got more silence. “… Can I ask a question?”

His twin still didn’t say anything, but turned his head slightly so that Dante could barely make out the outline of his face, so he decided to take that as a ‘yes,’ and gathered his courage; he thought—hoped—that they had made enough progress for him to at least ask this.

“What was she like?” He saw something flicker across Vergil’s face and quickly added, “You don’t gotta tell me the details, or anything. It’s just… Well, finding out I almost had a sister has made me a little curious.”

His twin looked away again, and was silent for long enough that Dante was opening his mouth to change the subject when—“She was like an early winter storm.”

Not a description Dante would have ever used for a woman, but there was a faint lightness in his brother’s voice that was almost… Dreamy. It reminded him of when they were young, of the way Vergil would gush about whichever author he was fascinated with that week if Dante poked the right buttons. At the time, it had been teasing—he’d never been able to understand what was so interesting about some words written by a bunch of dead people when there was a whole world outside to explore—but after the attack… He’d never realised how much he’d loved listening to his brother talk until he thought he’d never hear it again.

Someday, he supposed he’d need to admit that he was partially responsible for how sour their reunion ten years later had gone. But not yet. Temen-Ni-Gru was probably a little too much for their fragile bridge to bear right now.

For now, he’d listen with rapt attention like they were eight again.

Vergil, meanwhile, was still looking at anywhere but Dante—but he didn’t stop, though his voice remained quiet and controlled like he was carefully considering each word, filtering how much he revealed. Dante didn’t mind. Vergil sharing anything already felt like scaling Everest. “Elegant. Unyielding.” The faintest traces of a smile. “She thought you sounded hilarious.”

“You told her about me?”

The question had popped out before he could stop it, but his twin merely cast half a glance his way. “Only so she could understand my misery.”

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t all bad.” Swallowing the last piece of his pizza slice, Dante heaved himself up and trudged over to collapse next to Vergil on the sofa. “… You remember the old lattice we used to have on the house?”

“I remember you broke it.”

Dante threw up his hands. “Okay, fine, guilty as charged.” He dropped them back onto the couch, “But I remember telling father a bird flew into it—and you never sold me out.”

“… I thought about it.”

“Of course you did, because you’ve always been a goddamn smartass. But you didn’t.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I guess it’s just… Back then, after…” He swallowed, trying to decide how to phrase the burning question that had suddenly reared its head again, keenly aware of Vergil watching him from the corners of his eyes. “Was there a time when-”

“Dante!” The door smashed open—smacking into the wall with a resounding crack.

Dante jumped a foot in the air to his feet, demon power sparking, while Vergil hand the Yamato in hand and partially drawn before they both recognised who it was.

“Lady!” Dante exclaimed wearily, then looked over at where his front door was swinging definitely a little loose on its hinges from her well placed kick, “… My door.”

She shot him a dismissive eye roll, then her gaze slipped to his left. He knew when she and Vergil made eye contact because they both stiffened—her eyes narrowing and him gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Right. Might be time to step in.

Cutting between them, he hurried across the floor to be level with Lady. The instant he was close enough, her hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him closer. “You brought him back here?” She hissed.

Dante glanced over his shoulder to gauge if Vergil was listening—if he was, he gave no sign of it, instead mechanically setting the Yamato back down on the coffee table in front of him and sitting back down to scrutinise the water bottle again. Turning back to Lady, he shrugged. “Well… Yeah?” He held out his hands in something between an apology and calming motion. “He had nowhere else to go.”

She looked at him like he’d sprouted an extra head. “Have you completely lost your mind?” Even though she had the decency to whisper the words, he quickly shot another glance over his shoulder—and was grateful to see that his twin had scooped up some book he’d abandoned on the table at some point in the past, flipping it open.

Convinced that his brother was apparently not taking any of it personally—for the moment at least—he turned back to her. “Uh, no?” She opened her mouth again, but he shook his head and grabbed her shoulder, “Come on, come on, outside.” Through her protests, he ushered her out the door and onto the sidewalk in front of the shop.

Once there, she immediately pulled out of his hold, crossing her arms. “You’ve lost your mind.” She snapped, this time as a statement.

“What’s going on?” Trish appeared from the darkness, hands on hips.

Lady scowled. “He’s lost his mind.” She turned to the other woman. “Trish, tell him he’s lost his mind.”

Trish looked between them in bewilderment. “Dante?”

He sighed, folding his own arms to mirror Lady. “Lady thinks I’m insane for bringing Vergil back here.”

“You’re damn right I do! Are you forgetting the whole bit where he stabbed you? Multiple times?”

“I definitely remember the bits where you shot me.” If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead from the glare she shot him. Instead, he snorted. “Yes, I do. Because that was half the reason I started to suspect Nero was his kid in the first place.” Trish, at least, chuckled at that one.

It hadn’t actually been that simple, really, and sure, his first thought had been wondering if their father had had other families they didn’t know about, but… Then he’d gotten a chance to take a real look at Nero’s face, and then he’d noticed the Yamato’s blatant delight, singing for this cocky nineteen year old in a way she never had even for him—and all plans of taking her back for safe keeping (and for the hidden, wounded part of him still mourning his brother) had dissipated. A nephew was a major improvement anyway, and trying to to be there for Nero after he’d failed the boy’s father was better than hoarding a Devil Arm and pretending he was fine.

But now he might just have or get his brother back, after being resigned to something worse than only losing him. He was not about to waste this chance. Turning back to Lady, he added, “Look, we went through some percussive therapy and a few light heart to hearts in the Underworld. I think the old bastard’s got a shot.”

Lady made an incredulous sound and looked desperately at her companion for help.

Trish merely frowned, sighing deeply. She met his gaze, and he once again felt a surge of appreciation for her and her familiarity with them—there was nothing but thoughtful understanding in her eyes. “It’s not going to be easy.”

Lady stared at her in disbelief, but Dante nodded. “I know.” He told her honestly, maintaining eye contact. “But I want to try.”

“Dante.” Her voice was equally as serious, though not at all harsh or disbelieving. For a moment, some dark memory flickered in her gaze, and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, just how much she hadn’t told him about Mundus and what she knew of his twin’s captivity. Still he stared back at her, undeterred—and definitely felt a lot more sure of himself when a dose of relief washed over her expression, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “… Okay.”

“What?” Lady’s eyebrows were somewhere in her bangs, her face a mixture of frustration with a hint of betrayal. “You’re okay with this?”

Trish shrugged. “I am if Dante wants to give it a go.” A small sigh, and she looked away. “Besides, I am… Partially responsible for the whole situation.” She ignored Dante’s concerned frown.

Lady looked between them one more time, increasingly annoyed. “I don’t believe this.”

Dante made himself turn back to her. “Listen, I’m not asking you to be buddy-buddy—hell, I’m not even asking you two like each other. Just…” He swallowed. “Just bear with it for now, then we’ll see. Just try it.” When her expression didn’t change, he continued, “For me?”

After a long pause, she groaned loudly and at last unfolded her arms. “Fine! Just for now. Just for you.” With one last huff and a click of her heels, she turned and stomped off.

Once she’d moved off to the other side of the street, he looked back at Trish. “Trish-”

She held up a hand. “Don’t.” She told him, completely calmly. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not wallowing in guilt or anything. I don’t think everything is my fault.” She shook her head. “It’s not even really about ‘fault.’ I’m just not going to ignore the fact that I did play a part, however small, in what Mundus did.” When she met his gaze again, her eyes were softer. “I want this to work out for you, Dante. I know how long you’ve been in this fight. And…” She glanced over his shoulder at the doors. “I honestly want it to work for both of you. I saw just some of what Mundus was doing to him…” Whatever it was, it was bad enough that she closed her eyes against the memory, shaking her head and changing tracks, “And I talked to V, right before the end.” The small smile returned. “He was present, Dante. Aware. Thoughtful, even. I believe he genuinely wants to change.” She paused, “Speaking of… Have you called Nero yet?”

He shook his head. “No. Thought I’d do it in the morning once we were both a bit more settled in.”

“Well, don’t wait too long.” She chuckled, “He’s both his father’s son and his uncle’s nephew.” The smile broke into a grin at his eyebrow raise, “Let’s just say kid’s been pulling his weight and more while the two of you were gone, and might be as stubborn as the two of you put together.”

“Oh, the stubborn bit I got.” He muttered, rubbing his jaw at the phantom ache from when Nero had punched him out of his duel with Vergil, grinning proudly despite himself. “Glad to hear he’s doing well.”

She merely cocked an eyebrow at him, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it tomorrow. Now go get some rest—you look like shit.”

She was already heading back over to Lady before he could finish saying “Gee, thanks.”

Lady immediately fell into step beside her, heading back towards the city centre. “You’re really okay with this?”

Trish sighed. “It’s… Complicated.”

But Lady still wasn’t satisfied. “I’m not going to pretend I always understand what Dante’s thinking, because sometimes it’s like he’s from a whole other planet, but…” She glanced over her shoulder, “This just doesn’t add up to me. Why’d he go from being ready to take him out on the Qliphoth to letting him stay in his house?”

Trish stopped walking, turning to look at her. “How much has Dante told you?”

Lady blinked. “About their past? Honestly… Not that much, in the grand scheme of things. At least, not the details. Especially not anything he found out about Vergil’s stint in the Underworld.”

Silence for a long moment. “It’s not my place to share either of their secrets.” Trish said at last. “So… Let’s just say, it’s not so much that Dante wanted to kill him or was okay with it, just that he thought the had to.” She looked up at the sky with a soft sigh. “In the end, they’re the only ones who understand each other. Because of their demon parentage, they’re just… Wired differently.”  A chuckle, “Though I suppose you could say the same about me.”

Lady shook her head. “I’ll say.” She snorted, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow, “Which reminds me… I seem to recall you still haven’t paid me back for lunch last week.”

Trish’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Oh? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine.” Lady folded her arms once more and began walking again, slightly more briskly. “See if I give you any more advance calls about jobs in the future.”

“Oh, come on!” Trish called after her, “I’m sorry, alright?” Lady was already several yards down the road, forcing Trish to hurry after her. “I said I’m sorry!”

Dante pushed the door open with his shoulder, raking his hand through his hair. “Sorry about that, Lady is-” He stopped short when Vergil came into view.

The book was still open in his twin’s lap, but Vergil was no longer reading it. His head had tipped sideways into the high back of the sofa, eyes closed, and the motion of his breathing far calmer than it had been while sleeping in the Underworld.

He looked… Vulnerable, so much the difference was almost frightening. Truly peaceful sleep eased the perpetual frown his brother wore, and accented how young he still looked—although the latter was little more than a chill reminder of the time he’d spent torturously frozen in time inside the Nero Angelo armour. One of Vergil’s hands still rested on the book’s pages like he’d been partway through turning it, holding it open, lightly cradled in his other hand.

It was a perfect recreation of a sight he’d seen a few times when they were little, when he’d been unable to sleep and so had climbed out of bed to go in search of his brother. He’d find Vergil in much the same pose; book in hand, illuminated by moonlight, curled up on the love seat under the window of their attic room, sound asleep—looking just as fragile then as he did now. He did the same thing he would do back then—crept carefully across the floor until he reached his twin’s side, taking the seat next to him. Hesitating for a moment to make sure his brother was truly asleep, he leaned against Vergil’s side, one arm slipping forward to cover the hand holding the book open. When he still didn’t stir, Dante pitched forward all the way, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder and inhaling deeply.

They both stank of exertion, dead demons, and the smog of the Underworld. But underneath, his half demon nose could detect a decidedly familiar scent; the paper and ink of the books he loved so much, and a smokey edge that reminded him of fresh black tea. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to nod off himself like he had all those years ago. Plastered against Vergil’s side, every breath pressed his twin’s shoulder against his chest, and he was close enough to hear the steady beat of his brother’s heart.

“… I missed you.” He admitted into Vergil’s collar, nuzzling into the fabric. “Even though you are an arrogant jackass who sucks at feelings.”

Eventually, his back began to ache from the angle—so he took one last deep breath to reassure himself that his brother was there, and sat back up. Working carefully, he extracted the book from Vergil’s lap, remembering just in time to stuff a piece of paper in to hold the place to avoid a telling off later. Putting it down, he got back up and even more gently moved his twin so that he was laying on his side on the sofa, tucking his arms and legs up so they weren’t hanging off and pillowing his head on the armrest. That done, he gave Vergil’s shoulder a small squeeze, then hunted down one of the old knitted throws he’d bought at a flea market because of how breathtakingly ugly it was, and gingerly laid it over him. They both ran warm as a furnace because of their demon halves, but it never hurt to be careful—and besides, it made him feel a bit better. Wasn’t so long ago his brother’s body had literally been falling apart.

That done, he plopped wearily down on the floor in front of the couch with a yawn, his own aches and exhaustion finally creeping in. He could—should—make the trek up the stairs to where his bedroom technically was (although he could count the nights he actually slept there on half of one hand), but… Tilting his head back against the couch, he looked sideways at his sleeping twin again. They’d spent the past few weeks (or was it months?) exclusively in each other’s company after decades of separation. He’d nearly forgotten what it felt like, the way they balanced each other out, even when fighting. It had been the worm in the back of his mind against Urizen, a nagging sense that the equilibrium was off. He had hit like a truck, but his brother’s demon half alone couldn’t match him blow for blow the way Vergil usually did—bouncing off each other like magnets, their mother had once said. No, Urizen had been nothing but unrelenting force—a power similar to his, but… Not quite right—missing the thought, the instinct, the identity behind it that should have been adjusting and responding to his movements and attacks. Like banging his head against a stone wall. Trying to avoid thinking too hard about what he had to do while trying to keep Nero out of it, he’d chalked it up to whatever monstrosity the Underworld had twisted his twin into; his brother’s mind just another item on the list of things he loved destroyed by their demon heritage. It wasn’t until V had already scaled Urizen’s chest, when he’d turned his attention from Nero long enough to hear what was being said, that it clicked.

V. Staring at his twin, finally sleeping properly, he thought about V. From what little Vergil had figured out how to explain, his human half’s motivation really had simply been not wanting to die. Looking back now, wished he’d scratched that itch in his head that something wasn’t right and actually spoken to him a bit more. He’d tried asking Vergil if V was actually going to stab him with Sparda while he was unconscious, but his brother had insisted he didn’t know, and Dante had let it rest. It wasn’t like it would’ve killed him—nor, as Lady had pointed out, would it have been the first time Vergil stabbed him. Most of all, however, he regretted missing the chance to see the side that his twin had been trying to lock away for so long. Twenty years ago he’d been young, angry, and still grappling with his own identity that he hadn’t noticed a subtly building desire to know his brother again until it was too late.

Fighting together back then, he’d remembered what they once had, and the child still missing his family had bubbled back up from under all the teenage angst and pent up frustration—only for Vergil to step off the cliff into Hell, slicing his palm when he tried to stop him, and he’d been left hanging. Mallet Island had, ironically, soothed the wound somewhat—there was fresh pain at his twin’s fate and what he’d done, but believing Vergil dead made it easier to forcibly silence the ‘what ifs.’ It had also helped against Urizen, telling himself that his real brother had died years ago, and this was just a horrid shadow, mutated by the Underworld.

But now… Now he knew he had been within arms’ reach of his twin’s human half, unfiltered by the impulses and fury of his demon side—and he hadn’t given him the time of day. If he’d known… The thing he’d want to ask V were endless, in the desperate hope of getting a clearer answer than Vergil usually gave.

But foremost amongst the questions was one that was blazing in his mind now, where before it had only periodically surfaced when he’d had too many drinks or a hunt had gone particularly badly. A thing that had gnawed at him since learning his brother was alive, whether he’d wanted to admit it or not.

Dragging his eyelids back open despite their determination to close, he looked at Vergil’s face again. “… Did you miss me?” His twin didn’t answer. But he did shift in his sleep, one hand sliding forward on the cushion until it dropped onto Dante’s shoulder. “I’m going to take that as a yes until proven otherwise.” He looked back towards the ceiling, yawning again—trying to parse through their complicated relationship was only making him feel more tired, as if that was even possible. Finally, he gave up on trying to stay awake and just let his head sideways to lean against his brother’s hand before drifting off to sleep himself.

Nero woke up to a gaggle of children jumping on the bed. By the time he got them corralled it was well past lunch time—and even then, he was ultimately only rescued by Nico’s arrival, promising to let them check out some of her new inventions (which she quickly assured him were completely harmless). Kyrie had had to slip out to the opera house, so he was left alone to hunt down things for lunch, cobbling together a sandwich made from leftovers.

Eventually, as he was sitting down to eat, Nico joined him in the kitchen. “Gave ‘em all drawing projects.” She told him, filling up a glass from the sink and sitting beside him. “How’re you holdin’ up?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “I dunno? It’s been two months now. Was wonderin’ if you were still stewing like a pot.”

He took a bite, chewing it over slowly to have some space before answering. “Very funny.” She made a face at him, but didn’t interrupt. “It’s not like they gave an eta for when they’d be back.”

“Mm, true.” Leaning forward, she snatched a tomato from his plate before he could stop her. “Not botherin’ you as much, then?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” She looked like she wanted to ask, but then her phone buzzed, and she instead set about digging it out of her pocket to check—whatever it was got a nod before she put it down on the table. “Work?”

“Nothin’ important.” She muttered, waving him off. “Lady said she’d take care of it.”

“Lady?” He put the sandwich down, frowning at her, “What’s she doing in Fortuna?”

It was Nico’s turn to shrug. “No idea. Called an hour or so ago, said she wanted to blow off some steam.”

Nero’s frown only deepened. Fortuna was pretty far from Lady’s usual stomping grounds—enough that she hadn’t visited since the Urizen incident. It didn’t make sense for her to suddenly come all the way back just to for small time hunting. However, if there were any massive disasters, he was sure Nico would have been gushing about them, rather than offering to entertain the kids so he could eat.

He ran down a quick list of things he thought might be able to drive Lady from the Redgrave area, based on what he knew about her. It was a short one, and he stopped partway down when he realised one if the items was—

The phone by the kitchen door range before he could finish the thought. Hurriedly, he put the sandwich down, pointed a warning finger at Nico to try and dissuade her from stealing it, and trudged over—most likely, it was someone looking for Kyrie or a telemarketer. “Hello?”

“Nero! Hey! Favourite nephew!” Dante’s voice was so overwhelmingly chipper, to the point of being unrealistic, that Nero found himself frozen in place for a long moment, unable to respond.

The effect only got worse when, very faintly from the other end of the call, he heard another, more weary, now-familiar voice dryly reply, “He’s your only nephew, Dante.”

The sound, however muffled, of his father’s voice completely shut his brain down. He’d spent the last two months debating and mulling over their future and relationship—but now the reality was too much for him to process, everything he’d planned to say suddenly escaping him. 

“Fine, but I’m gonna hold you to that.” Dante was saying, sounding a little more distant, then, “Ow!” Nero heard a soft thump, and then the clatter of something hitting a tabletop, “Sorry, your old man’s throwing shit at me.” His uncle’s voice moved away from the receiver again. “I’m trying to talk to your kid, asshole, what are you, five?” A sigh as Dante brought the phone back up. “Sorry, he’s extra grouchy because I woke him up to make him eat, cat dragged us in late last night.” A pause. “Nero, you still with me?”

“Y… Yes.” Nero managed, swallowing. There was still something slight fabricated about the cheer—although it didn’t sound completely faked, just that he was trying too hard. “Sorry, I…”

“S’okay.” Dante’s tone became gentler, and Nero could hear a proper smile in his voice. “Just wanted to make sure we told you sooner rather than later. I wanted to drop by, but your father-” A rustle, and some more clattering, followed by a whoop from his uncle, “Aha! Nice try, Verge!” The victory was short lived, quickly followed by another thud and a pained grunt, “Damnit, that’s cheating, you bastard.”

Despite himself, Nero couldn’t help but wonder what exactly his father had done to catch one over on Dante like that.

Then he heard Dante saying, “Keep it up, jackass, and I’ll hand you the phone,” And the panic ratcheted up another notch. He hadn’t even been ready to speak to Dante again, he was in no way prepared to talk to his father yet.

“Dante-”

“Don’t worry, that dissuaded him.” His uncle replied, quickly, “He wouldn’t know what to do if I did.”

“Dante-”

“Yeah, yeah, kill me later.” Dante muttered away from the receiver, then his voice became louder again. “Don’t worry kid, I’m gonna have to spend some time trying to house train this old bastard—don’t look at me like that, you were just throwing things at me—so just stop by or give a call whenever you’re ready.”

Nero felt like he was listening through water, but managed to make himself nod and reply, “Right.”

“Nero,” Dante said quietly, sounding even more earnest. “I’m serious, take your time. We’re all trying to figure this out at once.”

Nero swallowed again, but this time felt a little more in control. “I will.” He said, feeling less like he was talking through water, “I promise.”

“Good.” Dante’s smile cam back into his voice, “I’ll see you then, kid.” With that, he hung up.

Nero stood there staring at the receiver for a long time afterward, completely ignoring Nico’s attempts to get his attention.

“Mother.”

The Matron tore her eyes away from the waves, turning to look at the Daughter coming up beside her from tunnel in the sea wall. “What is it, my child?”

“The other Sisters are ready for you.” The younger woman told her, deep voice just barely loud enough to hear over the echoes of the sea.

“Ah, excellent.” Using her walking stick as leverage, the Matron heaved herself back up from her seat on the rock, waving away the Daughter’s offer of assistance. “And not a moment too soon.”

Despite herself, she cast another searching look out over the water, grey eyes narrowed.

The Daughter followed her gaze for a moment before turning back to her. “Mother… Have you heard something we cannot from the Song?” She frowned, “We have not held council in five years, and not had full council in almost twenty years. Why now? What changed?”

The Matron hesitated for a moment, then looked back up to meet the younger woman’s eyes, exactly the same hue as her own. “It’s quite simple, actually.” She explained, leaning on her cane. “We must prepare.”

“… Prepare for what?” The tone was not one that expected an answer.

And, indeed, the Matron merely smiled knowingly at her. “For the storm that is approaching.” She said calmly, before turning back towards the mouth of the tunnel. “Come, it is time. Naabbéa ina šìrkug.”

Thus does She speak in Her sacred Song.

I just wanted you to know

That this is me trying

I just wanted you to know

That this is me trying

At least I'm trying