Chapter Text
The man trudged without rhyme or reason; his strides were only to occupy him. The action was redundant, but that was the point. The ever–running dialogue in the man’s mind seemed to stop with his back and forth. It was peaceful, but he didnt notice; the action was almost involuntary. An outsider other than himself would likely see a man who paced with purpose. Only a trained eye would notice anything to the contrary. A trained eye would find that he merely existed, and not with vigor. No, he seemed displaced in Fortuna. If one paid close enough attention, they would notice it in his posture, his eyes, the weight of his footsteps. One might notice that the rigidness of Fortuna’s customs bound him, much to his chagrin.
Those who were obstacles in his path extricated themself from it; any who did not would be run through. The man said not a word to anyone, made not even a suggestion to his presence unless it was necessary. After (if he ever found himself in such a circumstance) he would swiftly disappear back into the shadows from whence he came. This man, it seemed, longed to be one thing: invisible. Discreet. Such primitive beings as humans were only a hindrance to him— with their judging fixations and stones thrown his way. And his inconspicuousness was working for the most part, save his appearance.
He looked estranged. Not quite of this Earth. But not quite apart from it, either. He had white hair—clean and smoothed back. The silver strands nearly glowed in comparison to his dark clothes, which were tattered at the ends and stained with blood. He was a dichotomy in and of himself—every aspect of him opposing another. He carried a turmoil so grandiose it was a miracle the fragmented parts of himself still held together. Was it possible he reflected that in his appearance intentionally, or was it just his nature that gave him such an outlandish—noticeable—look?
It was inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things, though. The man wandered among Fortuna’s old libraries and chapels for a second time. No one identified a reason for the journey, perhaps not even the man himself. However, it was clear he was drawn to these sites. In a way beyond the mundane— metaphysical. Behind his rage lied a sentimental soul, untouched but eternal. Perhaps that was part of the man’s reason for being there.
He would traverse the land and slay demons where needed. He was not above stealing, but held his head high regardless. Most importantly, though, was that a place like Fortuna allowed the man to block out the pains his human heart riddled him with; forcing away the tears that should have never been shed.
He was Vergil. The Alpha and the Omega. He who was and would be forever more. An entity such as he had no need of the writhing, beating carcass of a heart that burned a hole in his chest.
At last, Vergil’s initial goal seeped back, filling just enough cracks in his shredded form to motivate his continued survival. There he was: a son of Sparda, clinging to his last strings of purpose in life—a hopeless dream of gaining enough strength to protect himself. He was blessed with the gifts of the infernal, a god in his own right. He had overcome death, overcome the burdens which struck him down, lost everything, and yet Vergil still burned bright with ceaseless hellfire. He seemed an army of a million condensed into the body of one.
The monster had a child following him. Vergil had sensed the boy for a while—his presence was oddly demonic. Vergil knew far too well of the horrific experimentation Fortuna’s Order of the Sword would administer to test their infernal possessions. He didn’t think much of the other’s presence, though he did brutally slaughter a few stray demons and perhaps a rabbit or two that crossed his path in the hopes of scaring the boy off. Neither worked. Whoever this child was, he had an absurd amount of gall—or stupidity. In Vergil's experience, those two seemed to blend into each other quite frequently.
Fed up with the other’s nonsense, Vergil paused for a moment, and then whirled around. He found the boy haphazardly attempting to hide behind a juniper bush.
“Come out,” Vergil growled, sheathing Yamato but clutching her saya tightly— threateningly. The only response was silence. He continued regardless, “I know where you are, boy. Do not make me ask twice.” Vergil had a commanding presence, and he utilized it well.
Finally, after a brief moment of hesitation, the child poked his head out from the bushes. Only then did Vergil notice this child had white hair. It may have been dusted with leaves and dirt and whatnot, but it remained a brilliant silver crowning his head nonetheless.
Vergil forced every cell in his body to not implode. He tried to offer himself some explanation to the phenomenon. It could be dyed, or h e could have a rare genetic trait. But his demonic power— No. He refused to entertain such foolishness. Not then, anyway.
The boy stared at the ground, fiddling with his shirt, legs shaking. He was small—scrawny even for a child that was only eight or nine. He teetered on the edge of collapsing under Vergil’s cold stare. But who wouldn’t be trepidatious when faced with that man?
“What are you doing?” Vergil pried, and the child flinched at the clear–cutting tone in his voice.
“Just watching…” He mumbled, almost inaudibly.
Vergil raised an eyebrow. “Go back to your parents. I have no patience for entertaining children.”
“But I don’t have parents.”
Vergil froze. “You’re an orphan?”
He was met with a nod.
“Go back to the orphanage, then.”
The other began to turn back around, which Vergil determined deemed the matter settled. Then, the child blurted out, “I can’t!”
Vergil– unknowingly, although not completely regrettably—glared at him, and the boy realized his outburst and shrunk into himself again, ears and cheeks burning. Vergil was irked. Sure, an angry Vergil was another matter, but an annoyed Vergil was nothing to sneeze at, either. Thus, the child remained embarrassed, afraid. A convolution of uncomfortable emotions, really.
Still, Vergil prodded, “go on,” and the child regained confidence.
“The Order stole me from the orphanage.” His little voice trailed off at the end of his words, and he wiped furiously at his nose. “If I go back they’ll take me again.”
Well , Vergil thought, that lined up with my previous notion. It explained the demonic energy; The Order would want him for that reason. Had they drugged him with demonic blood? A child, whom they deemed no one cared about simply because of his lack of parents, would he be abducted and put through experimentation for The Order’s own selfish, inhumane wants? Or was he born like that—with the signature Sparda–white hair, with Vergil’s father’s blood running through his veins, with those ever so familiar blue eyes—?
“Were you born with white hair?” Vergil asked abruptly.
“I don’t—'' The child stopped to bite his lip when Vergil’s gaze hardened. He back-tracked. “Yeah… I was.”
Vergil’s mouth would have fallen slack with schock were he not clenching his jaw so tightly. He gathered that breaking a tooth was a far better fate than showing the slightest bit of vulnerability to this child.
Spaaaaarda. The demon inside himself taunted. He got even more unnerved.
Blood thrummed in his veins. A sudden sheen of sweat washed over him. His ears rang, his vision blurred, every part of himself suddenly overwhelmed in response to the answer. He could feel—only vaguely—the rope that tethered him and this boy together; his internal demon recognized this child as kin. Thus, Vergil went on a mental tangent to find a damned explanation, ignoring the child; he was far enough for Vergil to think for a moment.
The boy must have been of Sparda’s descent, it was undeniable with hair and blood like that. Only two, newly three, people were known to have both of those traits. Could this child be Dante’s son? But . . . Vergil knew his brother. Dante was irresponsible at best, sure, but melted when it came to family. That was probably reckless in itself; Dante, the fool, had shown undeserved mercy to Vergil continuously— even went so far as to drag Vergil’s decaying form out of Hell.
This was no son of Dante’s; he would know (he never seemed the type for a hookup)—and wouldn’t damn that son to be cursed to Fortuna. Dante often had annoyingly high morals. He wouldn’t be aloof to anyone, nor put them in such a horrible predicament, especially not to any son of his. Maybe that was it, then; Dante hadn’t known of his son. Now that son of his was somehow Vergil’s burden to bear. Vergil made a mental note to stab his brother should their paths cross again.
The boy’s father was irrelevant; there were currently more pressing matters at hand, like the boy approaching Vergil.
“That’s why I followed you! I thought … I thought maybe you …” The child shook his head.
“Thought what?” Vergil was patient. He didn’t wanna scare the child with his usual belligerence. He needed an answer. And he had a sinking feeling that his previous assessment was erroneous.
“Nothin’.”
Vergil raised an eyebrow. “You thought I was like you, am I correct?”
The boy nodded once more, slower this time. He asked, “Are you?”
If what Vergil believed to be true was right, he was. Should I tell that to this child? His … nephew—probably. If he did, he couldn’t go back; this child wanted something from him, that was certain. Vergil knew that intertwining their fates would give him responsibility for the other. Which he didn’t—couldn’t—have to begin with. This was Dante’s mess to clean up, not Vergil’s; Vergil had no attachment to nor need of this boy. Yet …
“I am.” The words passed through his lips of their own accord. But the part of himself that hated him taunted, foolish, sentimental, human heart. Was he? Be shook his head, dismissing the thought. Vergil knew he should have torn out that damnable side of himself ages ago. It only weakened him. He regretted the choice, but knew that it was not the time to address it; he could no longer discard the child who came with hair shining like a halo. Whether it be his cursed luck or destiny itself, Vergil would once again succumb to what had initially brought upon his end: his humanity. Oh, how he loathed it. But he obliged nevertheless.
Regardless of Vergil’s internal objections, the boy's face lit up immediately, at those shouldn’t–have–been words. He beamed, “You can fight really well! Does that mean I can fight like that too? Can you train me? Can I—”
Vergil cut him off with a sigh, rubbing his temples as if the other’s voice was so shrill that it induced a headache. “I do not have time for this,”
“Please, sir! I can be useful,” the child desperately assured, “I really, really can! I don’t wanna go back there, please!” The child’s eyes glossed over with tears.
Vergil had half the nerve to audibly groan; handling a crying child was not on his agenda—it never would be. He could take the boy back to Dante, Vergil reasoned. He could take him there and be done with it. The boy may not have been his responsibility, yet he felt that Sparda’s blood shouldn’t be tainted by the likes of those damn humans.
“Fine. But I will not be the one to—” He stopped short. Was he really going to let a child gifted with demonic abilities be trained by his incomptonent brother? Surely, he himself was a better fit for such a role. Surely, his strength now doubled that of Dante’s. If anyone was to train the next generation of Sparda kin, it should be him, should it not?
Vergil glanced at the boy, sizing him up. He caught the other staring back at him. He was met with big, cerulean eyes staring pleadingly from up under lilac lashes. As if that wasn’t enough, the child’s hands, still pudgy with the remnants of baby fat, twisted his hoodie strings; he simply couldn’t contain his zeal. The child was riding the high of his newfound hope—paying no mind to the fact that he was barefoot and bleeding from the hazards he was no doubt faced with on his journey.
All of that worried Vergil; the child was either horrible at being inconspicuous, didn’t mind acting this way, or didn’t care. Vergil sighed—it seemed he had done more in that single day than his entire life. This child wasn’t his problem; Vergil was a solitary man, in no need or want of insolent children– even ones blessed with Sparda’s blood. A side of him began to reason, but Vergil shut that down quicker than it started. He decided that he would take the boy back to Dante. That would be that. Vergil needed power; he did not need to hinder himself by giving others power.
Yet those words, those taunting words echoed in his mind: The Order stole me from my home. I don’t want them to take me again.
“What is your name, boy?” Vergil pried, instead.
“Nero,” he stated, oblivious to the power of the name. Nero, Darkness. Nero, the tyrannical emperor. Nero, the symbol of the Antichrist.
“Nero…” Vergil tested out the name. He was certain his brother wouldn't have chosen it. He mused at the poetic occurrence, to call a pale, angelic boy such a thing. Vergil collected himself. Foolish to dwell on the meaningless . He continued, “Why have you come to me?”
“Because you can—!”
“—No. Let me finish. You say you wish to fight. Why?” It was a test, a final line drawn between the two; it would dictate if Vergil would follow through in mentoring the child. How he intended to guide Nero was another question, one not forthcoming to Vergil. Even if he brought the boy with him, he would lend him off to Dante, who’d likely abandoned or been none-the-wiser to his existence, who clearly couldn’t handle fatherhood. That was certainly a poor plan, especially considering the potential of the boy. Still, Vergil decided the ”after” of this interaction was irrelevant; he could compose a plan, whatever it may be, later. At that moment, he elected to listen to Nero’s quiet but high-pitched voice.
Nero explained, “I want to protect people. The Order of the Sword is bad; they hurt people! And … the demon stuff they use is bad, too!”
Vergil crossed his arms, relaxing his stance. He challenged, “Is that so?”
“Yeah! They…” Nero turned away, shuffling his feet. His sleeve rolled down as he pressed a hand to scratch his face, revealing a spider–web of scars—some more recent and purple, others white–hot and fading. If Nero really did carry Sparda’s blood, those scars would fade, in time, but for now they remained. They were an ever–present memory. A collage of agony. And if Nero was anything like Vergil, he, too, would trace them even in their absence; they meant something, though it may not be pleasant. Those scars were a part of them. Even if they faded from their supernatural bodies, their minds were more vulnerable. They would never really fade. An aggravating side effect of their human nature. Sensing Vergil’s concern, Nero elaborated, “It hurt me…”
And just like that, a memory— one he had not thought of in years, but had been tortured with for an age— flooded Vergil’s mind.
Help me. Help me. Someone. It hurts! Please! STOP! IT HURTS!
. . . I need . . . strength . . . protection.
Vergil hummed. His mind was made up, whether he recognized it or not. His next actions seemed distant, as if coming from a place so rooted in his being he needn’t direct his body to perform them— only stand back and watch with glazed vision.
“Come along,” He gestured with a hand for Nero to follow.
“Where are we going?’
“That,” Vergil said, almost amused. “You shall soon see.”