Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June has long since passed, but it still leaves a feeling in my heart like nostalgia for the fading moment of a gleaming golden summer. Summer is not the same everywhere. Summer, slipping on the slope of time, sometimes remains as clear as the memory of the first love with mystical black eyes, sometimes is burning pains like those gut-wrenching silent tears and of course at other times can be a scorching flame of hatred or agony.

Summer is not my muse. Summer is just a weird friend. It's not the person you like the most, admire the most, nor hate the most, just someone you don't really care about but never been absent from your life.

Summer in me used to be some old white walls.

You would not be able to imagine from anywhere a wall painted white can be so ugly - the white color over the years has been molded by moss to tarnish the pristine and dignified beauty. On the white background, there were patches of green sticky stains, in some places it was dry and yellow and smelled like wet dead leaves. Sometimes I even think that the unpleasant smell must be poisonous, and then I and the children around me, will suffocate in here poisoned. The disfigured roots of some despicable tree have broken down the wall, revealing a bit of the outside landscape in the small openings.

“You kids had better stay away from the walls! Whoever messes with them will be banned from joining dinner!"

Those with larger bodies within the wall often tell us that the wall is protecting us, and then prevent the kids from running around, touching the wall or going outside without them. Children who disobey will be punished immediately. They must be punished for something means to protect them. Oh that's weird! Please find out the philosophy laid there, because I could never know if I can think clearly or not, but I believe outsiders who spend their lives observing other people's lives like you will understand better than I do.

The other kids will believe it right away and just nod their round heads agreeing. Personally, I don't believe them. I know for myself that I'm a smart kid, I'm different, that's for sure. When the other children were running around with mischieves, I've already knew how to read books silently and solve math problems. My eyes will never leave that wall. I'm very sophisticated.

Gradually I realized that the walls were not bad at all. Those tall people are only best at lying. How could they deceive these young yet observative eyes? The walls protect us from nothing. They just separate us from another world. Hey, let me tell you about the difference between them, which I have already noticed!

The world within the walls is a strangely peaceful place. I mean, it's so quiet and normal it's annoying. There is always a serious and bland atmosphere. The air had a clear smell that we kindly inhaled until our throats were choked. That pristine space often makes me want to raise my head and lament that when we would die of boredom. We will wake up, breathe in the same breaths with God, and then die at the end of the day when the Lord's hands suddenly loosen. I am always covered in the whitest, smoothest, most innocent and beautiful clothings. That world grew up with me, but even as I grew older, the walls were still stubbonly the same. While I look more and more like a human, the walls are getting uglier and uglier.

Like, they're getting more and more tainted, perharps it's because I'm hating on them, I just want them to be demolished as soon as possible. In front of me, the wall was an abominable filth, but in the eyes of those younger ones, the wall existed without any blemish.

Now this is the joys of the human world: the world outside the wall is full of new colours. I remember there was a me as a child, often sneaking close to the wall and peering outside. Oh! I've never seen so many curious things! It's a world full of adventures; delicious and exotic foods displayed on the street that if you want to eat them, you have to exchange for them with some pieces of paper; beautiful things dangling around that make people crave for them; animals roam the streets, and the sky outside is an endless blue sky instead of a little square like the matchbox above my head. It's magical!

“This child, I want him.”

"Yes sir, we will immediately prepare the procedure for the child to go to a new home."

Those wild withering summers burned like paper on fire when one of the giant creatures inside the walls take me out of there in a not too soon nor too late day in mid-May. There were not only the walls and the shameless tree that had pierced their body but also a beautiful looking gate leading to the outside that I'd never knew about. The gate was of glossy black ebony, whether it was well-maintained or because there were hands that had rubbed it hundreds, if not thousands, times. Stepping out of that gate, I had completely become something of the outside world. I would have to move to another place, I would then have a new family. I was getting out of the orphanage.

Summer in me was also the memories of a new family.

You won't know how things will turn out until you see it with your own eyes. Not only did I get out of the walls, I got to touch the outside world as well. Turns out, things didn't change much, I just went from inside these walls into inside other walls. The space around me was still divided into two worlds, but perhaps, the world outside the walls was now a little closer to me.

My new family is a middle-class but quite famous family. The two heads of the house, my adoptive parents, were both fanatics, and such fanatics raised two fanatical children like them.

I don't want to reveal the names of my adoptive parents, but about the adoptive siblings - I think it's fine. The oldest brother of the family was Credo, he was much older than me. He was the most loyal servant of The Almighty, arguably the most devoted person I have ever seen. That is why he was the proud son of his parents and the one who brought fame to this small family of him.

His sister - my adoptive sister, who is about my age is Kyrie. Kyrie was like a pure and gentle summer shower. I could never understand how her parents can raise her to become such an innocent person. That's just my feeling – a child's sophisticated feeling, something we've carried with us since infancy. Although I have never seen the evil sides of the two worlds I observed, I still feel that there is still something abominable in the air like crimes floating around, yet Kyrie exists as an anti to them. Well, I don't dare to ramble ways too much on those things, I'm not a philosopher.

Then, every day when I wake up, I will be my adoptive parents' child, my adoptive siblings' sibling, and after then truly me.

I want to wake up to the sweet scents of my mother's early morning pies. I also like to walk around the house and watch people getting lost in their own activities when it's getting bored being on my own. Hot tea in its glass jar, as golden as amber, just looking at it makes your eyes burn. The hands of the clock tick slowly. My adoptive parents loved to look at me, they often said how beautiful I am, as if I am a gift from God and by that Kyrie loves me too. They treat me like a precious item on display and sometimes, I catch them looking at me with some dreamy distant eyes. It's just that they won't hug me, but I don't need that. I'm an adult now, I'll be fine.

I was not satisfied. I didn't want my life to be closed behind these walls, even if it meant I were trapped in a golden cage. The summer in me should not be those walls that are hard to climb over, family and the sweet things of childhood, it can be peeking and exposing more the tainted sides of the worlds.

My world is still a white canvas from the beginning of heaven and earth, and I am the one who can't wait to paint on it. As I got closer to the outside world, there were times when I thought it wasn't an angel but the devils who gave me the paintbrush. I don't even know if I'm on the right track. I'm frightened. But I won't stop.

It all probably started with the kids on the West street. The city I lived in is a place filled with religion, with cultist everywhere. It will be surprising if I reveal that they were worshiping a demon - Sparda. A warrior from the Inferno. Yet everyone believed that he would bring them happiness and prosperity. Of course, I dare not tell anyone what I think. Treason is a crime, and the punishment for an apostate isn't simply bloody whips.

As a child, who didn't have crowds gathered around their neighborhood. Me too, although they didn't really like me. Besides, maybe they were afraid of me. Thinking about that made a teenager who was going through puberty like me both a little sad and bit elated. Among them, there is a boy with quick mouth and cursedly bold gut, let's kind of call him N* for now. N* is about my age. Honestly, he was a lot better than me, he lived in a rich family, his parents adored him so much, well, and the boys loved hanging out with him too. He always roams the streets with his friends having a great time. As for me, I had to learn a lot of things, the mundane chores of children with strict parents - riding horse, reading, going to religious school, learning to dance.

N* was surprisingly friendly with me, even though his close friends were hating on me, they always waited for N* to be away to bully me. They can pinch and punch in hidden places, for example, so that my wounds don't show, and basically the people around me don't care enough about me to really check them out. Despite everything, I still hung out with N*. I thought that he's precious. He ɹespected me, he ˥iked me, even though there were many differences between us. I still vividly remember those days in which the sun shone brightly through the trees, casting cold murky shadows on the ground, or the snow covered the road and killed numerous cattle of some houses, apparently. ... it seemed, it seemed that N* has been with me through most of those things, as a good friend, and us two boys have shared all kinds of stuffs in the world.

“Do you believe in Sparda?”

“Oh,” replied N* with a long hiss lingering between his teeth “never”.

“The people here worship him like a bunch of fools. I never believed in gods, damn it." He hissed, ending his point with a high-pitched swearing due to it his unfinished voice changing process.

“I don't believe in him too. What's a Sparda anyway?" I nod. “A god is only called a god when someone worships him. Without the ridiculous fanatics, Sparda is but a demon drawn in books.”

“God is just a joke from the pastors, you know.” N* rolled his eyes, “those worms gaining benefits from that religion. I once heard the story of a J dude or something like that from another religion, a man born by Immaculate Conception, being so merciful to the point of absurdity or cruelty. But see, people obediently submit to him, calling themselves lambs and him a shepherd.”

Facing his pessimism, I had to laugh it off.

Suddenly one day, our teacher at the religious school called me to stand in the middle of the class. I didn't like that old teacher, whose gray hair and thick glasses made him look austere, and his hooked nose and shriveled face made him look like an old wizard. Horrible!

With a clattering wooden ruler, he opened his eyes that were already blurred and asked me:

“Are you an apostate?”

No, that's not a question. That's an accusation waiting for you to admit. Suddenly panic spread all over me, making me just stand there. The teacher didn't say anything but just looked at me. I'd rather he scolded. I'd rather he gave me a reason to argue

“Sir, I'm no-”

“Oh!” The teacher puff, and began to speak in his disdainful voice. “Someone has informed me that you have made disrespectful statements to Our Almighty. No wonder why His Exellency doesn't bless Fortuna anymore. There have been so many disasters lately, it must have been because someone's disobedience has offended Him.”

“Sir-” I wanted to say “how is that possible!”, but the words came out “-I didn't do that.”

“Is that so?” The teacher raised his eyebrow, he had a very annoying look on his face, which at this moment made him seemed very scary. “You over there, come up here.”

I raised my head, trying to see who the unlucky guy he grabbed by the neck was. Oh, it's no one else but N*. But why N*?

“Tell me what he said that day.”

“Sir!” The boy N* spoke clearly, he seemed so confident looking at the old teacher with such honest eyes perhaps I have never seen on anyone in my life. Those eyes were so determined, it made me feel like I had really become a sinner that needed to be baptised. “This fool said that His Excellency was just an ordinary and incompetent person and those who worshiped him were such absurd animals!”

I didn't even know if N* was lying. All I know was that my only friend betrayed me with a triumphant smile. I looked up aridly at the wall in front of me, on which the carved statue of Sparda facing me, whose expression remains sorrowful, as if those deep eyes shed a blood red tear or two.

Before being taken away by the people working for the church, I ran away to find N*.

“Why did you reveal what we said to each other? That's just a brief chat. Besides, you also said you didn't believe in Sparda."

I seemed to have asked N* with a naive attitude, thinking everything was just a misunderstanding. But N* smirks.

“A fool like you deserves to be stabbed in the back for life! I've been so vexed for you for a long time. A bastard like you? Deserving to hang out with me? Why are you are so damn stupid? Getting beaten up by the boys but still try to lick my boots! By the way, let your grandpa here tell you, so you won't be fooled anymore! Your parents, they adopted you at first because you look like Sparda, then because their girl seems to found you entertaining! You stay because you're still valuable, that's all!"

Later on I thought that N* might not be such an asshole. I mean, he's an asshole, but if it weren't for him, I'd be trapped in those walls for the rest of my life.

I don't remember much. I seemed to have suffered some terrible punishments, the pain and shocks were so terrible that my brain chose to forget those miserable days. My family didn't beg for my sake either. Father, Mother, and Credo thought I was a disgrace, and Kyrie, even though she was worried about me, just kept quiet, respectfully obedient, and hid behind her parents. I had a fever for days, my head hurted like hell, and I couldn't eat anything decent. I was going to starve, but I didn't want to eat or drink anything.

Suddenly one day the people of the church brought me home, and when I regained consciousness again, I found my right hand disfigured. That limb now had an odd shape, it had skin rougher and harder than any metal, its claws sharper than the finest swords ever made, on the limb, the irregularly placed cracks emitting a montrous and icy blue light.

Those from the church thought that I have repented enough after being punished so that God has given me part of his power. Therefore, I was released, and after reaching my teenage years a year or two , the church granted me the title of Holy Knight, leaving a young man to sit on the same level as his predecessors like Credo...

The world before my eyes is changing to a different color gamut. Everything was no longer pure white or bright pink, but something more exotic. It's the collision of the worlds, when the inside and outside of the walls press against each other, until the moment they can no longer tolerate other and explode.

Long ago, this inner world was once the place of conscience, entering was meant for me to meet washed hands, decent clothes, exemplary words and gestures, God, father and mother, protection and forgiveness. Now, it seems to be merging with the outside world, where scary stories parasized on the walls and dwell in those breaths of the bipedal animals. Those animals run all around – they argue, cry, scream, steal, kill each other and commit suicide. That world is now merged, slowly oozing poison.

I didn't know if I should be scared or excited. I never knew right or wrong, I just followed my feelings. I don't want to be accused...

...I...

...I wanted to let those dull or painful summers wilt and die, and yet they're still there, smoldering, and then burning up again as if fueled with oil. This summer, I am no longer the teenager of that year. I'm at my mid-twenties, having experienced a number of tragic things in my life. A demonic tree grown in the city, countless people died every day, hell rises on Earth. So much happens, but why that man? The man suddenly appeared as my father. That person, whose hair silver like a sea of stars, and eyes deep blue like beckoning ocean from afar, deep in which were hidden so many complicated thoughts.

It made me– It made Nero, the boy who had nothing left to cry, burst into tears.

Chapter Text

Nero had wandered through so many corridors.

Well well, just look around and see! This place seems to be the ruins of an old castle. Time never waits for anything, but for now it seems like it must have spent the utmost of its patience pampering this castle - cherishing the soulless corpse of something though dying but still leaving traces of a golden age. Nero thinks the castle has lost its vitality, because look! – it completely sank into silence, deep in the lonely night as if it had entrusted half of itself to death.

The bas-reliefs on the wall are still as beautiful as their original, as sophisticated as if the craftsmen had used so much effort and even prayed to the gods in exchange for those reliefs' breaths - even just a single one. In this place a bird, and there - a butterfly. Each of which was so beautiful to the point Nero suspected that perhaps the sculptor must have surreptitiously falsified some small details lest they actually become living beings.

The delicate relief on the ceiling is even more interesting. It adds to the overboldly magnificence and beauty of the building some grace, because just looking up will immediately result in seeing a sea of flowers, like when we to see the magical amalgamation of a stern young girl's beauty - she looks decent, but those harsh East winds can't stop her cheeks blushing, her discreet clothes could not hide her gorgeously pinkish lips and even the strict regularities that her parents had taught her could not prevent her given body from proudly flaunting its beauty.

Those flowers on the ceiling dared blooming to the point of arrogance as if they were overflowing with life, so inviting for the infatuated to come and pick them up, only to then left those poor ones with a broken piece of love in their chests just as Pygmalion had once suffered in front of his ivory carved Galatea - all splendid yet as cold as bronze.

Covering all over the mentioned prosperity is this strange sky above Nero's head.

The castle has no roof at all. Magnificently designed walls and glass panes continue to stretch and stretch upwards until they sink into the purple light that so bizarre it's not simply "sky" anymore, but something so disgusting and much more terrible. The eerie dark purple overhead air made a humming sound like the breaths of a giant hungry animal, and the light kept fading until it was just dark purple around Nero. But in his eyes, that purple light was still painfully bright for the eyes somehow.

He didn't dare to look up for too long. That purple halo made him panic inside, if not go crazy like an animal with rabies. There was something in the halo, something - Nero couldn't say for sure, because his thoughts seemed a bit crazy, but those things, hanging around like strings, entwined in a chaotic bunch, both large and small, looks like a knot of blood vessels.

That odd imaginative image disgusted him. Not only that, the darkness around him was also a trap. He felt like someone was watching him from behind. People often say it's scary to be alone in the dark. No. Sometimes not being alone in the dark is the scariest, especially when you don't know who your real enemy is – whether it's the stalker(s) lurking around in the dark, or it's your brain punishing itself? He shook his head. The brain is a strange thing.

The corridors lead to themselves, each corner leads to another looking exactly like itself, which will eventually brings the misguided back to where they were, to face the inviting benevolent purple light.

Nero wasn't just disgusted. He was starting to feel nauseous, because after spending so much time traversing through the endless series of passages seemed like a cruel joke, the floor felt like it's sliding under his feet, not him walking, which made him dizzy like a person with motion sickness. The reliefs on the walls and ceilings were no longer as beautiful as they were at first: they gradually deformed, twisted, and became ugly. The grace that had initially made Nero exclaim with infatuation now gave him chills, his stomach tighten in pain.

Only when you think something is beautiful is it beautiful.

Nero stopped again in front of the purple light. This time, he didn't gasp and just walk away, instead, the young demon hunter boldly stepped closer to the mysterious light. The things dangling in the center of the light were now more visible to Nero's eyes - oh, they were actual blood vessels; a bunch of blood vessels coiled together, pulsating.

“Are they actually living?”

Nero wondered. The giant pipes occasionally twitch as if they're excited, causing him to feel a sharp pain in his forehead. He took a step forward, entering the center of the purple light. Suddenly he felt cold. The more he stepped into the halo, the cooler the air around him became. By the time Nero opened his eyes, dazed by the bright light, he was in a dark room, with only a single glimmer of light coming from the hurricane lamp lightened with a candle left on the table.

The lamp also emitted purple light, the fire inside it flickering silently, ignoring Nero's every question. He stepped closer and turned the lamp up a bit, hoping it might give him some hints, to know what to do next . But the candle did not answer Nero. Instead, its light shines around. Nero's eyes wandered around the layout of the room. The four walls pressed against each other, too narrow to the point of breath-shortness. In the faint light of the fire - as if it was about to die, fine dust was reflected clearly and fluttered in the air. There are particles that reach their only highest peak and quickly fall to the ground, but there are also particles that just keep flying, going up and up away. To where?

"To where?"

Nero unconsciously popped the question. The space as empty as the deepest hell was silent as if to mock him, but the sounds of the dust particles sung.

“To our peaceful place.”

The dust particles responded with a voice not sounded clearly whether it was with happiness or sadness, but instead very calm. It seems that they have gone through thousands of ups and downs in life. Nero suddenly went absent-minded. Will he one day, after experiencing all the unpredictable changes in his life and witnessing both destruction and resurrection of the surrounding world by his own eyes, be dumbfounded?

"Why can't they come up there?" Nero pointed to the golden gleaming dust that slowly fell to the ground as tragic and magnificent as fallen angels.

“They long for safety.”

“But how to go up, then?”

He frowned and looked up. The light of the candle is not bright enough to shine all the way up there. There was always an eternal darkness on the ceiling of this room, lunging above his head, whether it was darkness or because this room had no roof at all.

“Ask the Owner of the walls.”

Nero turned his back. Someone was waiting for him, sitting neatly on a wooden flower-carved chair next to the tiny wooden table placed the lamp. Probably him. Owner of the walls. Father of those monstrous creations and the pitifully beautiful castle.

Nero sat down in the other chair, the table was so small that if it weren't for avoiding the lamp, they would have touched each other. Nero raised his head, facing the man in front of him.

The man had the appearance of a green tree python - strangely beautiful but also extremely terrifying. His neatly slicked back hair was silver, even his eyelashes were silvery white - almost transparent, adding to his pale skin, resulting in his looking like a ghost imprisoned in this lonely world. Thin pale lips with their corners always pulled down, making people think that he has never known joy in his whole life. Nero dragged his gaze upward and faced a pair of pure blue pupils. Those eyes were as blue and beautiful as the vast sky of the outside world, and – Nero assumed – they also harbored the evils beyond the walls. How strange was that: Nero felt like knowing this stranger very clearly, but he had never met him before.

For a moment, Nero thought he was dizzy, for him seeing that those crystal eyes were slightly beaming purple.

“Sir-…sir , how to fly over the walls?”

Nero asked, voice trembling slightly. The man didn't say a word, he just reached inside of his dark coat with fancy patterns on the sides and pulled out a golden box studded with gems. Onyx and jade glittered in the flickering light. His slender, boney hands slowly unbuttoned the silver lock on the box and held out in front of Nero a bouquet of luxuriant blue hydrangea. In the murky space, the flowers seems like they're glowing. Nero didn't thank him.

He took them, and the beautiful hydrangeas that touched his palm set the skin there aflame letting it burned. The fire suddenly broke out, dazzling, bright orange and yellow shades flashing either like hope in the dark or a devil's malicious prank. The shock of his skin coming into contact with the burning sensation made Nero jump, he dropped the fresh flowers, panicking before realizing the terrible pain in his hand.

The hand that received the bouquet of hydrangeas was now covered with terrible burns. And from those burns pure gold oozed.

But Nero didn't blame the man. He just looked at the man, who was still sitting quietly like a quail opposite him, with sad eyes. The strange man had a look of loss on his pale face. Nero stood up. Suddenly he noticed something in his coat's pocket. Instinctively, he pulled it out - it was something - to give back to the man.

"Thank you, but maybe not yet."

It was a white Lily of the valley, a very small and fragile creation indeed.

The flower was received by the opposite side of the table. The recipient was not that man, but Kyrie. Nero watched her grip the lily of the valley so tightly in her palm her fingernails dug into her palm making it bleeding with his mouth gaping open.

"Why?" He whispered.

The walls suddenly pressed closer to the two strangers in the room. They gave off a series of eerie noises, sounding like a woman's scream; voices reading poems ; children crying ; birdsong ; cows and sheep wailing ; hooves' sounds ; the helpless lament of a dying human. Nero couldn't breathe: the air was suddenly glued together, trailing in drips, and then solidifying in chunks.

The man stood up, his actions caused the tables and chairs to jostle together, rubbing against the floor creating loud noises that startled Nero. He saw in front of him again, on that man's face, a tragically familiar image: Deep gloomy eyes that had lost the light gifted by the stars, from which blood-red tears flowed, on the face of the Sparda statue on the wall at the religious school deeply embedded in his subconcious. There was no sound made, but Nero knew the demon in front of him was sobbing in agony.

Nero closed his eyes. He tried not to notice that the second world was throwing itself inside of him with overflowing power. He will return, still as pure and undamaged as before, and stand beside his saintly Kyrie in the Cathedral.

"Come to the bride." Who said that?

A cold hand touched Nero's shoulder. He remained motionless as before.

"Yes sir." And who answered here?

Kyrie was waiting for him in the Cathedral, in a pure white world. She wears a white dress, on top is bunches of Lily of the valley embroidered with silver thread. The veil she wore covered a long space on the ground, obscuring her gentle face. Nero could not wait to lift the veil so that he could see her face. The people present were also beautiful, all well-dressed in expensive clothings. No one has dark skin. Men sit separately from women.

Nero walked over to her. He will marry her. He will marry the world's Innocence and live happily ever after in this Utopia. More walls will be built and the cursed castle will fall. He could feel freezing claws grasping his calves, sliding upward like snakes. No, Nero will still be on his feet. He's about to touch the purest things in the world. He has already touched it.

Nero took Kyrie's slender hands. Her hands were warm, soft and scented with jasmine, always surreal, as if they had been depicted a hundred times in Renaissance paintings. Unlike when he touched the bouquet of hydrangeas, touching her didn't cause him any pain. The skin touching her felt refreshing and comfortable, from those places it didn't ooze pure gold but his flesh would slowly rot, turning earth-gray and then crumbling into mud.

It was the most mellow death Nero could accept.

That would have been his first death.

Nero raised his head and stared at the ceiling of the Cathedral. The morning sunlights is bright yellow, as thin as a layer of silk covering the glass panes. But they are far from warm.

“Everything here is fake.”

A voice rang out. It was a man's voice, which was surprisingly not low and hoarse, but soft and smooth. His voice is pleasant to hear.

“Stop hiding in your safezone. One day, you'll have to spread your wings and fly."

The voice rumbled again. Nero frowned, protesting with silence. He squeezed Kyrie's hand, and then lifted the veil. Oh. Under the veil was not the beautiful Kyrie, but the man in the dark room. His cold face defiantly faced Nero's secret insecurities. The young traveler was suddenly awakened from a dream by a combination of chaotic sounds wailing in the room. On the table, the purple lamp's flame was still flickering and dancing. Compared to its first appearance, it was brighter than ever before - what a wonderful light! The dark and sickly purple color gradually turned into something capable of calming the mind, full of tenderness,getting Nero's soul felt dreamily comfortable. He raised his head.

Now that I couldn't ever run away anymore. Now that the devil was right in front of me.

“…Vergil?”

Nero called out. Then he tremblingly covered his mouth. Cold sweat poured down his forehead, and even Nero saw that his whole body was chilled by the sweat. His body suddenly tensed up, making Nero wailed. Nero almost heard the devil's laugh.

"My child."

Vergil. Right. The man's name was Vergil. The twin elder brother of the famous Legendary Demon Hunter Dante. The one who almost succeeded in destroying the Mortal Realm. With his arrogant neatly slicked back head and ridiculously cold demeanor. Usually he carried Yamato all the times – which was always elegant in its black sheath, hilt tied with a purple string knotted into an intricate shape. Unlike Dante, Vergil isn't something comforting at all - he is the embodiment of supreme beauties that can only be admired from a distance, destroying anyone who dares to get too close due to their foolish infatuation.

“Why are you here? Ah. Even acting mystically." Nero smirked mockingly.

"I must be your guide." Vergil said, very slowly. There was an indisputable look on his face that made those who wanted to bring up questions suddenly felt ashamed of an idiocy that had never belonged to them. “Nero, you have to get out of here. You have to get out of the walls.”

"Nonsense. Don't make up stupid stuffs." Nero argued. Oh, but Vergil was right. Nero needed, and wanted to get out of here, and yet even when those walls or those little white bell-like flowers lay motionlessly, they still made Nero hesitate somehow. Nero lamented, and was ashamed, for he felt like one of those incompetent dust that had let themselves loose and fell into eternal darkness beneath the floor.

“Nero, I created you. And now I am responsible for leading my creation to eternal perfection.”

Nero had never known Vergil could suddenly move so fast. He did not expect Vergil to suddenly approach him like that. The so-called Dark Slayer didn't dishonor his title in the slightest - approaching his prey in just a single breath. Nero's vision suddenly darkened. The devil, with its blue claws iridescent with poison, touched Nero.

What have they done?

...

Yeah, what have they done?

Looks like they kissed. The devil had kissed Nero blasphemously on the lips, tongue twisted in Nero's mouth like a snake - the serpent luring Eve into eating the forbidden fruit, now will tempt Nero away from human morality he had spent most of his life inculcating. Nero felt like electric was running through him - all numb and infatuated, was that also Eve's feeling when she committed the first sin since being created?

Embarrassingly lewd sounds came from their mouths. Nero felt like he was drunk. He was dazzled by the scent of the man in front of him - who was devouring him, perhaps gulping him down - the scent rushing in as their breaths intersected, filling Nero's senses. As cold and bitter as Mint, contradicting to the ardently warm Cedarwood ; the two flavors are bied together by an Amber fragrance so sweet that the souls must tremble.

Nero was all horrified, delighted, and also choked in shame. Vergil didn't let him think too much, his plump lips leaving Nero's making the young man let out a sobbing sound, to run slowly, slowly down. He played chasing with Nero's white neck. Kissing and biting. Biting and then kissing again. The bite marks blooming on the pale skin the younger man got from him looked like hydrangeas carved into the flesh.

"You already have our marks on you ." Vergil hugged Nero. He cuddled the young man like a gentle lover, though Nero knew Vergil could never be described in such words. Strong hands - filled with mysterious strength you could never fully understand - locked around Nero's waist, pinning him closer to the older man's body, face-to-face. That made Nero ashamed to the point of wanting to jump away from him and feel helpless without knowing why at the same time. "Let's go, Nero, it's time to leave these walls."

The space was suddenly so bright that Nero's eyes burned. Vergil's silhouette cracked like glass butterflies then shattered in the light. Nero panicked and reached out to embrace him but could only reach the air. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the bed. Nero's single bed, in his own room at Kyrie's house, in Fortuna.

"...What the hell...?"

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the floor. Under the sun rays, fine dust that was beamed golden by the sky fluttered all around the air.

Maybe...maybe it was just a dream!

"That's right. It must have been a dream. How can I meet that motherfucker!" Nero frowned, he unconsciously placed his hand in front of his chest. “And how can I kiss him! Damn it."

He was a little startled when he felt an all-too-familiar scent rise up at his throat. Mint, Cedarwood, Amber. Nero rushed into the bathroom.

In the garden, the hydrangeas glowed brilliantly in the bright sunlight.

Chapter Text

Today is sure to be a busy day. Nero thought so. He'd had a good shower early this morning, now getting ready to eat a decent breakfast that Kyrie had prepared before hopping into Nico's van and starting the day's hard work.

Showering in the morning is such a refreshing activity – it feels like peeling off an old layer of wrinkled and sticky skin to confidently step out into society with a brand new face (if not using cold water to ease the nightmare from the night before). Nero is not someone so diligently contributing to the electricity bill in such early time scale of the day, but today he is unusually enthusiastic and goes to the bathroom with the attitude of a thief: nervous, afraid of everything. It was only when the strange scent that swirled around him ( or was it in his mind? ) seemed to disappear, overwhelmed by the artificial scent of shower gel, that he turned off the shower and secretly promised that he would work harder – because water bills are no joke.

“Today we has pancakes and butterfly pea flowers milk for breakfast! I've just learned how to make it!"

Kyrie set the dishes to the table with Nero's help. The joyful sounds of the children filled the dining room. Everyone prayed together before breakfast, although Nero seemed distracted in that all-important activity. Pancakes are golden brown, topped with a layer of gleaming syrup looking like the rays of early morning sun turned into drops. Each glass of milk is covered with a unique purple-blue layer from the butterfly pea flowers. Now, if you looking forward to take a photo, it will be a beautiful masterpiece, worthy of being advertised on the first pages of culinary magazines. Nero thought to himself, his lips' corners curl into joyful curves.

He looked up at the young woman in front of him. She is really that beautiful - a beauty that radiates from the inside and is deeply carved on the outside. Her auburn hair seemed to shine in the sunsets from the wildest dreams, and her hazel eyes glittered like two lakes under the moonlight. Oval face; Slender chin; eyebrows like willow leaf along with high-bridged nose; pinkish lips and peachy cheeks, at this moment, there is a drop of sweat on one cheek, probably because its owner has worked hard.

Kyrie. Kyrie.

He could, and did, mumble this name a thousand times. Κύριε. She is a special existence in this troubled world, the absolute definition of the adjective "peaceful". If life only knows how to give Nero one challenge after another, then she - Kyrie, is his guiding lamp. Every time his shoulders burdened, every time his legs exhausted, Nero just needs to think about Kyrie, to think of her affectionate face, and get filled up with energy.

Kyrie met Nero's focusing gaze, so she turned her head and smiled at him. Her cheeks turned pinker and her face got even brighter. She looks so cute right now. Seemingly shy, she quickly turned around telling the children to eat and behave well, then she immediately went back into the kitchen, not sure whether it was her or her heart (!) that was busy. Following her, the two strings of her apron kept swaying to the rhythm of her graceful steps, seemingly sulking at being teased.

Nero couldn't stop chuckling. He kept grinning while eating breakfast. He got so used to it, he just can't help doing so! ...Oh those people with that thing called 'love' in their heart, always seeing the surrounding world in pink and that life is beautiful. Well, what you can do then?: Nero is still young, and young people's job is to love - love other people, and love themselves too.

Before climbing into Nico's van, Nero glanced back. Kyrie saw him off at the door so gently. Every time - under the giant shadow of the red brick house casted by the sunlight onto the front yard, hanging over her petite body, Kyrie was as fragile and precious as the swaying petals of a peach blossom in the cold November winds. He smiled at her again and then got into the car, out of sight of the expectant.

Nico smoked cigarette. The cabin was filled with smoke. Nero squinted his eyes until he caught sight of her figure. To be honest, he found something kinda funny about her now: As her thick hair was tied up, and its owner was engulfed in a cloud of smoke - she looked like a squid struggling on land.

"Hey kid, I'm really asking." Nico raised her voice, bold with the accents of the Southern lands, which matched her usual slouching attitude to which Nero was so used to it that he was sick of it.

"What?"

“When are you going to take another step with her?”

" What 'her' ??" Nero raised an eyebrow.

“Who the hell else? Kyrie, the adoptive honey that always makes you hot."

Nero froze. Nico always looks so carefree – that kind of person who doesn't give a single crap about life, but today she's asking him about this for all of a sudden. Turns out she actually care about the-, no, about Kyrie, a lot.

“I love her.”

"Uh so?"

Nero was actually feeling quite happy, he was about to say that surely in the not-too-distant-future he would ask Kyrie to marry him, but suddenly he hesitated. The back of his neck suddenly felt cold, he mumbled.

"Just that."

That's the last sentence. He didn't know whether he was telling Nico or himself. Then Nero fell silent. It seemed to him that his voice was a little shaky and that his face, his head, even his chest felt hot, there was something here that made his heart ache. What is he afraid of? Why is he hesitant?

That silly attitude naturally made Nico displeased. She frowned, spitted the filter of her cigarette into the trash can, and walked over to Nero.

“Reeeeally? I thought you were going to close the curtain with a story about a wedding and the kids.”

Nero looked up Nico facing him, her normally grinning face now scowled.

“It's really up to you what you want to do, but don't hurt Kyrie,then. I'm just afraid you'll upset Kyrie. Just look at her, it's like she's never been angry with anyone in her life! People like that often suffer.”

She let out a puff through her nose, so obvious that Nero became afraid that he was about to be reprimanded. Nero hates to be seen as a child, burden, or freaking deadweight - stuffs like that, but if it's a matter about Kyrie, he'll feel smaller than ever, like he's shrinking himself smaller than a grain of sand.

“Mhm, you know I appreciate her too.”

“Remember your words…Ok stop it for now, don't say anything about it anymore.” Nico glared jokingly, then she happily climbed into the driver's seat, as if all the pressure she had exerted earlier was just a joke. Nero shook his head with a wry smile. Honestly, he loved Kyrie, but he didn't dare say what would happen in the future. He's been through a lot of weird things lately. Life is like a dream.

Nero's job this time is in the far Northeast. That's over 31 miles. Of course, it is impossible to walk there, even if Nero's physical strength is many times better than that of normal people. He rummaged through client files. One…two…number fourteen, number fourteen. Ah! Number fourteen's right here!

“Fernsby. F-E-R-N-S-B-Y. With the letter Y read as 'ee'." Nero read aloud the client's name on the file with excitement.

"Woah. I heard that it is a quite rare name. Years ago when I was still sitting for school, I saw an assignment written the character's name: 'Fernsby', and I thought it was an ordinary name." Nico replied with a loud and rude laugh.

Mrs. Fernsby, the owner of a farm that specializes in growing plants, especially flowers. Admittedly, she is the best worker to do that job in the Northeast, because it is said that most of the fresh flower shops in the city import flowers from her farm. Her garden is full of flowers, and it is no exaggeration to say that Mrs. Fernsby has green fingers - she was the only one who planted the flowers, as the Fernsby farm had no hired workers, and none of the her children would follow their mother's footsteps. Almost sixty years old, Mrs. Fernsby still worked hard as a flower farmer, spending those years that is now way too far from her beautiful youth to nurture a love for flowers and plants that would follow her to the grave when there is no one to follow in her footsteps.

Flowers. Flowers again.

Nero thought to himself, but he quickly pushed that thought out of his mind. It's just a dream.

The van stopped in front of a farm gate. Amidst the barren plains of thorn bushes and endless dry grasslands, a huge farmhouse brings a completely different shade to this strange land. Nero compares the home address outside the gate with the address on record. Fernsby Farm, 357 Grass Hill Road, Maryville district. This is the place.

It is very difficult to wait here until the client knows to come out greeting them. There is no doorbell here, and he doesn't know how to call the customer. Nero just shook his head, he told Nico to just sit still in the van, turn on the music, smoke or do whatever and stay relax, while he will come in and see for himself.

Of course Nico agreed immediately. There's no reason for her to follow Nero inside and die of exhauxtion.

From the moment he arrived in Maryville district, Nero curiously raised his head to look at the surroundings through the car windows. The sky hung in a bleak gray colour, above there, silvery clouds drifted by, always hanging over people's heads the threat of rains so fierce that the ground and the sky must change colour.

In Maryville, there are always some distant green mountains before people's eyes. When he saw them, Nero sighed to himself more or less: those green mountains and Maryville didn't seem to be related at all. One makes people dream about the vast pristine forests, just walking in is like being embraced by mother nature; one is wild, with thorn bushes, dry trees and yellowing weeds. In such a barren land, Fernsby Farm existed in its own piece of Eden, ashamed and lonely.

Nero let out a long breath through his nose. Thinking of the loneliness of this farm, he suddenly felt a somewhat emptiness in his heart.

The farm seems to be too old. Time has ruthlessly carved its mark on all the things here, no matter how stubborn people try to preserve their original beauty. Nero kept clicking his tongue. Is the owner that stingy that she doesn't want to spend money on refurbishing her appliances and new furniture! He can even see items that have been discontinued long ago, years before he was born, and now only have specimens on display. Some of those things may still work, some are just corpses: they're all broken, but the owner still doesn't want to throw them away.

Nostalgia. This is a world full of nuances of nostalgia. The old things are still there, the vast flower farm, the secret land to bury yourself altogether with so many secret feelings of a life so beautiful but dreary as well. Did the owner intentionally leave back a place like this as a resting place for old memories? Come to think of it, Nero lost his mind, forgetting to even find the client. He doesn't know what to do anymore. He just felt sad. Weird!

"…Hey you?"

Nero was startled and quickly withdrew his hand, which was fiddling with the vinyl records scattered on the table. He was just a little curious. The discs are very old, some are broken - and awkwardly reassembled, but they don't have any dust on them. There are also some items in this house remaining the same too: old, broken, but surprisingly clean. Looks like the owner cleans them, even caresses them regularly.

Nero turned back. He immediately saw an elderly woman. Definitely the farm's owner.

“Hi ma'am! I'm so sorry, I touched your personal belongings without your permission. Pardon my curiousness…”

"You…?"

The woman answered with a sound that was almost a yelp. Nero thought she had just choked. But when he looked up into the woman's face, he found it strangely calm.

“Yes, I am an employee of Devil May Cry. I'm here to process your order. 357 Grass Hill Road, Maryville District, Mrs. Fernsby, F-E-R-N-S-B-Y, phone number xxxxxxx, is it correct?"

Nero pulled out the file and read it. He heard the woman chuckling. Her laughter was like a hiss, then turned into a more raucous and hoarser laugh. Maybe she was born that way. Maybe because of her old age.

"Oh, that's correct."

The woman nodded, her shadow shining through the window on the ground nodded as well. Nero quickly continued.

"Ma'am, you haven't explained the situation you're in. Is there any demon around your residence? Devil! Do you know them? Those having heads full of thorns like a real cactus and snouts open wide is the most common-”

The woman kept smiling, waiting for Nero to finish before she shook her head very slowly.

"No, no."

"…wah?" If there are no demons, why call him? Is this a joke?

“I just want someone to be my friend for today. Someone sitting down there, drinking, having snacks and chatting with me for the day." The woman spoke, her voice soft and weak, with obvious signs of breath shortness. It must have resulted from her daily hardworking. "What's your name?"

“…Nero. My name is Nero.”

“Mhm, good.” She nodded again like a chicken pecking rice. “Nero. Good, good. Nero, you can call me Beatrice. I don't like being called Mrs. Fernsby."

"Okay, Beatrice." Nero dreamily followed Beatrice into the living room.

On the log-shaped wooden table, everything is already laid out. Tea is still hot, just waiting for guests to arrive. Nero looked at the neatly prepared things on the table, silently wondered of how lonely Beatrice must have been to treat a stranger with such enthusiasm. The tea is poured into porcelain cups with elaborate patterns, clear and darken golden like honey, with a light fragrance. Nero took a sip, suddenly finding it quite familiar. The tea is not bitter for any bit, drinking it feels extremely bland, but when swallowed down, it becomes sweet and comforting.

He used to drink this many times at the office. Especially when that one man is there. Every time Vergil was at the office, he would make tea and then snuggle up in his room, not knowing whether he was reading books or doing anything. He kept brewing a kind of tea over and over again. Nero doesn't like teas. But he found this one to be both pleasant and drinkable. He just didn't want to admit it. He swore he hates everything about Vergil.

“Can you drink it? It's Patchouli tea." Beatrice smiled, her eyes narrowing. "I think you don't like bitter things."

"Yeah." Nero nodded. “That's right. I didn't know it was Patchouli leaf. First time hearing about it. I used to drink a lot before, but I've never notice what I was drinking."

Beatrice responded with a laugh that was both loud and hoarse.

"Please don't laugh at me." Nero blushed. “I don't know anything about tea, I just drink what other people make. Me drinking tea is like cows chewing on grass, not knowing what is delicious."

"Oh, don't be ashamed, young man." Beatrice said. "I was once like that when I was young too. I didn't even know how to drink tea. And I didn't like growing flowers at all. But the flow of life is like a comedy, pushing us to tens of thousands things, that's how it is!"

Her words suddenly made Nero somehow emotional about the impermanence of life. His eyes got a little hot, Nero blinked a few times, then looked up as he was back to normal. How could he cry in front of strangers?

Only then did he carefully examine the woman in front of him.

Mrs. Fernsby - Beatrice Fernsby? - A woman of average build, not short enough to be considered lovely, but not tall enough to be considered a threat to men. Nero tacitly compared her height to his and the other two men in the house's, if comparing so, she would still be much shorter than them.

If I had to describe Beatrice's appearance, then I'm truly sorry, she's nothing special. An ordinary human being of mediocre build, with an equally insignificant face: messy black hair that could be found on any hard-working woman in Fortuna; a bony face unknowingly exposed the austere high cheekbones and less-than-beautiful square jaw; thin lips making the woman look far less from lovely but stricter and sterner.

Such face is fortunate to have so magical eyes. Beautiful deep, hazel eyes, with a pair of well-fitted eyes bags underneath and long eyelashes so that woman's eyes always looked dreamy but friendly as if they knew how to smile. Her eyes have thick dark circles. Those eyes must have been filled with suffers. A pair of eyes that had shed tears countless times in the nights.

“Then why did you start a flower farm career? And the habit of drinking tea too? You make me so curious.”

Nero timidly asked. Beatrice was still smiling. She remained silent as her eyes looking down for a moment. But when she looked up, her tired and dull eyes suddenly had such a lively determination that Nero had never seen in anyone else before. There seemed to be tears in those beautiful eyes, enough for Nero to recognize. Seeing that Nero must have caught her tears welling up, Beatrice laughed.

“My eyes are all blurry now. Is that because of old age coming quickly, causing my vision to blur?"

…

“It started one summer. A summer when I was still young. No, not really.”

...

For a whole month now, people in Fortuna are still buzzing about a mysterious case. A case involving human life in the Northeastern ▐▐▐▐ville District. The identity of the victim made everyone grasp, even those who were not relatives shed a few tears for her.

▐▐▐▐ Gri▐▐▐▐▐-Fernsby. Farmer, owner of the farm Fernsby selling fresh flowers, a woman who was quite popular with the owners of fresh flower shops in Fo▐▐▐na. ▐▐▐▐ was the daughter of a poor family, she was sold as a servant in the estate of a local landlord from a young age. ▐▐▐▐ served as the maidservant of the householder's daughter for a very long time, marrying Mr. ▐▐▐▐▐ Fernsby in middle age. They have ▐▐ children ▐▐▐▐▐▐ , ▐▐▐▐▐▐ and ▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐.

According to the results of the post-mortem examination showed that the victim had set herself on fire. The fire destroyed almost everything in the farm, except for the flo▐er beds and a box of badly damaged vinyl discs. According to the investigative information, on ▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐, the victim was ▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐▐.

Nero sat blankly on the steps outside his office. It started to rain but he still didn't know a thing. It also rained in Maryville that day. A raindrop fell into Nero's eyes, but he seemed to become a fool, his eyes did not even blink.

There are some boots' clomping sounds. Nero glanced back: the familiar black lapel. Vergil. Nero still stared at the man's face, then his dumbfounded body suddenly seemed to be revived. Nero's body trembled, tears welled up from the dry eye sockets.

Vergil stooped. It wasn't difficult for him to know what had happened. Originally, he didn't know how to make things right - there were too many things that made him hesitate, but regardless, he still wrapped his arms around Nero.

“You met Bea-, met Alma, didn't you?”

“Mhm.” Nero sniffled quietly.

“…I guess Alma has had a good time as well.”

“Mhm.”

"...Don't be too sad."

“Mhm.” But still he couldn't stop crying right away. Vergil thought, then he rubbed Nero's head with his palm. Feeling inadequate, he patted him on the back with his other palm like one putting a baby to sleep.

“She told me she loved being called Beatrice.”

"Mhm. Beatrice.”

“Vergil, why did she have to go so painfully?”

Nero asked, his voice trembling. Vergil did not know how to respond, he could only pull Nero closer to him, so that the young man buried his face in his neck.

“I don't know. But I think at that moment, Beatrice definitely wasn't in pain. Death, is also a salvation.”

His eyes were a little blurry. Damn it. Vergil thought to himself. Is that because of old age coming quickly, causing his vision to blur? Or was he crying?