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When he arrived it was carnage, a bloodbath but even that was putting it lightly. The woods that once surrounded that nostalgic cottage were torn through, broken trunks and felled trees strewn like some sort of chaotic whirlwind had passed through. Blood splattering every grain of debris, remains of demon parts impaled, half buried, and lodged between branches, there was no sign of the one he was searching for. Drawing nearer to the quaint house, the flicker of dimming firelight acted as his guide. Just what had caused this to happen? Was it a byproduct of the Qliphoth? All the way to Fortuna? It didn’t make any sense, such a thing shouldn’t be possible. At the very least he knew that Fortuna didn’t see any destruction, Nero most assuredly would’ve made him fully aware of it if that was the case — not to mention his own brother too, the world would sooner crash and burn before that idiot took a break from grasping at straws for the chance to tease or play with him. His brother was a pathetic individual outside of combat, sometimes in combat too. That hat was ridiculous, as was the turkey impression every time he used Cerberus in battle.
He caught himself from deep diving into a long internal monologue about that cursed brother of his, he’d have to spar with him on his return. He made haste towards the light, his boots tracking bloodied footprints over the shingle pathway, up the slate steps; then he saw her. Sat in the doorway beneath the glowing sconce, her hair was matted and webbed over her face obscuring her from view, her form crumpled before his eyes; she was covered from head to toe in blood, something that typically wouldn’t disgust him but in that moment there was a certain sickness welling within him. The chipped cleaver-like blade by her side was smeared similarly with a gruesome red shade, lumps of material and gnarled hairs coating the hefty expanse of the metal. She had fought tooth and nail, such was blatant to see.
He approached calmly, though would not deny the displeasure that marred the muscles of his face; others might’ve called it concern, fear, he would’ve called them utter fools and acquainted their noses with the ground six feet below. His confident strides towards her garnered her to rouse, he would deny the relief that settled in his chest. Her hand blindly reached out, her fingers scraping the ground in search of her weapon, an attempt made in vain for she was feeling on the wrong side for it.
He heard the croak of her voice utter a string of mottled curses beneath her breath, breaths that were tired and hoarse, breaths that were few and far between, breaths that were light and strained as if it pained her to continue doing so.
“It’s me,” he said, his voice enough to placate her. Maybe if it were in a different scenario he would’ve felt a subtle joy at her recognising him at the sound of his voice alone, he did not at this time feel any shreds of joy. Strange, for he was so used to it with her.
He heard her sigh, the sound crackled and tore through her throat like razors, a gurgle followed and she curled up as wet coughs wracked her body. Out spilled more blood, the liquid growing more and more offending as time went on.
Then she laughed, wounded and pathetic, it was like listening to the final whines of a deer knowing it had been hunted, knowing it was facing death down.
“Oh… Vergil, you made it back.” It was evident that she was trying to raise her head but even more so was the tremors rattling her bones, her attempts were only met with resistance from her very body itself. “Sorry, no warm welcome dinner this time.” He almost scoffed at the fact she could joke at a time like this.
“I never asked for them anyway,” he said, kneeling at her side and disregarding the uncomfortable warmth of blood seeping into his clothes, it’s viscosity when he moved even an inch. “What happened here?”
Frustration began to weave itself around his hands, it was the only reason he could think of as to why he was clenching them so tightly — but then that begged the question why was he so frustrated? He wasn’t an idiot, deep down he knew why. An uncanny voice in his head wouldn’t shut up about it, he knew why. He wished he didn’t, but he did and he chose to ignore it. Just like he chose to ignore everything else he felt all those times before.
“Demons— I guess you figured that already…” She spoke slowly, weakly, it was a dire struggle for her to even form a single word. She was weak, by that means he shouldn’t care; hell, she was human, he never should have cared — he should have expected this outcome. “I did my best,” she said. “But they seemed to be… really determined. Maybe they smelt you here or something, you do have a unique musk to you.” Again she was joking around, her self inflicted laughter only causing her greater discomfort. “…Just what did you do, Vergil?”
Oh, just raised a demonic tree after separating himself into two halves, became demon king for a while, then merged back into one being before cutting down that same tree he raised.
“I found a reason.” He answered cryptically, allowing a small smile to show as he snaked his arms around her and rose to his feet. Her head fell back and dangled precariously for a moment but he was quick to lean her against his shoulder, providing a well needed crutch for the weight her neck couldn’t carry (her neck that was oozing blood from a wound he couldn’t make out). He wasn’t able to catch the arm that slipped from her lap, but assumed that it wouldn’t be much of an issue soon. He noted her eyes were closed, but the furrow in her brow and the grit of her teeth told him enough; moving her might not be the best idea but she didn’t complain. In his defense, the extent of her injuries was quite difficult to gauge. Her body was covered in blood, hers? Demons’? He didn’t know; what wasn’t red was brown with dirt, her arms were caked in it. Any other day he would’ve recoiled from her in disgust and forced her into bathing. Not today.
“I feel like a princess,” she sobbed, guising it beneath a huff of gargled chuckles. He usually would’ve called her out for the pathetic display but said nothing about it once more.
“No princess sees herself covered in blood.”
“Guess I’ll be the first then.” He ignored the tears washing down her cheeks, turning red before they reached her jaw.
“Why—“ He found himself tongue tied. Wanting to speak but unable to find the words, unable to form them on his tongue. He sighed, not at all ashamed to hide it under the pretense of niceties, a sigh soaked in accusation, in exasperation. “—Why did you not run? You’re a human, powerless.”
“Well, just like you—“ Her haggard breaths worsened, light heaving interrupting her words every few seconds. “—I have my reasons.”
He scowled, she didn’t need to open her eyes to see it. But he wanted her to see it.
“Y’see… This place, this house… This is our home isn’t it?” Her bottom lip quivered and although she was already crying, it seemed like now it was her feelings choking her of air. “They were going to tear it down looking for you.”
“A measly structure of bricks and mortar is not worth—“ He was quick to fire back, agitated that she even entertained the idea of something so ridiculous, but she cut him off cleanly — a surprise considering her voice was fighting against her.
“—It is worth everything to me. Those memories… The things we made there together…”
“Are not worth your life!” He shouted, the scrape of his teeth grinding together was beginning to trigger a pain response. It went ignored, of course, pain like that was nothing more than an itch to him. The same couldn’t be said for the one inside him.
“You’re probably right.” She spluttered through her laughing act, he didn’t know why she continued to feign as if all was fine — why she continued to laugh through everything as if she wasn’t weeping like a child. “You’re usually right.”
“So then why did you not listen to me?” He asked, his voice low, tinged with a blue colour of what he would wholeheartedly agree was regret, grief, a yearning the likes of which he had never known. He never wished to know it again.
“Because I’m only human,” she cried softly, her voice breaking through the almost silent murmur. “I’m stupid, I’m attached, I wanted to keep this place alive for you…” He almost ran away from her when she opened her eyes to stare through him. He wanted to see them before, now he wasn’t so sure. “I wanted to say welcome home.” Because her eyes were filled with the warmth her body was losing.
“I am here now,” he muttered, feeling his chest tighten and writhe once again. Her laughter chimed again, it left no traces of butterflies behind, not like it used to.
“Welcome home,” she said. She blinked and zeroed in on something just behind him, haloing the crown of his head. “The sun looks so pretty this morning.”
He glanced up at the pitch black sky before turning to the wall sconce above them. When his forehead pressed against hers, he winced at the cold chill of her skin; it used to be so very hot beneath his touch. He made sure to watch the sunlight fade behind the glaze of her eyes, until they dulled completely.
“You’re right, the morning sun does look especially beautiful today.”
She managed to whisper a few more unwarranted words against his lips, he had to figure them out through the feeling of her mouth shape, unable to hear any sound escaping her anymore. It wasn’t hard to decipher them, though he wondered if it would’ve hurt less if he didn’t bother. The worst of the despair came in knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear a single word of his responses anymore. He said them anyway, knowing it was pointless, knowing that it was all for nothing. Knowing that he dug this grave himself, blinded by the nonsensical idea of potential happiness; he forgot that one important detail: that he was not permitted such a thing. His life was not lived and would not be lived in happiness — it was struggle, an endless pursuit of power to combat the dangers that would never cease in chasing him like ghosts. Perhaps she would join them; the idea wasn’t so bad, a part of him even hoped for it.
‘Curse me, resent me, cling onto me with a vengeance; stay with me.’
He could not change. He would always be a harbinger of death, a monster, this he has come to terms with now. Yet, some nights the bright visage of that woman in a billowing yellow dress surrounded by wildflowers invades his mind, he allows it to live there, he visits that place with those memories she treasured often. Vergil treasured them too, the story only the two of them— only he knew.
A better man would’ve prayed she made it to heaven, he hoped to see her in hell.