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Vergil liked to think he was a proud person. He was proud of his lineage, proud of the power he possessed and of all the fights he’d won. He was proud of how long he lasted against Mundus.
He could feel Mundus’ corruptive force trying to eat away at him, his body constrained by black sludge that encircled his sore limbs and pierce through him, both physically and mentally. He thrashed around within them but every movement only tired him more and led him to his fate faster. There was really no fighting this, some part of him knew.
Yamato lay in shattered pieces below, reflecting nothing but the darkness swallowing him. To be separated from his weapon in the final moments, from the very thing that he had held close for so many years, ate away at his already bleeding heart. He wished to at least grasp her hilt, or a single chipped off piece of metal. Anything. Anything to die with his weapon in hand.
But he was not the one to decide what he could or could not do anymore. He was at Mundus’ mercy as he was lifted farther and farther from where Yamato lay. The corruption sinking into his wounds like an infection, twisting further into wounds fresh and old.
His arms and legs were numb. His arms lay at the edges of his wavering vision but his sleeves looked more like Dante’s by this point.
A new pain speared through his stomach and blood gurgled in his throat. He spit it out, the action constricting his lungs and sending him reeling for air he couldn’t seem to get enough of. His mouth tasted of sticky metal globs and it coated down his throat, although he’d coughed out more black than red. He doubted he had much blood left after all he’d lost, even less that wasn’t already tainted by Mundus.
He still couldn’t breathe right. What air he was getting felt thin and useless. His head was buzzing more and more each second.
Vergil was no stranger to death. He had tasted it long before. The blood sickeningly overpowering, the heaviness of his limbs, the lightness of his consciousness. He’d felt it before. He’d screamed for help back then, using some of his precious last energy to beg someone to save him. It hadn’t done anything then. That didn’t stop him from repeating the pattern now.
It was hard to say it was even him doing it. He felt so disconnected from his body and even more so from the scream coming from it. It wasn’t final words coming from him, but an animalistic sound that did nothing but made his throat raw. There was no one to hear him, no one that would care anyways. If there were even a person left that would care to save him from this fate, they were in the human world and far from this tomb he’d brought himself to.
He was alone here. He was alone in a world that would gladly rip off his flesh and consume him. He was alone and facing a being far stronger than him, one that wanted nothing more than to watch him squirm and writhe and beg for release.
He was alone and he wouldn’t die because that being had found a fate worse than death. His head still buzzed from lack of oxygen but he couldn’t feel his chest anymore. He couldn’t feel enough to know if he was still breathing at all. He could feel that his mouth was still open but he couldn’t tell if he was still screaming or not, to know which of his senses gave out first–his voice or his hearing.
Vergil was too proud to relinquish his body and mind willingly. Too proud to not feel every inch of himself being stripped away layer after layer, skin and senses and sanity, until there was nothing left but a body and a mind warped to Mundus’ wants.
Perhaps, had his character been prone to a different sin, he might not have suffered so much. He might not even have been there. But by the time he’d reached that point of regret, he was far too gone to contemplate such things.