Chapter Text
At the top of the Temen-ni-gru, the brother’s positions are flipped. Where, so often, after a fight, Vergil would stand victorious over his brother, something had changed.
Dante had beaten him. In the constant battle of their rivalry, never once had this happened. Vergil was the elder son. The heir. The strongest.
But there’s no mistaking it. Despite his resolve, and his strength, he had lost. Dante frowns down at him, something uncertain in his eyes as he points the tip of Rebellion at Vergil’s chest. The rain is soaking through his gloves as he sprawls on his back.
He reaches for Yamato with wandering fingers, hoping to feel her weight in his hands. But Dante kicks her out of his reach. He easily deflects the summoned sword sent his way as well.
“You lost,” Dante smirks. Salt in the wound. His grin is cocky as he stands over Vergil. “Admit it.” The face of victory worn by the son who had always gotten everything.
Vergil’s lip curls with bitter jealousy. So caught in their rivalry, two don’t notice a human woman slip through, a red hood keeping out the rain and one arm holding something beneath her cloak.
Not that Vergil has time to notice much of anything after that. Wounded from their battle, his consciousness begins to ebb. The last thing he sees is Dante’s smirk.
He must be dreaming. Last he recalled, he lay upon the cold stone of the Temen-ni-gru. Yet, Vergil feels something like a soft mattress beneath him.
He hears a soft humming from a voice that is oh-so familiar. A baby cries in the distance, and is immediately shushed by the same voice.
He has to be dreaming. Everything has that shattered, dream-like quality. Is he sick in bed, back home? That explains the woman’s humming. It must be Mother.
Why does it sound so different and yet so familiar then?
No matter. The baby stops crying, comforted by the humming. And Vergil is lulled back to sleep.
He comes to as a strong alcoholic smell fills his nose. It stings lightly. A familiar sensation that takes him a beat to place: antiseptic.
He pulls his eyes open with some difficulty. Vergil must still be asleep, because his blurry face reveals the vision of a visage he has not seen im a long time. That frown. That mole above her red lips. The mass of curly hair that she keeps having to brush out of her eyes.
Camilla.
Am I dreaming? He rasps. He must be.
She frowns at him. Vergil reaches a hand out to touch her.
He’s mistaken. He has to be awake, because her hand is solid as she bats his away. She glares at him with a fire she had not reserved for him in a long time.
Their last time together had been soft, sweet, but Camilla’s anger is obvious. No, not anger. Fury.
Vergil is certainly not dreaming.
“What…” he begins. There’s gauze on his chest, affixed with what must be medical tape. He doesn’t know what to ask. There’s so much that he doesn’t even know where to begin.
“You left,” she spits. The venom in her voice is palpable. “You left.”
Vergil sighs. He’d forgotten how emotional she was. “I-“
She laughs bitterly. “And Matthias’ dead body? I told you to leave it, Vergil!”
“You weren’t safe! Not while he was still alive!”
“I wasn’t safe. That’s why you were supposed to be there, and then you left! That stopped being your problem when you decided to leave! You don’t get to have it both ways. Swearing in English is always so much less satisfying but I want you to understand! Vai a prenderlo in culo! Go take it up the ass Vergil, fuck you!” she spits.
He sighs. He should probably be irritated but he feels too drained to experience anything other than exhaustion. “Are you quite finished?”
“Don’t do that! Don’t you dare! I’m allowed to be angry! You-“ she’s waving her hands.
She’s beautiful, he thinks. Even when her face is contorted with rage.
A baby crying again from the other room. So it hadn’t been a dream. Then where did it come from?
Camilla sighs, going to tend to it. A few minutes later, she brings out an infant. It’s swaddled in a black blanket, contrasting the white hair on its head.
Vergil frowns. Is he still hallucinating? His pulse roars in his ears. It can’t be real.
“Is that-“ he wets his lips with his tongue. His mouth is dry.
“Yours? Who else’s?” She scoffs.
“Impossible,” he rasps. “We- it- it was only once. That’s not possible.”
She shrugs, pushing the bundle into his arms. Vergil stiffens, running on autopilot. However something in him commands his arms to cradle the infant, preventing it from falling.
Vergil wrinkles his nose. “Why is it sticky?”
“He,” she corrects sternly.
Vergil stares at the child in his arms. He has to still be dreaming. It- he, begins to cry again, seeming to dislike being in his hold.
Camilla quickly takes the baby and hushes him.” Shhh, Stellino. Stai bene?" she mumbles.
Finally, the child settles down. Camilla disappears, perhaps to set him back down in his cot.
When she comes back, she pushes Vergil back down against the bed. The action is unexpected enough that he doesn’t protest. She pulls off his blankets, beginning to unweave the bandages from his chest. Then, she frowns at his injuries, running a gentle finger around a particularly nasty stab wound.
Vergil grits his teeth as she dabs antiseptic onto him. She hums the same tune she’d been singing earlier as she works. Then, she bandages him up again.
“Sleep,” she instructs.
Vergil frowns, the pull of sleep instantly fading in protest.
She fixes him a stern look. “Sleep, Vergil. I don’t want to talk. I have nothing to say to you.” Her lips are pursed.
He despises little more than being told what to do, but his body needs rest, and the lull is becoming harder to fight. He closes his eyes once again.
“The child, what is his name?” Vergil manages to force out. He can hear the exhaustion in his own voice.
He doesn’t think she will answer him. Camilla takes her anger very seriously, he’d forgotten.
“Nero,” she says eventually.
He hums in approval, feeling his lips pull into a smirk. “A kingly name. Very fitting.”
And then sleep claims him once again.