Chapter Text
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Safely through the world we go.”
—William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence” (1863)
Vergil closed the book in his lap. It had been a favorite of his since he was a boy, simply a collection of poems by Blake, but he carried it with him almost everywhere. Even now into his mid-life, it was one of his most prized belongings.
Nero sat across from him, and although they had not been speaking before, he started as if they were simply continuing a conversation (a skill of which Vergil couldn’t help but be jealous of),
“So, Vergil, how did you…” Nero paused, “I mean…” he took in a breath, nervous. Maybe he wasn’t as good at this as Vergil had assumed he was.
“This is stupid,” Nero muttered to himself, shaking his head. He crossed his arms, and was suddenly interested in examining the window beside him.
They were in the Devil May Cry van, but it had been parked for a while, and there wasn’t actually anything interesting to examine; they both knew this.
“Nero,” Vergil spoke just as hesitantly as Nero had, but he was also trying to build something between the two of them, so this might be a good chance to. “You may speak, I will not be offended at your question.”
Nero looked back to him, his eyes studying Vergil as he internally debated on whether or not this was actually worth it. Apparently, it was,
“…How did you and mom meet?”
Vergil took in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering away for a moment before he was able to control his expression again. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling drier than before.
“Your mother and I…we…” he hated the way he was unable to find words suddenly. Oftentimes he prided himself on his vernacular, and his more elegant speech, but now it seemed to evade him quite successfully.
Nero shook his head again, “You don’t have to, it’s dumb, I can leave—“ Nero began to stand, but Vergil put his hand up,
“No, you deserve to hear this,” He took in another breath, slower, more controlled, “From me.” Vergil was unable to look at Nero as he sat back down, but he wanted to compose himself before spilling out all his secrets to the boy.
Nero nodded slowly, but he did stay, and he sat more attentively than before.
“Have you…” Vergil stopped to clear his throat, “Has she already told you?”
Nero nodded again, but weakly, “She’d told me parts of it, but it was a long time ago. I stopped asking after a while.”
Vergil felt a small pain in his chest at that, but there was no way he would be able to blame the boy. He had been disappointed before, and he had learned from it. Vergil would do the same, learn the same.
“We met a long time ago, you knew this, but it was longer than even I realize sometimes.” He began slowly, recalling the details one at a time in his mind. “I had been investigating a town, Fortuna, as they had a worship temple for Sparda.”
“It made no sense to me, but in the end, I found nothing of interest, and decided to leave as soon as I could. However, partly through my attempt at escape…” He sighed, his eyes narrowing in annoyance, “My own body decided to give out on me, and I collapsed on the ground.”
“Apparently, I had not eaten nor drunk enough to sustain my internal functions, and I was rendered helpless, stranded.” Vergil did not appreciate the smirk that arose on Nero’s face when he explained the unfortunate situation. Vergil continued despite his apparent amusement,
“But it turned out that at that moment, a woman was passing by, that woman being your mother.” The smirk fell away at that addition. “She was insistent on assisting me from my fallen state, and as frustrated as I was with her, it was the right decision to go with her in the end.”
“I spent a long time recovering from my misfortune in her care; I sometimes wonder if I were without her generosity if I would even be here today.” Vergil then felt himself smile, even if it was very faint. “She treated me with respect, but she would always push back when I acted foolish—neglecting my health, or more.”
Nero had been quietly listening the whole time, but he decided to add a comment of his own at the pause in Vergil’s story, “She would do that to me too. If I got sick or something,” He laughed, “Looking back I know it was out of love, but when I was six, I hated all of the medicine she would force me to take when I was sick.”
Vergil huffed in agreement, “A stubborn woman, but perfectly resolute when it comes to the important things. I realized that too late, I think.” The last part was more solem than he meant it to be, but many of his feelings for her were now more melancholy than they were merry.
Nero sat back slightly in his chair, seemingly relaxing more now that they were talking freely. It was a pleasant sight, and Vergil himself felt less restrained like this as well, more open to speaking with… with his son.
“You can still see her, if you want,” Nero offered quietly, “She might want to—“
“No.” Vergil cut him off, all the softness that had filled his voice and mind a moment before were gone, “No, I can’t.”
Nero’s eyes widened slightly hearing the immediate disagreement. He hadn’t expected such a harsh rebuttal from him,
“…You can’t, or won’t?”
Vergil was silent at that, unable to look Nero in the eye anymore, his hands clenched.
“I am not the same man anymore.” He shook his head, convincing himself more than anyone else, “I do not want to… to force her to see me like this. What I have become isn’t who…”
He scowled, I don’t want her to know me like this, when she could remember me how I was. When she could hold onto that.
Nero sighed, and stood up, “Whatever,” he turned away to leave, but had the courtesy (or perhaps care) to look back, “She doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know that you’re alive.”
Vergil felt another pain, stronger, in his chest. But it wasn’t really in his chest. It was in his heart. And his heart ached like it hadn’t in decades.
“It is better that way.”
And Nero left him to sit alone in the van. Alone with his painful thoughts and poetry book that held no comfort. He opened it anyway, his eyes finding a familiar sight.
A small annotation in blue pen, ballpoint, her favorite one,
“I don’t get these normally, but this one is nice! <3”
He looked at the annotation for a while, wishing she would write another someday, but knowing it was nothing more than a wish.