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“Okay, remember, 20 seconds.”
The boy groans and pouts. Dante always found a way to get under his skin.
“I know. Can you stop telling me what to do?” The boy asks rhetorically.
Dante crosses his arms across his chest, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration.
“If you didn’t cheat, I wouldn’t have to make sure that you’re playing right.” He mumbles. Vergil shoots him a heated glare.
“Cheating, huh? I’ll give you 30 seconds, and I bet I’ll still find you in under a minute.” The boy proposes, a devilish smirk growing on his lips.
Dante nods in agreement.
Vergil spins on his heel, facing the corner of one of the walls in the main sitting room. He covers his eyes and begins counting backwards, listening intently for Dante’s footsteps.
He had always found these games to be so trivial. No matter what they played, neither of them could seem to outwit the other; it was always a game of cat and mouse. Hide-and-seek was no different, especially as there were only so many hiding places available to them.
“Zero.”
The boy begins his search, immediately pausing for a moment to listen for any creaks and cracks that could reveal his brother's location. Sadly, he’s only met with the soft crackling of the fire going in the room over and the wind chimes clinking from the backyard.
He takes a long exhale, already somewhat annoyed. Why couldn’t Dante just admit defeat?
He wanders out into the foyer, peeking around corners and eyeing the banisters hanging far out of reach. He ponders if Dante would be able to get up there somehow but then scrunches his nose in distaste.
No way would he pick a spot so obvious.
He continues the search, going room to room. He checks everywhere he could think of: under the couch, in the pantry, and even going outside to look up the giant trees planted in the backyard. Still, he’s left empty-handed.
At this point his frustration has just about boiled over. He stomps inside, slamming the back door shut. He saunters down the halls, running up the stairs and turning the corner so sharply he nearly trips.
As he makes his way to his bedroom to sulk in defeat, he catches a glimpse of something peculiar out of the corner of his eye.
A pool of warm light seeps in from a tall door at the end of the hall. Vergil swallows hard, his breathing stifling. Not once in his life had he ever seen the door to his father's office open.
As long as he can remember, he’d been strictly told to never attempt to or even go near his father’s personal study. His mother claimed that it was simply to give their father space, but the twins had always had an inkling he was hiding something.
The boy shifts on his feet, mulling over his next move in his head. Dante knows as well as he does that going in there is a death sentence if caught. But still… Who else would leave the door wide open like that?
Against his better judgment, he begins making his way over to the room, listening carefully for any indication that someone else could be around.
He shuffles slowly until he’s hovering just outside the room, his small hand hovering over the doorknob. Gingerly he peeks through the opening, holding his breath as he looks for his brother.
“Dante!” The boy calls out in a hushed voice. He listens intently for any sign of life, holding his breath.
As he is met with silence, he lets out a groan, poking his head into the room to get a better look.
“Dante, this isn’t funny,” he whispers through clenched teeth.
His heart jumps into his throat as a low creak comes from the walls around him. He ducks his head instinctively, his eyes darting around the dark room.
His concerns about his brother's location quickly vanish, now replaced by a growing curiosity. His eyes lock onto a grisly demonic head mounted on the wall like a trophy—an unsettling sight that reveals a side of his father's interest in taxidermy.
The boy takes a peek behind his shoulder before creeping into the room, forgetting to close the door behind him.
The room is far larger than he had anticipated, fitting a large desk, towering bookshelves, and an assortment of curious knickknacks. Beside his father's desk, a massive stone fireplace crackled warmly as the flames danced fervently among the coals.
Drawn to one of the glass display cases near the window, Vergil presses his palms against the cool, smooth surface. Inside, an array of ominous artifacts and thorned daggers lay meticulously arranged atop a plush velvet lining. His gaze drifts up and down the shelf, admiring his father's collection of weapons, ancient tomes, and eerie remnants of demonic origin.
He continues wandering around, pausing intermittently to admire the decor. Upon reaching his father's desk, he hesitates briefly, fingertips tracing the intricate carvings etched into the rich mahogany. His eyes follow the pattern to the edge, an intricate array of swirls and harsh gashes worked into it.
Naturally, he finds himself hoisting himself onto the oversized armchair beside him, eager to take a look at the items strewn across the top.
His excitement dims as he surveys the clutter: a few paper clips, loose papers with incoherent scribbles, and a pen that looks like it's seen better days. The boy gingerly lifts one of the pages, squinting to make out the words. His hands then wander to a small globe perched at the desk's corner, pulling it closer with quiet curiosity.
Who knew his father's office would be such a disappointment?
Suddenly, another loud creak comes from the hall, followed by the shuffle of footsteps. Vergil panics, scrambling to put everything back as it was. As the steps get closer, the boy hastily looks around the room, desperate to find a place to hide. Eventually he settles on tucking himself into one of the thick velvet curtains covering the windows, being careful to encase his whole body in the fabric.
From outside his hiding spot, he hears the door groan as the stranger enters the room, shutting it behind them with a loud thud. Vergil flinches at the sound and tries his best to hold his breath. Sparda pauses for a moment, scanning the room, and stops once his eyes land on the disheveled curtains.
He takes his coat off and lays it across one of the armchairs, waltzing over to the fireplace. Vergil slowly moves his head to a small crack in the fabric, using one eye to peer through the slit. He swallows hard as he watches his father add more wood to the fireplace, stoking at the flames with intense focus. He disappears into the fabric just as Sparda turns, and the man takes a seat at his desk.
Tentatively he reaches for his pen, subtly displaced from its former position. He then gathers the papers haphazardly thrown across the surface, tapping them into a neat pile before clearing his throat. He clasps his hands together and leans forward, his ice-cold glare drifting over to the curtain once again.
“I never imagined one of you would be bold enough to disobey me.” The man mumbles lowly, waiting patiently for a response.
Vergil curses himself in his head. He knew there was no way his father could be so oblivious.
Before the boy can reply, his father stands up from his chair and begins making his way over to his son's position. Just as his hand hovers over the edge of the fabric, Vergil squeezes his eyes shut and utters a meek reply.
“I didn't mean to, Father, I—”
The boy is cut off abruptly as his father looms over him, eyes as cold as steel boring intensely into his skull. Vergil feels the pit of shame grow, and he hangs his head. His father stares at him with a stern expression, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Explain yourself.” He requests in a stern tone, crossing his arms across his chest.
The boy shifts on his feet, meeting his father's gaze with hesitation.
“I was looking for Dante… We were playing a game, and I saw the door open, so I—" he explains, talking so fast that he nearly bites his tongue.
Sparda nods slowly, his expression unwavering.
“I understand. It’s not beyond him to do something so unwise,” he says calmly.
Vergil nods.
“I’m sorry, Father, I shouldn't have disobeyed you.”
The boy ducks his head low, awaiting his father's sentencing. He prays that he'll keep this between the two of them; his mother's wrath was something from his nightmares.
Suddenly, the boy feels a weight on his shoulder, looking up to find his father's hand resting there.
“Don’t slouch,” he commands. Vergil wastes no time straightening himself, dusting off his vest awkwardly.
To his surprise, upon meeting his father's gaze once more, a subtle smile grows on his lips. Vergil can't help but raise an eyebrow.
“Come, I want to show you something,” he instructs, nudging him before heading towards the fireplace. Vergil hesitates a moment and trails behind, careful to avoid stepping on his father's heels.
Once they reach the fireplace, his father turns to face him, the golden cast from the fire illuminating half of his face. Vergil says nothing. His father then leans down to his level, opening his arms in invitation.
“Here, I’ll hoist you up,” he says gently. The boy is startled by the gesture, unable to recall the last time his father had shown him such tenderness. The boy then shuffles over to him, resting his hands on his father's shoulders.
His father then lifts him from the ground effortlessly, as though the boy weighed no more than a feather. From up here, everything around him looks so tiny and insignificant. It makes him wonder how his father sees him from this angle.
The boy then turns his attention to the top of the fireplace, watching as his father opens a large black box that spans the entire surface. His eyes fill with wonder as his father lifts out a large sword with one hand, the light from the fire below glinting off the surface.
“Woah…”
His father can’t help but smile, bringing the blade closer.
“What do you think?” he asks warmly, turning his head slightly to see his son’s face.
Vergil slowly stretches his hand towards the scabbard, running his tiny fingers lightly over the tightly woven cord along the handle.
“What is it?” The boy asks, awestruck, careful to not damage the delicate fabric.
Sparda chuckles, carefully lowering himself into his chair, keeping Vergil steady in his lap, and bringing the weapon with him. Vergil meets his gaze, pursing his lips slightly.
“I’m sorry; you just remind me of when I was your age.” He replies lightly before reaching down and taking the cover off to reveal the blade underneath.
Vergil admires the sleek, cold steel, tracing his finger delicately along the razor-sharp edge. His father slowly rotates the blade, the flickering flames beside them illuminating arcane symbols intricately etched into the metal's surface. An unexplainable aura emanates from the weapon—a silent and sealed ancient power that hums with life. The energy is so potent and raw that Vergil feels something stir deep within his bones.
“Father… Have you ever used this?” the boy asks gingerly
Sparda sighs, nodding.
“Yes, albeit a long time ago. It's one of the most complex weapons I've ever had to master.” He replies, looking to the blade as he is deep in thought.
Vergil hums, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“Is that why we're not allowed in here?”
Sparda presses his lips into a thin line, carefully placing the blade back in its casing and setting it to the side.
“Partially,” he replies bluntly.
Vergil averts his gaze, tightening his grip on the sides of the chair. Sparda soundlessly grabs the blade from the ground and places it back inside its wooden coffin, pulling out a key from his pocket and locking the case for good measure.
He crouches down slowly, settling onto one knee before his son. Vergil keeps his gaze cast downward, embarrassment creeping quietly under his skin.
“Vergil, look at me,” his father commands in a stern yet gentle manner. The boy hesitates before slowly raising his head, locking eyes with his father.
Sparda reaches for his shoulders, holding them firmly.
“This room is filled with too many dangerous pieces to be treated lightly. From now on, you should not come in here again unless told otherwise. Do you understand?”
Vergil ponders his father's words for a moment, and the word "dangerous" rings in his mind.
The boy nods confidently, yet his expression gives his true feelings away.
Sparda sighs.
“I’m sorry, it has nothing to do with you two. I just want to keep you safe.” He says lowly, his expression sincere.
Vergil acknowledges his request; after all, he was just a kid.
“It’s okay, Father… I understand,” he utters softly.
His father gives him a weak smile, patting him on the shoulder before standing up.
“That’s my son.”
He then makes his way towards the doorway, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Vergil follows, scampering to catch up. As the pair make their way down the hallway, Vergil cuts the thick silence building between them.
“Father…will I be able to wield a sword like that someday?” he asks.
Sparda nods, chuckling softly.
“Of course. Remember, you are the son of a legendary dark knight after all. I have no doubt that you will find something glorious to call your own.”
Vergil can't help but crack a small smile. Perhaps one day he could become a dark knight just as his father is.
He peeks behind his shoulder at the door to the office behind, the image of the magnificent blade suddenly appearing in his mind.
“What’s its name? The sword, I mean,” the boy asks softly.
His father's gaze remains steady, his expression unreadable.
“Yamato,” he replies flatly.
“Yamato,” the boy murmurs, savoring the weight of the name on his tongue. A surge of satisfaction wells within him, fueling a stronger resolve to live up to his familial legacy.