Chapter Text
Present.
Sparda is real, you know this to be true because your husband is his son.
The young Knights of the Order can aspire to be like him, the choir girls can sing him praises in the form of hymns all they want, you know Vergil’s true heart is as ugly and as hard as gnarled bark.
Between sinew blood and bone there must be petrified rock. Nineteen years and you're still not convinced he even has one at all. If by some miracle he does have a heart, it must pump sludge instead of real blood. Maybe there’s just a hollow cavern where it should be.
Your knees will be bruised by tomorrow morning. Scuffed and aching. It matters not.
Prayer is something you can still find peace in, the silence of the cathedral at midnight is unlike any other. The moonlight filters in from the clerestory and illuminates dust motes that dance and flutter like fireflies.
The Order’s sigil is clasped so tightly between your fingers they themselves turn white beneath the pressure. Your lips move in silent prayer, a part of you thinks Sparda will never listen, that this is wasted breath and a risk not worth taking, but that part must be wrong and jaded.
Because Sparda loves you.
It’s what your mother told you, what your father told you, what Solemnis and later Sanctus told you and many others. Sparda loves you, he loves all his children so much he built this city for them. He’ll protect it so long as they pray and live piously.
It’s just that there’s a small problem with that ‘truth’. If Sparda does love you, it seems he doesn’t love you enough to save you.
You devoted yourself to prayer for so long in hopes you’ll be awarded a quiet life, one to spend with a nice man on the outskirts of town in a small cottage with a garden and room for a babe or two. Maybe the garden would’ve had enough room for a coop, you would’ve loved seeing your children toddling after ducks come Spring.
But how could Sparda love you if he gifted you to Vergil?
Heavenly Father, forgive me.
I don’t mean to disparage your son, I don't mean to sound ungrateful.
You falter. Maybe you were asking for too much. Was it too soon to try again? Too wrong and too late to still want something so human? Should you ask for something simple and vague like everyone else does? Health? A good year? A nice woman for your son?
Would anything change if your pleas pivoted instead?
Despite the little voice in the back of your mind pleading and begging you to just go home, to slip beneath the bedsheets before Vergil notices you’re gone. You continue. Prayers should never be left unfinished.
I love him. Really I do. You’ve blessed me with your attention, you’ve gifted me your son and a babe of my own. You’ve given me a home and a place in history as his wife.
You still remember when you fell pregnant with Nero, you hadn’t known Vergil well then, but you knew enough to know he’d been pleased, more so when the midwife had announced you’d birthed him a son.
You love Nero too. You do. Enough to have wept when he was born and to have felt pride when he first learned to swing his sword.
It would be wrong for a mother to feel otherwise. He’s half of you, after all.
It’s just that like with most things you found joy in, Vergil found a way to weasel his way in and spoil it too. You found out rather quickly that he has a way of doing that.
Was it inevitable that over the years the love you felt (feel?) for Nero curled into something bitter?
It’s laced with guilt, if that makes it sound better. It’s just hard to see him and not Vergil the older he gets. When he was baby faced and clinging to your skirts he was your precious little Nero, following along behind mama and pointing at the clouds with joy.
Now he’s simply his fathers son. Just as stoic as he is.
Is it also inevitable for sons to take after their fathers more than they do their mothers? Was it ever possible for him to have just been yours? Truly yours. A mama’s boy instead of the distant figure he is now. You could turn the other cheek and ignore the dent in his chin, the white shock of hair, the dimples you hardly see anymore.
But no matter what, Nero is yet another thing that tethers you to Vergil, more permanent and binding than the thorny ring around your finger.
Is it wrong to find yourself hating him for that? Are you a bad mother for wishing he could go back to being your baby again?
It’s true that you’ve given me all I've asked for.
But…could I ask for something more? Have I asked for too much already? Are you still listening?
If you are…
You tilt your head back and risk a glance, your vision is clouded and blurred at the edges. When did you start crying? How hadn’t you noticed the walls closing in on your own ribcage? It’s getting harder to breathe when it feels like you’re ready to shatter into bits and pieces.
The legends spoke of your kindness, your righteousness. The sacrifices you made to protect the innocent.
You find Sparda’s face quickly, his statue looming and stoic. His own hands are clasped as tightly as yours are, though his encase his sword, forever ready to defend his flock. His expression is grave, casting judgement on the false and keeping the stragglers in line with the promise of leaving them defenseless in the face of eternal damnation. For the believers, his gaze is a symbol of strength and bravery.
For if you falter in front of your enemy, what sort of protector are you?
Is it possible for you to pass some of that on to him?
Father Sanctus has spoken of you appearing to him during vespers to offer guidance.
You shift on your knees, edging closer to him as if that would make your prayer louder, as if it would make them rise above the others and reach his ears faster. Tears finally teeter off the precipice and dot your cheeks like gems.
Would it be too late to ask for you to appear before Vergil?
I’ve been a good wife. I’ve been a good mother. I’ve done everything that a good woman should.
And yet—
Before you could complete the thought a hand places itself on your shoulder, as cold and stiff as a dead man’s. You hadn’t heard the door open. Nor did you hear the footsteps. You never do when they belong to him.
Vergil. Only Vergil is capable of channeling all his anger into one touch.
He stands stiffly behind you, his shadow looms as long as Sparda’s does. Though you don’t feel at ease like you would’ve if it were actually his shadow you were kneeling in. You bow your head again slowly and screw your eyes shut tightly.
The tears roll down your cheeks a little faster now, little dew drop trailing warm, salty tracks, leaving evidence of your silent misery behind. A sob wants to leave your lips. You suffocate it before it could fully form and shudder out a sigh instead. Metal has finally broken skin, a bead of red hits the marble with a soft tap, and then some more.
It was silly to think he wouldn’t come looking for you, Vergil isn’t one to let his wife wander. The bedroom is colder without you in it. The world is a little bleaker when he’s away from you. So much so that he can’t stand not knowing where you are at all times. If you aren’t besides him or in his direct line of sight the world has stopped spinning.
Why should you leave his side when that’s where you’re always destined to be anyways? So it is said, so it will be.
Vergil’s hand moves. It trails lower and lower, languidly it swipes across your collarbone and its hollow, your throat works down another sob you pray he doesn’t feel. His hand moves downward and stills over the center, splays wide over your racing heart.
“It’s late.”
I have to go. I’m sorry.
You can control yourself enough to not tremble as much anymore, but your silly human heart gives you away time and time again. He presses his palm down ever so slightly.
You can't ignore the pit that's formed in your stomach, nor the chill that's settled over you.
Once again, Sparda sent you his son.
Through Sparda our lord, Amen.