Chapter Text
Someone told me lang ago
There a calm before the storm
I know, it’s been comin’ for some time
Creedence Clearwater Revival
Vergil sat in a daze on the couch in his son’s home, as though the world around him were wrapped in a soft, suffocating haze that dulled every sound and slowed every movement. After finally being freed from Mundus’ suffocating influence and becoming whole again — a state he had long forgotten the feeling of — he now found himself confronted with truths he had spent decades avoiding. He listened to his younger twin brother and his son speaking animatedly, their voices rising and falling as Dante recounted their time in the Underworld with sweeping gestures, dramatic pauses, and the kind of theatrical flair only he possessed.
Vergil’s gaze, however, remained fixed mostly on his hands, resting tensely on his lap as though they were foreign to him. Every now and then he allowed himself a fleeting glance at his son, who stood beside Dante on the other side of the room, illuminated by the warm glow of the living room lamp. The revelation that had struck him atop the Qliphoth — sharp, sudden, and merciless — still reverberated through him like an echo trapped in a cavern. He had fought his son, his own son, reluctantly and with a heaviness in his chest he had not understood at the time, and he had allowed himself to be defeated. Afterwards, he had given Nero his book of poems, a gesture that felt strangely intimate, before he and Dante severed the Qliphoth’s roots, promising the boy he would return.
And now, impossibly, they had returned. It was an outcome he had never truly believed would come to pass. In the quiet corners of his mind, he had imagined himself and Dante remaining in their father’s realm forever, swallowed by its endless silence and its cold, familiar darkness. He had buried every thought of Nero deep within himself, in a place where memories went to die. After completing their task, he and Dante had fought again and again, bickering like they had as children, dredging up half-forgotten memories, disagreeing about details that no longer mattered, teasing each other with old challenges and jabs that carried more affection than either would admit. Until Dante dropped his sword, yawned loudly, and declared — with the casualness of someone commenting on the weather — that he was bored.
“You’re bored?” Vergil repeated, lowering his blade. His voice echoed through the hollow expanse of the Underworld, sounding strangely small in the vastness around them.
“Yeah,” Dante said, stretching lazily, as though centuries of conflict had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “I’m going home. Gonna see the crew again. Grab a pizza. Maybe a strawberry sundae.”
Vergil watched his brother turn away, Rebellion in hand, and in that moment he understood exactly what Dante was doing. Throughout their time together, Dante had made subtle — or not-so-subtle — remarks about Nero: his music tastes, his girlfriend, where he lived, the small details of his life that Dante had collected like precious fragments. Vergil had not responded, but each detail had stirred something fragile and unfamiliar inside him, something he had not known how to name. Eventually, he followed Dante, fully aware of his brother’s intention to reunite father and son — a thought that both thrilled and terrified him more than he would ever admit, even to himself.
They found a weak point in the veil between worlds, conveniently — or perhaps deliberately — in Fortuna. Dante explained that the Hell Gate had been sealed years ago, but the barrier remained fragile, like a scar that never fully healed. With the Yamato, they opened a passage and stepped into Fortuna Castle, the air shifting around them as they crossed the threshold.
Dante suggested they go straight to Nero’s house for rest and food. Walking through Fortuna stirred old memories in Vergil, though most were blurred and fragmented, like images seen through fogged glass. He remembered being almost eighteen and staying in Fortuna, but not why. Lost in thought, they reached Nero’s home. After a moment of hesitation — a shared breath of uncertainty — Dante knocked. The shock on Nero’s and Kyrie’s faces when they opened the door was almost painful to witness, as though the world had tilted beneath them.
Vergil watched Kyrie throw her arms around Dante’s neck, welcoming him with a bright, relieved smile that softened the room. When she noticed Vergil behind him, her expression shifted — concern first, then polite warmth, as though she were unsure whether she should fear him or pity him.
Nero was more guarded with both of them. He gave Dante a firm handshake with his restored right arm, then turned to Vergil. After a tense pause, he extended his hand. The gesture felt alien to Vergil, as if it were the first time anyone had ever greeted him with such simple humanity. He stared too long, and Nero began to pull back — but Vergil caught his hand and shook it, mumbling a quiet thank you. Nero muttered something under his breath. Vergil was not oblivious to the reluctance in the gesture, nor to the pain beneath it.
Inside, Dante patted Vergil’s shoulder reassuringly. Vergil answered with a sharp, disapproving snort, unwilling to be handled like a fragile thing. Even if he felt like a child relearning the world, he would not allow his younger brother to patronize him.
Kyrie placed a glass of sweet lemonade on the table before him, the scent of citrus rising softly.
“We’ll be having dinner soon,” she said gently. “You’re both welcome to join us. Dante said he would like to, but I didn’t want to assume—”
“That’s fine,” Vergil cut in, harsher than intended. She flinched. “Thank you. I mean… thank you.”
She nodded and stepped away. Vergil watched her brush past Nero, their fingers briefly intertwining — a silent reassurance, a quiet promise. Nero tried to look at him too, but the moment Vergil noticed, Nero turned away as if he hadn’t.
At dinner, Kyrie served pasta. Vergil watched Dante devour plate after plate with unrestrained enthusiasm, as though he had not eaten in centuries. Vergil ate plenty himself, though — so he insisted inwardly — with far more dignity. The Yamato rested beside him, a constant reminder of who he was and who he had been.
Nero barely touched his food, listening half-heartedly as Kyrie attempted polite conversation with Dante.
He looked so much like Vergil. His hair, his eyes. The way his face tightened in frustration — eyebrows drawn together, mouth a thin line — was a mirror image. Yet the way he slumped in his chair reminded Vergil of Dante as a child, sulking at the dinner table. And when Nero had fought atop the Qliphoth, he had resembled Sparda: unwavering, resolute, a force of nature. The Sparda bloodline ran fiercely through him.
But there was something else in Nero — something Vergil could not place in himself, Dante, or Sparda. His eyes, or rather the way they shifted with emotion. When he looked at Kyrie, Vergil saw an expression he could not name, something tender and vulnerable and achingly human. Yet it felt familiar, like a memory he could almost grasp.
“You are loved,” whispered a voice in the back of his mind. He stiffened. It didn’t feel like his own thought, but like a memory — someone’s voice, long forgotten, echoing from a place he could no longer reach.
“What are you looking at?” Nero’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts, slicing the moment in two.
Nero stared at him now, challenging, unyielding, his eyes burning with something fierce and wounded. Dante had looked at him like that before, but Nero’s gaze was different — and hauntingly familiar, though Vergil could not recall why.
Vergil said nothing and continued eating. Nero huffed, and the silence swallowed the table whole.
“Vergil,” Kyrie said softly, trying to break the tension. “Dante told me you listened to classical music when you were younger. Do you have a favorite composer?”
Vergil shot Dante a scowl. Dante kicked his shin under the table, a childish gesture that only deepened Vergil’s irritation.
“I suppose I listened to a lot of Bach when we were children.”
“Oh yeah!” Dante said brightly. “Dad had those old record plates, remember? He even met—”
Nero shoved his chair back with a violent scrape, the sound sharp enough to make Kyrie gasp. He slammed his hands on the table, making the glasses tremble. Vergil and Dante tensed, their instincts rising.
“Nero,” Kyrie whispered, tugging at his arm. “Please, not now—”
“Who was she?” Nero barked at Vergil, his voice cracking under the weight of years of unanswered questions.
Vergil remained seated, calm, though something inside him tightened. “Who?”
“They said she was a whore,” Nero spat, bitterness dripping from every word. “Is that true? Was my mother some whore you visited?”
Vergil’s eyebrow rose slowly. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what they told me in the orphanage. That my father abandoned me and my mother was a prostitute who died.”
A strange ache bloomed in Vergil’s chest, heavy and suffocating. He looked at Nero’s face — familiar, painfully familiar — but the memories refused to surface. He knew Nero’s mother had not been a whore. He knew that. But when he tried to remember her, all he found was a hollow sadness, a void where something important should have been.
“Answer me!” Nero slammed his fist on the table. Kyrie flinched, shrinking back.
Vergil stood slowly, back straight, hands clasped behind him, his posture a shield. “You will calm yourself. This behavior is unacceptable.” His voice was steady, but he saw Nero’s rage flare like a spark catching flame. “Your mother was not that kind of woman.”
He said nothing more, letting the silence speak for him.
“Then where is she?! Why are you here and she isn’t?! Were you two such deadbeat parents?!” Nero’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.
Vergil had no answer. He remembered coming to Fortuna because Sparda had once ruled it. Nothing more. No woman. No child. Yet his instincts screamed that Nero was his blood, his flesh, his legacy.
“I don’t know why your mother left you,” he said quietly, each word heavy. “And I… I didn’t know you existed until Dante told me.”
Nero turned on Dante. “Do you know who—”
“No!” Dante shouted, hands raised. “If I knew, I would’ve told you!”
“Like you told me about him?” Nero snapped, pointing at Vergil. “Is she even alive? I don’t—”
His voice spiraled into irrational anger, demonic energy rising like a storm.
“You’re scaring her,” Vergil said, nodding toward Kyrie.
Nero’s expression shattered. He looked at Kyrie, horrified. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
Vergil shook his head. “This was a mistake, brother. We shouldn’t have come.” He grabbed the Yamato and walked to the door, each step heavy. “We should’ve stayed where we belonged.”
He stepped outside into the rain. Cold drops struck his face, running down his skin. He intended to reopen the Hell Gate, to return to the only place that made sense.
A hand touched his shoulder. He snarled — expecting Dante — but turned to find Nero instead.
They stood in the rain, silent, the world around them muted by the storm, until Nero spoke.
“I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I should’ve—”
“I can’t give you what you want, Nero,” Vergil said, voice flat, almost hollow.
Nero’s face hardened again, wounded. “Why?”
Vergil looked away, rain running down his face like memories he could not hold onto.
“I… don’t remember her.”