Work Text:
Giving up the lease on your city apartment had never truly been a negotiation. Vergil was not a man who could be compressed into forty square meters of cheap drywall and lingering street noise. He required height, cold stone, and isolation.
So he had chosen this: a sprawling, late-nineteenth-century manor marooned miles past the town line, swallowed by pine forests and fog. It smelled of damp mortar. Of centuries of trapped winter.
In the center of the massive, vaulted foyer, you stood surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes and reinforced wooden crates. Your entire life—fourteen years of collected lexicons, iron bookends, framed manuscripts, and heavy wool rugs—sat stacked on the cold stone floor like an unorganized archive. Upstairs, the faint, steady floor creaking marked Vergil’s presence as he methodically inspected the upper wing, entirely unconcerned with the mechanics of moving furniture.
The deafening silence of the valley didn't last.
The roar of an ungreased engine tore up the long gravel driveway, followed by the wet crunch of tires locking up near the porch steps. A door slammed. Work boots marched up the stone steps, and before you could reach the iron latch, the front door was kicked wide open.
Nero stepped into the foyer, carrying a massive oak crate stuffed with your heaviest Scandinavian dictionaries like it was a bag of groceries. Damp pine needles clung to his jacket, and rain glistened on his cropped hair. He dropped the crate onto the stone floor with a reverberating thud that shook the dust from the chandelier high above.
He stood up, wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the gargantuan, freezing space.
"Jesus," Nero grunted, his voice echoing off the high stone walls. "Did he buy a house or drag you into a mausoleum?"
He kicked the front door shut behind him with his heel to block the driving rain, then crossed his arms, looking you up and down with critical, protective eyes.
"Dante told me you moved out of your place," Nero continued, his tone a mix of genuine concern and sheer spite toward his father. "I figured if I didn't show up, you’d be down here hauling five hundred pounds of ancient paper by yourself while the old man stands in the dark admiring his own posture."
You couldn't help the small, quiet curve of your mouth. Stepping past a stack of leather-bound lexicons, you reached into your coat pocket, pulling out a dry cotton rag and tossing it toward him. He caught it out of the air on instinct, using it to wipe the rain from his forehead and neck.
"I managed the first four boxes before the rain started," you said, your voice calm and even against the chill of the hall. "Vergil is upstairs deciding which wing has the fortitude to hold his books… He isn't holding me hostage, Nero."
Nero let out a sharp snort, shoving the rag into his back pocket. "Yeah, well, someone has to make sure you don't get crushed under a falling bookcase while he's off meditating in the attic. Besides, I had to see for myself that you hadn't lost your mind entirely."
He kicked the wooden crate closer to the center of the foyer, his posture easing up as he realized you were neither terrified nor suffering. The initial prickle of tension in his shoulders smoothed out into a rough, practical focus. He didn't offer a dramatic speech about his father, nor did he dwell on it. Instead, he simply rolled up his sleeves, exposing the strong, corded muscle of his forearms, and looked around for the next heavy thing to move.
"Where do you want the rest?" he asked, nodding toward a row of iron-clasped trunks lined up near the archway leading into the grand hall.
"The trunks hold textiles and wall hangings," you replied, walking over to unlatch the heaviest one. "They need to come out first. The stone in this place is drawing moisture, and if the wool stays packed in the damp, it will rot."
Nero stepped up beside you, kneeling on one knee as he flipped the heavy brass latches open with two sharp clicks. The lid creaked as he threw it back, revealing layers of thick weaving, wrapped in oiled linen to protect the thread from the elements.
He reached in, his large hands carefully hauling out a massive, rolled textile bound with leather straps. It was dense and heavy enough to strain a normal man's back, but Nero lifted it onto the wide trestle table near the hearth without effort.
"Unroll it here?" he grunted.
"Spread it out," you told him, stepping up to undo the leather buckles at one end while he unfastened the other.
The heavy wool unfurled across the dark oak of the table with a soft, sweeping sound. The weave was ancient, the dyes rich and muted: deep indigo, forest green, and raw iron-red. It depicted a stark, ancient scene, hand-stitched with painstaking precision.
Nero's hands flattened out against the edge of the table as he smoothed the fabric down, but his movements slowed, then stopped completely.
In the center of the tapestry, framed by silver-threaded runes, stood a towering, iron-clad figure. Before him loomed a gargantuan beast, its jaws open wide, teeth like iron stakes. The figure's left hand held a heavy, glowing chain, while his right forearm was thrust deep into the beast's open maw, skin yielding to fangs.
Nero stared down at the image.
The silence in the room stretched thin, surpressing enough to hear the rain tapping relentlessly against the high glass windows.
Nero's right hand flexed against the wood of the table. Slowly, without taking his eyes off the woven right arm trapped in the beast's mouth, his left hand came up, his fingers curling tightly over his right where his arm had once been torn away.
You didn't move. You didn't reach out to touch him, nor did you let out a dramatic breath. Pity was a currency Nero would reject instantly, and any sudden movement would cause him to snap the quiet between you like a dry twig.
Instead, you stood in the cold draft of the foyer, watching the line of his spine go rigid.
Nobody had ever sat you down to explain what happened in Fortuna, or where Nero had been left bleeding on the pavement. You didn't need Dante’s dark, rare moments of sobriety or Vergil’s total, icy silence to piece it together. You knew the timeline. You knew the exact night Yamato returned to Vergil’s hip, and you knew the phantom ache that still made Nero flex his fingers when he thought no one was looking.
Vergil had taken what he wanted because he believed the world owed him power. He had torn his own bloodline apart to rebuild himself.
Your eyes dropped from Nero’s white-knuckled grip on his shoulder back down to the woven wool resting between your hands.
"Tyr," you said softly, your voice carrying no pity, only the flat, steady weight of a historian reciting a fact.
Nero didn't move, but his jaw set tight. "What?"
"The god in the weave," you replied, trace-lining the silver thread outlining the warrior’s helm with your fingertip, keeping your eyes on the art so Nero didn't feel cornered. "His name was Tyr."
Nero let out a short, rough breath through his nose, his hand slowly dropping from his shoulder, though his arm remained stiff at his side. "Looks like a fool getting his arm bit off."
"Thor was the one who fought for glory," you continued quietly, letting the rain against the glass fill the pauses. "He killed giants because he enjoyed the thunder of it. Odin was the one who traded his eye and spun lies because he was terrified of losing control. But Tyr... Tyr didn't care for glory, and he didn't care for throne-craft."
You finally shifted your gaze up, looking at Nero’s profile—the sharp line of his nose, the stubborn set of his mouth, the young man who had dragged himself through hell just to keep two broken brothers from destroying the world.
"The gods needed to bind Fenrir to keep the realms from tearing apart, but the chain was made of impossibilities," you told him, your tone lowering into a quiet, absolute certainty. "The wolf knew it was a trap. He refused to let them place the iron around his neck unless one of them put their right hand into his mouth as a pledge of good faith. Every god in Asgard backed away. The brave ones, the proud ones, the powerful ones—they all looked at the teeth and stepped back."
Nero’s chest rose and fell in a slow breath. He finally turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto yours, dark and guarded.
"Except Tyr," you said. "Tyr put his right hand into the beast's jaw, knowing full well he would never get it back. He didn't do it out of weakness, Nero. And he didn't do it because he was defeated. He sacrificed his arm so the rest of the world could go on living without being consumed by the monster."
Nero’s jaw worked silently. He looked down at the silver-threaded warrior, the silence between you so full you could hear the rain running down the stone outside.
He didn't break down, and he didn't lower his head. That wasn't who he was. But the defensive guard he kept wrapped around his shoulders softened just enough for the truth to sink in.
"Vergil took your arm because he was terrified of being helpless," you added quietly, stepping closer to help him handle the heavy weave. "He stripped his own bloodline because he mistook power for survival. But you bore the loss, you stood between those two idiot brothers when nobody else could, and you kept them from tearing the world in half. He acted out of weakness, Nero. You gave your strength to save everyone. That makes you the justice of this family."
Nero let out a rough, breathless laugh that sounded suspiciously like a clearing of his throat. He looked away toward the far stone wall, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand.
"You're a weird lady, you know that?" he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. He turned back to the table, grabbing the top iron ring of the wall hanging with a sudden, pragmatic energy to cover the crack in his armor. "Where are we mounting this thing? Over the fireplace?"
"Over the hearth," you nodded, matching his shift in tone seamlessly. "The stone is dry there."
It took both of you to lift the heavy wool into place. Nero drove the iron pegs straight into the seams of the masonry with three hard strikes of a mallet, his strength making short work of the stone. When it was done, the tapestry hung flush against the dark wall, bringing an ancient, solemn life into the vast, freezing room.
Nero stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans as he took in the finished wall. The tension that had hovered over him since he drove up the gravel driveway was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, settled respect.
"Alright," Nero said, turning toward the heavy oak front door. "I'm heading out before the road turns into pure mud."
He grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders, and paused at the threshold. He looked at you, his blue eyes clear and steady.
"If the old man ever gets to be too much," his voice was soft and practical, "or if he forgets how to act like a person... you call me. Garage in Fortuna's always got an extra room."
"I'll keep that in mind," you said softly. "Drive safe, Nero."
He gave you a nod, pulled the door shut behind him, and stepped out into the rain. A moment later, the rumble of his engine echoed down the driveway until the forest swallowed the sound, leaving the manor in total, suffocating quiet.
You didn't turn around immediately. You stood in the drafty foyer, listening to the rain beat against the high glass.
A subtle shift in the air pressure warned you before you ever heard a footstep.
Vergil stepped out from the deep shadows of the second-floor landing, his boots making no sound as he descended the stone staircase. He stopped at the base of the stairs, perfectly immaculate in his dark vest and trousers, his pale eyes fixed on the heavy wool hanging above the hearth.
He had heard every word.
He slowly turned his gaze from the image of Tyr straight to you, his expression carved from unyielding, unreadable stone. The silence in the hall stretched taut, thin as a wire under tension.
You didn't back away, nor did you offer an apology for speaking of his past. You simply looked him dead in the eyes, standing your ground against the cold radiating off him.
"Tyr gave his arm," you spoke into the freezing quiet, your voice steady and carrying clear through the cavernous room. "Odin gave his eye. You starved out your humanity."
Vergil didn't move a muscle, but his gaze narrowed, the blue of his eyes darkening into a storm as your words settled between you.
"It makes me wonder," you whispered, taking a slow step toward him, "what it is I'll have to sacrifice to survive you."
Vergil closed the distance between you in two soundless strides, his shadow swallowing the cold gray light from the high windows.
He stopped inches away, his pale eyes burning down into yours. He didn't answer immediately.
Slowly, his hand came up. Long fingers wrapped securely around the side of your neck, his thumb resting flat over your pulse. It was a familiar hold—a habit born of his need to ground you, to feel the fragile, steady thrum of your human heart under his palm. The intense heat of his skin cut straight through the draft in the hall.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead directly against yours.
The contact was heavy and unyielding, shutting out the rest of the vast, freezing room until there was nothing left between you but his heat and his breath.
"Nothing," Vergil murmured, his voice an absolute decree into the small space between your lips.
His fingers tightened a fraction against your throat, holding you in place.
"You are already here," he said, the words carrying an icy, unquestioned authority. "You belong to this house, and you belong to me. Nothing in this world will ever demand a sacrifice from you again."
He didn't pull back. He simply held you there in the dark, his hand locked on your neck, his forehead resting against yours, as the storm outside beat uselessly against the stone.