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Vergil slowly enters the chamber containing the final seal to open the hellgate through the Temen-ni-gru, casting his eyes around cautiously. His brother is sure to be along soon, and that woman, if she still lives.
He grips his half of the amulet, staring down at Dante's where it rests in his hand. A small, wry smiles crosses his face. After all these years, Dante still wore his half. Though he said he had no father, there was never any doubt he considered himself a son of Eva—a rare point of agreement for the twins. How he misses her, even now.
The half-demon closes his eyes. He would claim his birthright.
Something moves.
Vergil's eyes snap open, but he doesn't even have the chance to look around before something bashes his skull in with a sickening crack. The world goes dark and silent, awareness abandoning him while his body mends.
The wait isn't long.
He wakes violently to searing pain in his lower back. Instinct screams at him to get away, but when Vergil jerks to follow those instincts, he's met with a sharp flare of agony in his leg and the rattling of a chain. Forced into stillness, Vergil takes stock of himself. Through his haze, he manages to pinpoint the main source of his hurts to his left ankle, bones shattered beyond the point of human repair. He lays still in his confusion, pulling on the thread of his power and wondering why he hasn't healed. It doesn't respond to him, as though just out of reach.
The second thing he realizes is that he's cold. His upper body has been stripped of his coat and vest, two layers of protection gone. He lays on his stomach, gaps in the stone beneath him indicating he's still in the chamber of the seal. Something metal touches his neck on all sides, heavy.
For the first time in a long time, fear flutters in his gut. He doesn't open his eyes.
"Good morning, son of Sparda."
Vergil swallows down bile. Arkham survived. Because of course he had. Luck has never fallen in Vergil's favor. It's the reason he chooses to depend on skill. He should've been more thorough.
"Your brother has been waylaid for the moment, so I thought I might take a little time and repay you for the wound you inflicted on me. After all, it was your intent to kill me, and I had been so diligent in helping you reach your goal." Arkham's footsteps click on the stone as he circles Vergil. "My, how to begin to erase the stain of your existence? I think I have time to hurt you first, don't you?"
A growl rises in Vergil's throat.
"So defiant." A pause. Vergil hears the smile in his voice. "So pointless."
Vergil cries out when Arkham crushes his sword hand under his heel, bones breaking to the twisted bastard's utter delight. He tries to push himself up to get away, but Arkham tuts with disappointment and holds him down with a knee on his shoulder.
"Look at you. You, so confident when you were in control, now reduced to this. You made it so easy."
Arkham adjusts his position over Vergil's back, knee digging uncomfortably against his spine. The flare of pain from before rears its head, sticky blood oozing from a large wound on his back. What had Arkham carved into his skin? Vergil swallows down a pained noise, not wanting to give Arkham the satisfaction of knowing just how much pain he's in.
"You've killed many people with your hands, haven't you? Like you tried to kill me."
Vergil fights when Arkham grabs ahold of his right wrist, pain spiking from his ruined fingers. The sound that leaves his throat is wild. He stills as Arkham grips his hair tightly.
"Don't worry. When I've had my fun, I'll make sure you never need feel this pain anymore."
With that, he breaks Vergil's wrist. A raw, choked noise crawls out of Vergil's throat, nowhere near the scream Arkham probably wanted to hear. Helplessness wells in Vergil, both angering him and making his eyes burn in a way he hates. His left arm is entirely free, but with Arkham on his back, it's useless. The chain around his broken ankle means he won't be running away, even if he did manage to wrestle his way out from under him.
"Hmm."
That discontented hum is all the warning Vergil gets before Arkham strikes. The snap and crack of the bones in his forearm is lost to Vergil's injured bellow, the sound dissolving into something far too close to panicked whimpers.
"There, there." Arkham croons. "We're almost done."
The next blow has Vergil seeing stars, his entire arm broken beyond use. He lays on the floor, dazed and dizzy with shock. He feels cold sweat on his skin and blood on the floor. Arkham's weight is gone from him, but the thought of moving is a distant and blurry concept.
"Now, the easy part."
Vergil opens his eyes a sliver, completely unprepared for the kick to his ribs. He gasps, blind with pain. And he hears it:
The soft song of the Yamato being drawn from her sheath.
Arkham opens wounds slowly, relishing every pained noise from Vergil's mouth as he draws the blood necessary to undo Sparda's spell. Even with the world somewhat distorted, he hears the Yamato's discontent. He smells the burnt flesh of her protest in Arkham's hand, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.
A door nearby opens and suddenly Vergil is being jerked upright. He bites back a pained cry, his good hand flying to the collar around his neck when Arkham pulls it tight against his throat. Arkham presses the Yamato's edge to the delicate skin there. His right arm hangs limp, nerveless and mangled. Vergil tastes blood in his mouth, feels it on his face, everywhere really, so he understands when he opens his eyes to Dante's stricken expression. Vergil looks awful and he knows it.
It's hard for Vergil to tell visually, but he feels his brother's shift in energy. The build of power suffuses the room with heat, the taste of ash and reckoning on Vergil's tongue.
"Ah, the other spawn of Sparda's blood." Arkham says, tone mocking.
But it's clear Dante isn't listening. Vergil holds his little brother's gaze, the violent turmoil of acrid power bubbling just under the surface.
"Any parting words for big brother?" Arkham chuckles.
Dante doesn't blink. He doesn't say a word. Dante, who is normally all smiles and attitude, doesn't move a single, solitary inch.
And then he does.
The air in the room stills. Breaths draw slower, echoing off the empty space between heartbeats. Vergil barely sees Dante change when he strikes, trading skin for deep red scales. Wings unfurl, power bleeding off his younger sibling. It tastes of flame, ferocious tenderness and wrathful devotion twisting into each other.
Time snaps back to itself in a cacophony of noise. Vergil slumps to the ground, his captor's grip no longer holding his weight. He fights to make sense of the differences in the room, slowly coming to the conclusion that the sound in his ears is screaming.
It doesn't belong to Vergil.
With a grunt, Vergil pushes his left hand under his body, wincing and hissing as makes the bitter climb to his hands and knees. The screams don't die down, so it must not take as long as Vergil thinks it does. Vergil turns toward them, eyes widening.
Dante, or the hulking creature that must be Dante, holds Arkham's severed right arm in one of his hands, the man himself cowering on the floor below him. Four wings sprout from Dante's back, red scales replaced by onyx, trails of liquid fire churning from the lines of his bony armor. A growl like that of a raging thunderstorm leaves his massive body. Horns arch up and over his head. Four summoned swords encircle the arch of his shoulders, each aimed unerringly at Arkham.
The younger twin was going to murder him.
The feral part of Vergil hums with thrill, although it feels separated from him, distant. He watches Dante skewer Arkham with one blade, the stone beneath him cracking and buckling. Vergil smells Arkham's fear, the scent sour in his nose. He still screams, but he's saying something through it. Vergil's head buzzes unpleasantly.
It's then with a solid certainty Vergil realizes he intends to make Arkham suffer. It's not like him. Dante is not cruel. Embracing his demonic heritage was one thing, but torturing for the sadistic retribution of it was another.
What would their mother think?
Vergil coughs, clearing the blood from his throat. "Dante."
Clawed fingers clench around the severed arm before dropping it. He turns, eyes of scarlet ember finding Vergil without fail. They lift to the doorway. Vergil looks, too. Arkham's daughter stands there, rocket launcher in her arms as though unsure which monster to attack first. It's rather obvious she thought something else was going to occur here, but the way she stares at Vergil....
She opens her mouth, stunned. "He... he said you-" She cuts herself off, eyes brimming with inner flame and betrayal. She takes aim, undeniably steady and sure on Arkham's body.
"You handle him." Dante growls, leaving Arkham writhing to kneel beside Vergil.
"Dante...." Vergil whispers. He's never been more relieved to see his little brother, except perhaps in finding him alive.
That stifling aura of power dissipates, but the comforting and oppressive potency of Dante's love remains. His little brother breaks his chains, freeing Vergil's neck from the collar with a hateful growl. But he lets Arkham's daughter end it, rather than turning around and tearing her victory from her hands.
And that was just like Dante.
Vergil lays down at his request, allowing his brother to examine his back. Dante quietly tends the wounds, wiping blood from Vergil's skin until he can see the whole thing.
"How bad is it?" Vergil croaks.
"He.... He carved some kinda sigils into your back. They're deep. Real deep. And they're glowing a bit. Kinda purple. I think it's some kinda trap for if someone tries to change 'em."
Vergil frowns.
Dante brushes back Vergil's bloody hair, providing him with a trickle of comfort before dropping the bad news on him. "You'll heal faster if I just cut 'em out, but it won't be fun. I can make it quicker with the Yamato than I can the Rebellion."
"Do it."
The silence tells Vergil Dante expected his answer, but he does not like it. Dante cards gentle fingers through Vergil's hair again, faint scraping indicating a blade being picked up. Her song is regretful compared to her sharp anger earlier, but she sings for Dante all the same. The Yamato would always sing for those with Sparda's blood.
"You understand, right sweetheart?" Dante murmurs.
Vergil spares a faint smile for the soft speech. Most would probably look at their blades and see nothing more than tools, but to the twins, these swords are connected to their souls. They are beings borne of purpose. The Yamato calls to Vergil just as the Rebellion will to Dante.
"On three."
The older twin nods only to flinch when Dante immediately contradicts himself. A hoarse yelp flops from his lips, but by the time he claws it back under control, he feels the flood of his magic wash over him. It's slower than it should be due to blood loss, but fast enough. Vergil swallows when his arm begins to mend, closing his eyes to fight back tears. Hot shame prickles through him.
He didn't want his brother to see him weak. Vergil swore he would never allow himself to be victimized again, and here he lays covered in his own blood at the mercy of a human who gave up his humanity.
Dante pulls Vergil, still healing, upright into his arms. "I've got you. I've got you, Vergil."
Vergil utters a guttural sound. It had been a sob before he tried to force it down. Dante holds him tighter, stroking his hair when the trembling begins in earnest.
"It's okay. You're safe. I won't let anything hurt you."
The energy to be upset over the implication that he can't care for himself escapes Vergil. The irritation refuses to rise in him despite his every effort to never show weakness. This was, in a way, what he wanted. His pride might never recover from the blow of needing his little brother to protect him, but he was protected now all the same. Dante's presence curls around him, warm and promising.
Dante traded his anger away so easily. He holds Vergil close, a steadfast guard against the world around him.
"All right. You stay right here. I'll get your-"
Vergil grips his wrist, not daring to look at Dante in the face of his own neediness.
"Hey, Lady? You done over there?"
Distantly, Vergil hears soft hiccupping sobs. The following response is nearly lost to him, but he hears footsteps coming closer to them. Dante rubs Vergil's arms, keeping him steady and reassuring him of the lack of danger at the same time.
"What is it?"
"My brother's vest and coat over there. Could you grab them for me?"
Lady says nothing, sniffling as she moves to do as Dante asked. She returns moments later with his clothes, kneeling beside Vergil and offering them to him. "I'm sorry he hurt you."
Vergil stares at her, slowly taking the items. He doesn't thank her, can't get the words out, but Lady seems to understand. Dante helps him into his vest and coat, smoothing his hands down the arms and pulling him close again.
"We're going home." he says firmly.
A protest sticks in Vergil's throat. He doesn't want to be in this tower anymore, no matter what waits for him at its peak. It should be tantalizing. It should be an easy victory, but it isn't. Arkham was depraved, sick in all the wrong senses of the word, and Vergil shivers knowing their two end goals were the same.
They had entirely different purposes for Sparda's power, and a little murder didn't faze Vergil in his efforts to retrieve it. But there's a difference between resolve and sadism.
"Ow! Shit!" Lady hisses.
Vergil's head lifts. He looks at Dante's ally (acquaintance?) where he's sitting on the ground. She's bleeding from a cut on her elbow. She must've tripped on the uneven ground.
The chamber rumbles. The platform they're on begins to rise.
"Oh." Vergil says numbly.
"What?" Dante asks, manifesting his wings, the smaller, normal ones, to shield Vergil. "What's happening?"
"Arkham allowed Lady to follow us through the Temen-ni-gru rather than killing her. I'd assumed it was because he still loved her in some way, but... her blood." Vergil presses a hand to his chest. "He took our amulets. Her blood was the last key."
Dante sighs. "Of course, it was. Look.... I know you want dad's power, but if I go up there and get it, can we hold off on fighting over it until the stupid tower is gone?"
"Your terms are agreeable."
"Good. I'll get our amulets back, too. Somehow." Dante pats Vergil's back. "It'll be a quick trip, so stay put. I thought you were dead once, and I'm not letting you disappear on me again."
That singular statement hangs in the air. Vergil startles at the implications behind it, but Dante gives him no time to ask. Lady sits with him while he wallows in his shock. His whole life, he thought- He thought-…. No. This is.... It's too much at once. Vergil takes a shallow breath, not pulling in near the amount of oxygen he should. His world narrows to the floor underneath him.
Distantly, he hears his name being called, but he has neither the obligation nor the presence of mind to answer. Heat surrounds Vergil, familiar and comforting. Steady hands grip his shoulders. Someone touches his face and slides a hand through his hair. Vergil leans into the touch somewhat desperately, gasping when it leaves.
Strong arms bear him up. The strength to hold up his own head is far, far away, barely allowing him to tilt towards the pillar of heat pressed against his left side.
"Come on, buddy. Drink something for me."
A cold rim tilts against his lips. He drinks only out of second nature, the cloudiness fading from his thoughts at the chill it leaves behind. Red. Whatever is in front of him is very red. Another slow blink brings his little brother into focus to a minor extent. When had Dante put him down? He looks worried. What happened that Dante would be worried for?
"Wow, you're pretty out of it, huh? Came back and Lady was panicking over you like a mama duck."
Lady.... The name rings a bell. An extremely little bell, so delicate. It's silver, with an aqua ribbon on the wooden handle, because blue is good. It probably sounds nice. The sky-lark and thrush, the birds of the bush, sing louder around, to the bells' cheerful sound.
"Okay. You're making about as much sense as a lemon slice on a pancake."
Vergil wrinkles his nose. Dante is right. That doesn't make much sense, but what do pancakes have to do with anything?
Dante says something else, but Vergil isn't paying attention anymore. Careful hands move him again until he feels something soft give beneath his body. The warmth threatens to pull away. Vergil just barely catches the edge of Dante's sleeve.
A sigh. "You're lucky I'm your best brother."
"You're my only brother, Dante."
"Exactly. That's why I'm the best."
Weight sinks onto the bed with him and the comforting heat presses in close. Vergil hums in the back of his throat, content for the first time since... some time ago.
Dante chuckles, the sound both surprised and amused. "You and I are going to have a very awkward conversation in the morning when you're feeling better, because if you were half as lucid as you seem to think, this wouldn't be happening."
That's fine.
His brother is here. He wasn't going anywhere, and he hadn't left. All it took was a little tug on his sleeve. He hadn't left.
"Verge, you're going soft."
"Be quiet, Dante."