Chapter Text
Understand the things I say
Don't turn away from me
'Cause I've spent half my life out there
You wouldn't disagree
Ode to My Family - The Cranberries
Snow. That was the first thing Vergil sensed. Bright, crystalline, and cold.
It was the first thing that Vergil felt clearly in many years. The distinct chill in the air was a strange novelty after spending so much time trapped in fiery rock. It was freezing here - so much colder than it had been in Hell. Harsh, biting wind wailed in his ears as he stood rooted to the ground, overwhelmed by sensation. He didn’t know how long he'd been standing still and silent until his body started to shake from the cold.
Unconsciously, he pressed his frozen fingers against his chest to check his armor for cracks. The broad plates of metal would let in the cold if he weren’t careful. Sealed to his skin as it was, he’d get frostbite if he remained in the snow too long.
But of course, there was no armor left - only a horrifying litany of wounds pouring red-black blood onto the ground in heavy drips.
Vergil cursed himself for believing the armor was still there. As soon as the Dark Prince’s power faded, he tore the shell of the Black Angel, Nelo Angelo , off his broken flesh until it was beyond repair. How could he have ever forgotten that? Now, alone and heavily wounded, he was paying the price for his reckless escape.
His eyes struggled to adjust to the swathes of white nothingness. He debated looking for another crack in the ether to slip through, but he knew it would be pointless. The human world wasn’t so easy to manipulate.
Vergil distantly lamented that he hadn’t had enough time to choose carefully when he found the sliver of portal in the underworld. He only had to decide which realm he would stay in now that he was free. In another life, the decision would have been simple. The demonic realm was his Father’s home and the source of his power. It made the most sense to stay in the place he had spent most of his life. But for reasons still unknown to him, Vergil’s legs had chosen to walk through the portal to the human world.
He knew he would suffer the consequences eventually, but for now, he had to make do with what he had. Vergil’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of his surroundings. The sharp smell of humanity suddenly filled his nose. That was truly unpleasant news.
Humans. They were a nuisance to him when he was healthy; now, they would be even worse. Vergil despised the false pity that flowed like poisonous streams from their mouths. If he were seen out here in the snow, he’d be taken to a medical facility, which could do nothing for him in this state. More than that, he could not let his location be traced and leaked back to Hell. Mundus had already caused enough damage to him. His aching body served as a constant reminder of that.
He took a deep breath and exhaled the frozen cloud of air. Be calm. Assess the situation. Do not be caught off guard. Trust only yourself. These were the rules Vergil lived by. He needed to put them into action right away. His wounds ached fiercely in the cold wind, and caring for his body couldn't wait much longer. The pain and blood loss alone made him feel close to death, and a childish twinge of fear shot through him at the thought. He almost didn’t want to know how severe his injuries were.
To no one, Vergil growled his frustration. "Look down," he chided, "do not be afraid. You are a son of Sparda."
So he looked down at his broken, weeping flesh. The wounds were as gruesome as he expected. A slash across his abdomen curved from his hip to just below his chest. The flesh wasn't trying to stitch itself back together as it should. As he thought, his healing was being delayed in some way.
The useless halves of skin fluttered in the wind, spattering more poisoned blood into the snow. Vergil could see layers of red muscle and yellow fat underneath the edges of his inflamed skin. The broken shards of his rib bones were poking into his exposed flesh. Ah, this must have been where he tore the armor’s chestplate off. Vergil vaguely remembered how that particular piece wouldn't let go of his body. He’d been forced to use Force Edge to pry it off.
Force Edge.
Where was the sword?
Ah, there. The blade lay a few feet away in the snow. It appeared to be in good shape, no scratches or broken edges. However, Vergil could not remember how he had retrieved it in the first place. Though in these circumstances, he figured it didn’t really matter. With his teeth clenched, he managed to stumble closer to the sword and hook it onto his fraying belt. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the faint flutter of his beloved coat.
Upon closer inspection, he noticed the faithful blue overcoat was in poor condition, ripped and torn nearly to shreds. Vergil mused that it was a miracle it had survived at all, being kept under the armor all these years. As much as it was nice to see something familiar, it wasn’t built to protect him from the heavy snowfall dusting his surroundings - it barely stayed in place on his thin shoulders.
It was becoming clearer and clearer as he stood gormless in the snow that his wounds would become a major problem if left untreated. The gash across his stomach was just the largest; other cuts and burns were scattered over his body like malignant tattoos. The injuries caused by Dante when he was Nelo Angelo were also healing slowly.
Hunched and bleeding out in the snow, his weakness infuriated him. Here he was, a son of Sparda, dying in the cold after finally breaking free from his chains. Disgust with his human half had never been stronger. If only he had more power. If only he hadn't lost to Dante again. Why? Why wasn’t he strong enough, even after all the humiliation he had endured?
Vergil truly had no answer for himself. He felt empty and hollow, stripped of his usual resolve. He could only simmer in silent rage.
…
A faint buzz of demonic energy ringing in his ears knocked him out of his self-imposed stupor. Something about this environment was triggering his instincts, preparing him to act. Ready for a fight, Vergil spun around, his grip tight on Force Edge. However, as he appraised his surroundings, it was obvious that there were no demons in his vicinity. There was no logical reason for him to prime for a confrontation, despite the warning knocking around his aching skull.
A dull thud behind him made Vergil growl and turn again, only to find nothing there.
He felt like a child again, foolishly bracing for impact, when nothing came of the small noise. The sound had only been a lone, bare tree that had dropped a pile of snow from its branches. The wet lump would feel his fury, he decided. Mirage blades materialized to pierce the clump until it was decimated. Thankfully, his magic was still intact; Mundus had not managed to eliminate that. Vergil felt a petty sense of pride for having destroyed the insolent pile of snow so efficiently.
But the steady pulse of energy surrounding the area was undeniable. If he was right, and the sinking feeling in his gut told him he was, that had to mean he was close to that place. A glance at the horizon confirmed his worst suspicions.
With the only legitimate Hell Gate in the world occupying a large part of the distant skyline, it was clear he was on the outskirts of Fortuna. Lamina Peak... it had been many years since he last crossed the barren mountaintops. The last time he was here was with…
…
This was some miles from the city entrance, in any case. In the distance, Vergil could see the Renaissance architecture of the main gates. This place was still stuck in a bygone era - his Father’s time to be precise.
Vergil felt unjustly targeted by his chosen portal location. He had not planned to return to Fortuna until his power matched his father's. Once he had everything owed to him, he intended to eliminate that arrogant Order of the Sword and declare himself Lord in Sparda’s stead.
Arriving here grievously injured and vulnerable to even a weaker demon's attack was a cosmic insult. He wanted nothing more than to possess the Yamato again so he could portal away to a better place. Though he doubted he could use the weapon, even if he had access to it. The memory of Mundus crushing his blade into splinters threatened to overwhelm him. He started to pant heavily, and the strain threatened to collapse his weakened lungs.
Again, Vergil tried to calm his anxious thoughts. There is no use in dwelling on the past, he reminded himself. These circumstances could be beneficial if he played his cards right. He wasn't in a position to overlook the advantages the town offered compared to other human settlements.
His demonic presence could be concealed easily, and he could find a discreet place to rest. The residents of Fortuna were accustomed to the strange occurrences that came with living on top of the fragile boundary between the human and demonic realms. That cursed Order might prove troublesome, but Vergil had never hesitated to kill humans before.
By his most conservative estimate, it would take three days in his condition to reach Fortuna proper. However, his health wouldn't allow for an easy journey down the small mountaintop he stood on. The most serious wound would need to be packed until it healed. Stitching it shut would be ideal, but he lacked the necessary supplies. Resting in the nearby wilderness was crucial for now. Yet, something still nagged at the back of Vergil’s mind about the idea.
The Order of the Sword. It had been a wealth of information in his youth, but they were decidedly not as innocent as they seemed. Knights frequently patrolled Fortuna and its outskirts, and they were ruthless in their pursuit of demonic knowledge. Vergil wasn’t entirely sure if they often scouted Lamina for clues. He could be on the menu himself if the Order found him, regardless of his past association. They had no reservations about ‘experimentation’ on live subjects.
Vergil muttered silently again, trembling in the cold. His past… Damn this place. Damn Mundus. And damn the cold for draining his energy even more.
The flood of anger warmed him, but only for a moment. In the end, he resolved to start moving regardless of the consequences. If the Order came, they came. There was nothing Vergil could do to prevent that. He needed to rest before permanent damage to his body occurred. A chill swept through him that had nothing to do with the cold. Permanent damage… Was it possible for a hybrid like him?
A useless thought.
All he needed to do was find a suitable outcropping to shield himself from the snow and wind. Barren trees were plentiful, but as Vergil surveyed his surroundings, the chances of finding a secure spot diminished. From what he could see, only two options existed. The first was a rock shelf downhill. It seemed well-covered from the snow, but Vergil could hear the wind howling through the eaves. The second was a cave, perhaps half a mile straight ahead. It looked secure against the harsh conditions and would also provide some defensive capabilities.
It looked like the latter shelter was the best choice.
He trudged forward until he reached the cave entrance, arms wrapped around his torso. Oddly, and hidden from his initial view, a large boulder sat beside the rocky outcrop. The stone was covered in deep claw marks - scores of them. More than likely, something had already made the cave its home. Something potentially quite large.
That was frustrating.
But Vergil had no choice. It was either enter the cave or freeze to death in the elements. Whether the demon that mutilated the rock still resided inside was a risk he would have to take for now. The best he could do was attempt to flush it out with his presence. Though when he cast out his weakened power, he felt no demonic influence, only the low hum of the distant Hell Gate.
His initial assessment seemed wrong. Vergil was relieved; he entered the ‘door’ of the cave without paying any more attention to his presence.
The middle part of the cave appeared dim, but Vergil’s eyesight in the darkness was far better than that of a human. He felt relief that no mortal seemed to have ever occupied the cave. Artificial light sources would have been hard on his eyes, especially after spending so much time in the underworld. He had always been much more sensitive to light, even as a child. His Father had explained that his demonic heritage was probably the reason for this dislike. Of course, Dante didn't share this sensitivity as a child.
Dante…
Vergil could not afford to lose focus.
Littered on the floor were various demonic skeletons, both partial and complete. Vergil could identify the round skull of an Empusa and the remnants of a Faust’s claw pushed to the cave’s entrance. It seemed like the demon who formerly inhabited the space had placed them there to warn off intruders, though they hardly made for impressive kills. Such demons were child's play for experienced hunters. Perhaps the previous occupant had been an abandoned demon? Runts were commonly pushed out of nests to make room for their growing siblings.
Vergil stepped over the pitiful display only to find more gouges lining the walls. They resembled the ones on the boulder outside. It was hard to determine the purpose of these marks. They seemed random and varied in the force used to make them. Perhaps they were merely a way to mark territory or to test one’s skill. The cave was also much smaller than he had thought from the outside - it was perhaps ten feet deep at most. While it would provide adequate shelter for now, if the weather worsened, it would be a tough place to recover.
But what disturbed Vergil the most was the crudely made nest in the farthest corner. Made from torn fabric scraps, the thing hardly looked comfortable. Even as his instincts pushed him to build his own nest and recover, he would never settle into such a pathetic pile. It seemed like a childish attempt at comfort, even though young demons were usually fiercely protected. Nests were built for them, not by them. His earlier theory about a runt may be correct.
Though it would be highly unusual for this cave to be inhabited by a juvenile, lesser demons lacked the intelligence to plan in such a way. It also didn't match the significant claw marks on the walls, either. Vergil was beginning to feel like he was entering a more complicated situation than he had expected.
…
Of course, that would be his last thought before being roughly slammed to the ground by a pair of large spectral claws.
The attack knocked Vergil to the ground on his stomach, causing him to fall with his back to his attacker. The initial strike expelled all the air from his lungs, and he struggled to breathe under the immense pressure. The claws curled around his midsection, irritating the deep wounds on his stomach.
Damn his injuries!
Ordinarily, an attack like this would have been easy to overcome. But the pain was intense as he struggled to find a way to stand. Sparks burst underneath his eyelids as Vergil fought to regain some control over the situation. The blue claws were relentless and pushed him back to the ground whenever he managed to get some clearance.
Strangely, his attacker did nothing else. Perhaps it didn’t know how to handle larger, more human-shaped prey. After all, it was likely a lesser demon spawn. Then maybe all Vergil had to do was scare it off with his demonic energy for real this time. With a wild snarl, he projected his presence strongly throughout the cave.
It had the intended effect. Even weakened, a son of Sparda had power beyond a lowly spawn.
A low, pitchy demonic growl had accompanied the initial attack, but the demon in question was silent now. A slight weakness in their ghostly grip had appeared as well. Vergil was forced to wedge his knee under him to relieve the pressure and turn to assess his attacker, but what he saw surprised him.
The thing was human - or at least, humanoid.
It was a boy, that much was clear, underneath all the grime that covered him. He was tiny despite the noise escaping through his clenched teeth. Probably malnourished too, since his cheeks weren’t chubby with baby fat like they should be. The child couldn’t be more than a few years old. The more Vergil looked at him, the more he felt confused.
The boy’s right hand was completely demonic, covered in red scales and glowing with a blue light from within. The spectral claws gripping Vergil extended from his back like a dragon's wings. He was crouched on all fours, with his legs bending unnaturally to maintain the low stance. Vergil couldn’t call them digitigrade exactly, but it was close. A small, whip-like tail made of interconnected plates lashed in the air behind him.
But what struck Vergil the most was his face. His mouth was twisted into a feral snarl, revealing sharp fangs behind his lips. His eyes were wide, an unnatural pale blue with slit pupils. Most damningly, on the boy's head, though dirty and knotted, was pure white hair.
Yes.
Coming to this cave had been a mistake after all.