Special thanks to my beta reader Angel wolf for helping me rework this.


Enjoy


Chapter 1 ~ Prologue: Of Wolf & Man


It felt like he was sick, sick with that long agony, and when the master unbound him and he was permitted to leave for mission's sake, he felt that his senses were leaving.

Nothing but the sound of the order going through his mind, nonstop.

"Kill Dante. Kill that bastard's son. Kill him, no matter what it takes. Kill . . . Kill . . . Kill him!" Over and over and under his skin; pestilence from an insect.

However, the unexpected happened. The amulet . . .

It had awakened everything within him. The sight of his brother. The feeling of sorrow and hatred overflowed his senses. Everything in this place screamed at him and the memory of had been came at him all at once. So many shades and emotions across the spectrum turned to physical sensations, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. He was starting to burn, but wouldn't lose his will to stay. Unable to decide on which emotion to express, he chose to scream inside that cathedral.

"Help me . . . Help me! Someone, something, put an end to me!" But it came out as a growl, the festering temper of a caged animal.

He belonged to Mundus now. His freedom to speak stripped, it was almost impossible to do something by free will.

Something was wrong here, where had his strength to stand gone? And before him stood his most hated enemy.

"You're an honorable man, I give ya that much." Dante commented casually.

The man in red paced a bit, back and forth.

"You woulda been the perfect kinda guy to choose your own path, fight for what's right," He paused then motioned with his hand, "-The whole good book thing et cetera, et cetera."

Ah, that old sarcastic attitude.

Sad to say, he actually missed that aspect of his brother's personality. At least there was one part of this man that couldn't ever be squashed, his sense of humor.

He actually almost felt like laughing with him, but knew it would only wrench his ears, like a wolf braying to its hunter. Something was at work inside his soul that he did not understand.

It was like that rebellious voice itself gave Nelo Angelo the power to fight back. A deep scream ripped through him. With all of his senses, he protested against Mundus's binding spell. After but a moment of struggle, the helmet cracked, revealing a shining light. It was so bright. The helmet shattered in a burst of resolve, evaporating into sands soon to be returned to the ocean, freeing his flesh at last.

It had been so long since he'd felt the wind on his face.

The dark angel stood, facing his brother for a moment of silence, his mind refusing to let go of the memory, of the bond they shared. It was undeniable, they both knew. Recognition was the next step. He'd forgotten that feeling, what it was like not to be alone. So many years held inside a rotting place such as this, no way of knowing he'd ever be free, never to return to life, and he knew now what made the demon king so infectious. The bonds of death were strong, stronger than he could ever hope to be.

Outside in the crooked trees, a raven cawed in the wind. Dante froze for a moment, studying his face.

The raindrops kept falling, the howling winds ripping against the outer walls of the old castle. And deep down, Nelo Angelo held hope that his brother knew him.

The eldest twin could see it all.


. . . Ancient thoughts rattled inside his head, begging to be remembered . . .


A little boy in a blue shirt was running, stressed and afraid, in a field. So many miles covered, and still so far from home. Did anybody know where they were? Did anyone care? It was so cold out, the light slowly leaving them as they raced home. Two boys playing across an open field far away from the peering eyes of their father's enemies, so innocent.

"Vergil, wait!" The other child called out from behind.

The boy in blue slowed slightly, looking to the side, and said, "Come on slowpoke! You better hurry or I'll leave you behind."

He laughed nervously. The other boy was dressed in black shorts and a plain red tee. He loved the color red for some reason.

The boy began to cry as he pushed himself so hard to keep up.

"Vergil, please slow down. Don't leave me behind!" The boy said just as he stubbed his foot on a rock and lost his balance, falling on his stomach, and his head slammed harshly on the ground. He began to bleed from his temple, staining the green a vivid vermillion hue. A warbled voice arose, speaking incoherently as tears welled in the corner of his eyes. The boy in blue stopped and looked back.

"Wha- W-whoa, Dante!"

The boy in red stayed on the ground, crying and holding his head. Instinct kicked in, and Vergil raced over, kneeling down; he checked Dante's head, but the boy wouldn't let go.

"H-hey, you're okay! You're alright, i just- Let me see it!" He begged, attempting to comfort the boy.

He'd always been the weaker of the two. He would have yet to further prove this.

"No! I-it hurts . . ." His breath was damaged, stifled by manic fear.

Vergil turned his back to him and lightly lifted his small torso onto his shoulders. Dante grabbed ahold of his shirt to climb up, and stayed put.

"Come on, I'll carry you."

The older child remained stoic in the face of bad fortune, despite the other boy being less strong-willed, at least for now. He sobbed still, frightened of the notion that Vergil would abandon him. The empty field stretched as far as they could see, feeling lonely to the eyes. And still they were not safe, hunted by something with stark yellow eyes. Vergil knew it was there even if Dante didn't, he'd sensed it come upon them so suddenly just then, a prowler in the yard stalking after them. No one said it had to be this way, yet they were beholden to their final words, victims eternal to the things that laughed in the night.

He soothed his brother's panic, "We have to hurry, mom's gonna be worried."


. . . Flames singed his body, and the memory burned up as he returned to eternal damnation . . .


Nelo Angelo fell back to his hell where Mundus waited for him. Returning here was not easy – not only for what he was about to endure, but for the price he had to pay. His feet hung heavy, plodding along the lake of fire, but never charring, only enduring each scorching step with malice for the master. He did fine, before Dante came along. Vergil felt hot chains wrap themselves to his limbs, searing into his corrupted flesh, grafted on. The sensation of heat engulfed his belly. It was as though the shackles themselves were slowly eating away at him, piece by piece. Fitting he'd be tortured over a thousand-years long void.

"Useless being." A deep, corroding voice enveloped him, "You know the penalties for those who fail their tasks . . . Off to the new day's mist, destroyer."

The pain splintered through his bones, tearing him apart at the seems. Mentally, he prepared himself for death.

It was all over.

The sweltering sensation rose and rose as he felt a change, to the point he almost swore Mundus flayed him alive.

A liquid of some kind ascended from the void and covered his legs, rolling out over him.

Time had flown after his brother overcame him inside that dreaded cathedral. The memory itself remained, burning a hole in his psyche. Like twisted vines, he felt consumed by this manor. So, he waited for the day it would be corrected. Perhaps he had a chance to see his brother alive again, though he knew it a foolish endeavor to wish for such things. Surrounding his entire being, the winds of Hades seared shut what became blinded eyes. He felt mutilated, made to be seen but not heard, and his reality barred from living, living blindly. Sight was the greatest gift to receive, but he saw differently than most. Like glass shattering through his body, now more than ever his dictator eradicated his every nerve.

It built his fear of what was outside, where life would find him afterwards, if it would even care to do so.

The darkness broke, and that cocoon lifted.

He was horrified when he recognized him. Deep inside, Vergil felt to scream, 'Why are you here!? Why didn't you run, you fool.'

But, at that moment he was thankful to see him at all again. Dante might give him what he wants the most; death, release from this 'life.' Free, free of this humiliation, of this putrid existence as a decomposing slave inside the black pits of the worst hell. Freedom from being nothing more than a puppet on steel strings. The master of him, his undying dark prince Mundus, would not let him see clearly, 'cleansing' him of both shelter and affection, not that it was beyond attainment through success. In many ways, Mundus was the abusive father he'd never wanted, rewarding on achievement alone. Of course, that achievement conformed only to the emperor's desires, not yours.

"Relaaaax child, I will run through you, and I will help you die." Mundus leered at him, "I will make all that you know disappear before your eyes. Crawl to the living ends, my son."

Son . . . No.

The only family he had was the man in red, that man of unshakable light that came forth to fight fire with fire.

The two of them were brothers, through anything, they couldn't have that taken from them. Their flesh and blood is alike, inherently sharing something inextricable. Whatever alienation between them had fallen away with time. It was a truth he could not speak to Dante that night of their final showdown, atop the dark tower. They were bound together by more than paltry fate, a deep belonging of brothers. The nights since that day had not changed this, no matter how long and miserable.

Of course, he was a different person then.

He couldn't know that day would lead to this.

That was the moment he realized Dante was stronger than him, superior in his own right. He would be fine, his place was right there in the human world. He'd been the fool to raise hell. But he, the eldest son of Sparda, needed to fly with the devils in their realm, he needed to gain the strength he always desired, far from fragile mortals. It was better this way. They couldn't walk the same worlds, for he no longer understood the wake of humanity.

Here, in this place, this twisted paradise, he could make a name for himself among the demons; his demons, both physical and mental.

And nothing else mattered, every cost sufficient for his rickety ends. At least it was a choice by his own hand.

Then, maybe the two of them could meet again, and let this little rivalry continue. Who is the strongest child of Sparda?

He'd always wondered it aloud in his mind, and they'd put it to the test on many an occasion.


"Leave me and go, if you don't want to be trapped in the demon world. I'm staying. This place, was our father's home. Just go . . ."


That's what was hidden within these words, the choice to leave.
Knowing that he was more devil than man, that he was unfit to exist in their world.
And, deep down, he hoped Dante realized that and had moved on.

Of course, Dante had moved on. Long ago, probably. Such as his nature was, he could 'go with the flow.'

An art that a beast such as he, Nelo Angelo, could not understand.

Seconds turned into minutes, and those minutes to hours, and so on and so forth until he no longer thought about how long Mundus had punished him.

But he caught himself counting the appearance of his missing sibling to the milliseconds. Why?

"Trish," Vergil heard Mundus's voice, far away but still so loud, "Vergil has been defeated, you know what you must do."

He felt the grand torturer impale a flaming blade unto his chest. It stuck through his blackened heart, screaming for him to burst like a balloon. The torture in his chest went on forever, driving this bitter man to no longer care for what pain means. It drained away all of his energy, a leech in the blood. He could feel his core die agonizingly slow, a vision of wings all he understood, time distorting itself ever further than it already had been, and he wondered when the dark controller would simply pull the plug.

Out of nowhere, he felt himself teleported out of this bound misery, freed in full from the torture, and his armor shattered.

Air . . .

Air . . .

He was falling.

Falling, and falling . . .

Nothing but the harsh sound of wind flapped past his ears. He couldn't see anything and, altogether, felt nothing. It was an utterly perfect darkness; a never ending abyss. He thought he was dead. That had to be it, since he failed. A final release before ending so torturously. Eventually, he'll hit the ground. He must. Wherever he had gone to next. Perhaps he'd break every bone in his body, perhaps it would be a realm without solid fixtures.

All he knew was that he would hit something.

Vergil had seemingly dropped out of reality into a ravenous vacuum. It was evil, every waking second felt choking.
He'd never felt so claustrophobic in his life. All at once, it was emptiness and nothingness. Perhaps the two were not mutually exclusive.

Oblivion?

But then, he heard her, "My son, you will be fine."

The young half-ling felt warm hands grace his back, ceasing his fall, pulling him close. It was an embrace of love, pure and clean.

"Mother . . . Please." The young man muttered, teary eyes wired shut.

There was no air in his lungs. Yet he coughed and gagged on his lifeblood.
His mind floundered in the shadow, before flashes of torment took control.

He slammed harshly upon cold ground suddenly, lost somewhere, every part of his body screaming for gory murder. A scar flamed from the middle of his chest to his shoulder-blade, raging down his spine. He shivered on the stone, twisting and writhing on the floor. Holding back a scalding roar, he thought perhaps this was another punishment for him, a cruel affliction to trick his reasoning.

The abyss closed before him, leaving him in his new destination glittering silver and white.

The young man opened his eyes.

His white hair brushed over his ear, and he spotted a black coat resting beneath him on the brimstone floor. He grumbled to himself and rubbed the crust out of his eyes. The pain vanished, leaving him sore. He leaned forward to keep himself awake. Vergil moaned as he rolled his shoulders slowly, every inch cracking, releasing old pressures that built. Constant sharp-stinging within his marrow and muscles helped to wake him sooner. He pulled up and made room to draw his coat out from under him.

Aching chronically, he slid his arms through and tugged at the collar to adjust its fit. Familiar, for the most part. His old gloves were missing though.

Once his vision cleared he noticed the grey ceiling and there were six pillars of anguished salt. Three, for both sides of the hall.

On the other end, there was a large statue, towering high, similar to the pillars.

The being, carved in stone, was a rendition of his demon overlord, the terrible black prince.

Mundus.

Vergil leaned forward and lightly scoffed, spitting at the ground in front of it. 'So, I was summoned here.' His recovering mind pondered.

Although, it astounded him that he could be alive at all. Mundus doesn't take failure lightly.

No devil should have survived. Griffon was killed, awful and squalid, when the demonic king sought to prove his authority. Vergil laid there for a long long time, mentally checking off that he still had all his fingers and toes . . . He wondered if this was even his original form or a reconstitution. It was possible he was somehow reformed into a vessel similar to his original one.

But the mystery still lingered. He had been released from that armor by someone.

Vergil looked up and noticed that the upper half of the statue had just cracked. Fragments were sprawled out in the hall. He widened his eyes in confusion.


A crimson figure crashed into the ground, a sonic boom raging across the entire realm


Vergil cut his thoughts short when he heard the sound of someone hitting the ground and bouncing. Turning his head, he saw they attempted to stand, but fell, then grunted. They were familiar to him. Climbing to an upright sitting position, he saw the man laying there. Face down, a series of sickening wheezes wrenched through the man, his body seizing repeatedly. The two were lost the more he looked around them.

Beside the man, there was an oversized maroon sword stuck in the ground.

A giant living eye blinked at him from the hilt.

"Dante . . . ?" He mumbled, still groggy.

Then it hit him.

"D-Dante!" He screamed as he realized who it was.

He leaned on his side, placing one knee below him for support, then sprinted up to his feet. Bolting over to his ailing brother, Vergil's sight was gripped by fear unlike any other.

Kneeling down and holding Dante . . . he cradled him.

Within seconds, though it pained him to do so, the red slayer looked up at him, crunching his broken neck.

They locked eyes for a moment.

There were no tears in Dante's eyes. His lips moved in an attempt to say something but no sound escaped them. His eyes rolled back and his grip loosened. His skin grew cold, his body went limp . . . And he moved no more. Vergil bowed and lowered his eyes. He pressed his forehead to his brother's, staying this way for a moment so brief but meaningful. A part of him perhaps thought waiting would undo what had been taken, so he did so, waiting and waiting for a time that would never come. Nothing, no pulse. There was no life to speak of. Not a breath nor heartbeat.

Just a dead corpse.

Respect filled him for his fallen enemy, a lost brother, and friend. Vergil placed one arm under his brother's knees and slipped his other beneath the body's shoulders.

Lifting up, he tore a few barely healed tendons just to carry him.

Limping through the double door, the man found himself in a bizarre room, one that looked like the inside of a leviathan's chest. There was a ginormous heart in the center, beating profusely.

Blood spat all over the ground. It was wounded.

By Dante? Most likely. He was on some sort of ledge that was about fifty feet high from the ground.

Vergil knelt down and focused on several platforms away from him. A blue light appeared over his shoulder, and it formed into a blade, one that looked much like their father's brand. Hovering there, it suddenly rocketed forward, on target for the front of his destination. A blue glow replaced his presence as the man's being shot towards the platform. Arriving shakily, he reaffirmed his grip as he repeated this process four more times. He traveled all through the labyrinth of demonic flesh. The fifth platform he came across had comparatively more distance than the previous jumps.

He'd need a bit of help for this one. So, Vergil placed his brother over his shoulder, sprinted forward in spite of his own ailments, and then jumped as far as he could.

Sending a summoned sword out as they reached the peak, he managed to nail it to the intended ledge.

Upon connecting, the blade shattered, and both men once more appeared to teleport directly to the fifth platform from their midair slump.

Creatures screeched from below, arising from dust, eager to finish off the half-breed. They were desperate to feed.

Vergil staggered forward and rested against a wall. His eyes grew bloodshot as he pushed on, and he darted to the edge of the edifice to launch himself, hiking through air. As he did so, he lost his balance predictably, stupid. He should've known better than to try something like that. Within a millisecond, his progress was undone, and he fell. A monster leapt for him. His eyes glowed red out of instinct, more spurred on by memory than chance, and he summoned another, stronger blade of azure light, flinging it at the creature.

It snarled as the weapon implanted itself through its mouth, carrying the beast off of its feet and pinning it to the flesh-wall behind. And it hung there, stuck in place, struggling.

No time to finish the kill. Vergil returned to the old structures familiar to him now, and he continued on his way, hopping across the room from platform to platform till he reached the final ledge.

There was a grey-colored 'door,' if you could even call it that. It was a membrane of demonic tissue blocking his path forward. A blue spark formed within his right hand.

Within moments, this spark transformed into a his most trusted weapon Yamato, held at his side without its sheath.

With a flick of the wrist and a touch of evil, the blade hacked away at the membrane, and a sickening sound of skin splitting apart called into his eardrums merciless aural thoughts.

The next room they entered had flesh-ridden veins running all throughout it, and in the dark corner of the den, more demons.
Once he walked forward, he felt a definite tremor beneath him . . . A warning to heed. This island wasn't going to last much longer.

He kicked his heels and darted ahead, hoping he would be somewhere close to the exit.

Bursting through a set of doors, he reached . . .

Another room. Perfect.

It was much wider than its claustrophobic predecessor, and grey-blue soothed his eyes.

A few concentric circles were woven into the ground somewhat in antiquated measurements, seeming to all reflect the colors of the rainbow unanimously.

More entities emerged to stop him, crawling from nothingness to halt his progress, many of them apish and warped beyond human comprehension.

"Step aside!" He shouted angrily, but they would not do so. An indigo-flavored energy erupted out from him, forcing them all backwards, lifeless, in a death-filled rupture.

Instantly, he fell to his knees, the weight of his brother's body on his shoulders almost becoming too heavy a cross to bear. Spitting up blood to the ground, he quickly let it fall away from his mouth, hawking out the excess. Vergil took a moment for his breath, although the floor started to shake evermore violently. The sound of stones collapsing echoed. He felt something from above fall on top of him. A liquid of some kind, staining his hair and slopping all over Dante. The waters of the castle's sewer system. It delayed him none.

He scurried along, hobbling ahead through an opening, and it led him to another raised stage. The way back to the human world.

Vergil pulled Dante down off his shoulders to rest on his arms and he balanced himself upon the end of their small stand.

After a moment, the platform started to rumble and jerk upwards, detaching from the ground below, toward a portal in the ceiling through which he could not see the other side. He felt a heaviness overtake him. A blinding light pierced his eyes. Flinching, he closed them tightly, the man placing his arm over his forehead. Once the light vanished, he collapsed and nearly dropped his slain kin from his grasp. He drew heavy breaths, respiring in and out harsh gasps, though he could sense his wounds gradually curing.

Vergil observed his surroundings. He wanted to make sure he knew where he was exactly.

Back in the cathedral now, he could see the throne up the stairs.
The misshapen nature of this place was more than he could bare.

Looking behind him, he saw the balcony overlooking the dark skies, now lit by a rising sun, where he stood waiting for Dante in the beginning of their final encounter as rivals.

He dashed through the dark, and in the midst of the room, several threads dropped from the ceiling to the ground. Wooden bodies crashed down to the stone unharmed.

The marionettes were here to attack.

Vergil placed Dante over his shoulder and kicked the first one approaching into a wall. It crashed flatly against the cement and he followed it with another kick to the head.

It broke apart into stuffing and wood.

Another puppet launched itself at him, though it was shot down by a summoned sword, and he followed with a frontward boot. Off it soared and it soon came undone, breaking to pieces as it struck the ground. A third dummy attempted a dance of slices, flinging its macabre blades with a gallows' smile. Within seconds, it careened back and splintered open. Two swirling, chaotic double-edged blades flickered into being, encircling around a pair of puppets. The bright constructs of the dark slayer's design ran themselves through the both of them, dicing them into quivering cubes of jelly.

Vergil continued toward his goal.

Bursting through the decorated wood door, he stopped outside. Shock ran through his face, a World War I era plane sat strung up within scaffolding. Why was it here? No matter now, he rounded left and sprung off his feet, flinging up desperately as he managed to grasp the very edge of the cabin. He struggled to hold on through the rumbling of the island. Its vibrations nearly tore him off the metal ledge, and the entire contraption shifted off-balance, though hung still in place. With an anguished flexing of his shoulders, he held on as he threw his brother up over the side, managing to land him into the backseat of the plane. Vergil struggled to maintain his swiftly weakening grip, though he grabbed hold of the ledge with his other hand, pulling himself up with inhuman strength. Resting onto the wing, he turned back and strapped Dante in, the still-living twin then righting himself into the pilot's chair.

Anxiety overtook him as the earth's quaking continually mounted. Those propellor blades couldn't go fast enough, he was thankful there was any gas. Strangely enough, as though by chance there seemed to be a full tank already loaded. He knew it was a long shot to even escape at this rate, but thankfully, the machine started up. The wall before him began to collapse, crumbling into dust. All the decadent decorations were destroyed, the facade of this evil place coming undone within seconds. Metal suits of armor and all the artwork that lined the halls perished as the structure began to tumble in on itself. He saw a sizable-enough hole break through the wall, an opening.

It was now or never, and so the engine roared and the aircraft jetted forward, flying out through the castle wall, leaving behind the shelving that had held its weight for so long.

Of the debris that continued falling, he weaved the plane in and out effortlessly.

The cavernous expanse he found himself in was depressing and long. Nevertheless, he sped through the crumbling tunnel, dodging stalactite after stalactite at blazing speed.

A light grew closer to him, shining through the dark underbelly.

It was there he heard a tremendous crash. An entire chunk of the ceiling completely collapsed. Vergil forcibly continued onward for several, grueling seconds, as his eyes could see an unbroken stretch of blue ocean. Moisture and droplets of water doused the windshield. It was the sea spray of the exit. Though the ceiling continued to collapse in on him, he hoped for salvation somehow, some way. And it came to him, the back fin of the plane just barely missing the looming rock face as it crashed down behind him. Rocketing through the disintegrating island, a boulder began to fall from the sky, though at his current velocity and the trajectory with which it was falling, he would never clear it in time.

On the control panel in front of him, he saw an old turret handle and realized that the fighter-jet had a weapon attached to its front end. Grasping the stick, he clenched it tightly and pressed the trigger. The turrets sounded off, spraying broad shells of death, and it scraped and tore at the rock till it broke apart and then disintegrated. The stone shattered just as they sped through the rubble, flying on forward blindingly fast.

Vergil closed his eyes.

The rumbling of the cave was gone. In fact, it seemed briefly that all sounds had simply ceased.

He opened his eyes.

The sunlight shined upon his soul, bringing him into the realm of humans for the first time in however long. Had it been ten years? Eleven? Twelve? He had no concept of time anymore. And in all directions, he took in the sights. Grey clouds playfully sailed around, gliding high above the dancing sea. A clean smell of salt water and moisture swept through his hair, and he felt his lungs open up wide, breathing in renewed life. Steadfast came the joyous feel of rushing breezes.

Out from a world beyond the Devil's space and time, he basked under the crystal water skies, its tranquility slowly removing his emptiness.

The island cracked apart, exploding in a massive fireball, leaving the ocean depths to claim it.

He adjusted some of the dials, flipped a few switches, and made a path to the closest shoreline, based off the map next to him, if that was any indicator.


Back to the Devil May Cry office . . . Reality came dreary, but a pleasant memory returned to him, life marred only by the future


"Vergil, Dante! Happy birthday boys." Eva smiled while she carried a cake into the kitchen.

The two boys brightened in unison as they gazed at the baked good longingly.

"Wow." Vergil said followed by Dante, "Cool! I want the chocolate top!"

Vergil shot Dante a troubled look.

"Wait, no, I want the chocolate!" They were quite young, around 8 years old.

The bickering became physical, a brief shoving match breaking out as they argued. It was started by the rowdier Dante, but their mother walked around to them.
She placed the cake on the table and clapped her hands. At once, both boys separated and stood out from one another, facing her, adjusting their posture straight up.

She knelt down to their level.

"Now, now. Boys, what have I said about fighting?"

The two looked around, scorned, reluctantly accepting their parent's wisdom.
However, with her sincere expression, both kids exchanged knowing looks.

"No hitting over stuff." Dante answered.

"-Even if it's something we can share." Vergil crossed his arms.

Eva placed her hand over the twins' shoulders, "I'll split the chocolate up so both of you can enjoy it. That's fair. Agreed?"

Both the boys' smiles returned, replying simultaneous, "Okay," - "Yes mom."


. . .


It was an unpleasantly cold winter's night, dark, mystifying, gloomy, unchained.

The moon was sheltered by the murky clouds.

This would be the night that marked when Dante, the son of Sparda, would be laid to rest. The devil hunter's shop had a shared backyard.

It was more like a courtyard, bleeding off into the large complex that surrounded it and possessing overgrown trees that blotted out any lamps. All of them were orange trees, growing large, tangy little prizes to be picked by anyone who treaded back there, but most of the time, no one did. Vergil thought this was the best place to lay him down. He placed the last amount of dirt over the unmarked grave, far beneath the roots of the largest tree.

That tree was Dante's now.

It had gone on as a symbol of life, but now it would carry the sentiment of death as well. Perhaps, it now signified the cycle of both.

The possibility of something new may come quickly. Rebirth.

He walked away for a moment, then stopped. He turned back to the tree. It looked so strong and reliable.

Just like Dante used to.

Vergil opened the door, and placed the shovel back in the shed. It was a small little cupboard, and had previously held the tool. There were some other gardening tools, but they all looked good as new, often unused, no doubt. Thankfully, he'd found it in time, otherwise, he would have had to use his hands and though he was strong himself, he wasn't sure right now if his fingers would have held up. He coughed and took a few steps inside, rubbing his cold hands together.

There, upon the desk, Vergil had laid out Dante's sword Rebellion and his guns, Ebony and Ivory. Ifrit sat behind the blade. He heaved a long shudder as he grabbed the sword and stared at it for a moment. From there, Vergil returned outside with the fatherly brand and held the weapon over the grave. With it firmly planted into position, the man shuddered for what he was about to do. Gripping the handle tightly, he shoved it deep into the earth, taking care not to drive it through brother. Here in the dark, he felt it accompany him, the stage of denial. Dante had given his everything, asking nothing in return. This is where it led him. His fingers vibrated against the hilt for several seconds, till he let his grip go completely.

He held his hand before him and observed that it was shaking.

The man stood there for a long time, unsure of what was he feeling at the moment. Right in front of him was his brother's grave.

An odd sensation stung in his chest that he couldn't quite understand.

Was he really sad for losing Dante? Did he truly care for him despite their rivalry, their dysfunctional treatment of one another? Or had it all been Mundus' doing, weakening him, forcing him to remember a time where he was close to the other kind as a demented test of his resolve . . . The effects of what he endured needed time to heal still, he was left paranoid and bitter by the Prince Of Lies.

It needed to be forgotten.

The choking horror and silent confusion all around him was interrupted by the sound of the telephone inside.

Vergil walked back inside the office, where he came to stop and stood hesitantly at the desk's edge.

It kept on ringing, brring, brring, brring, chiming over and over. Who was it? Should he answer? It was likely someone looking for Dante.

His hand creeped towards the device, inch by inch, though he pulled it back. He knew not why he was considering this stupid and impulsive decision. Still it rang. It was such an annoying sound, unendingly ringing and droning, calling him out for his refusal to answer, mocking him with its incessant dialing. If he didn't answer it, the damned thing would keep ringing. Over and over.

Though he kicked himself, he answered it anyway.

Vergil cleared his throat and awaited the first words he would hear. Who would be calling Dante at this hour anyway?

"I am look for Dante?" A feminine voice with an indeterminate accent spoke, "I heard that he does for special jobs, like the paranormal."

English wasn't her first language, she spoke slightly broken in this tongue, it was not a skill she had yet mastered.

He could hear that she was deliberating with someone else beside her, maybe one or two other people.

"Dante is . . . Um-" Vergil paused.

His eyes focused on the picture over the desk, the picture of a mother posing with her sons. It was their mother. Dante had kept the painting.

Beyond this, what then caught his attention even further was . . . Was a slashed glove placed next to the frame. He remembered exactly what it was, what it must be. The same glove Dante wore when they had their last encounter, their true fight, within the unholy walls of Temen-Ni-Gru. Youthful rivalry turned enraged familial rift. Those final words they'd shared were inspiring at the time, now ringing only with a sad sentiment.

'-And now? My soul is saying it wants to stop you!' The memory pained his forehead, scratching just behind his left eye socket.

He cleared his head, and suppressed the pain.

Grunting, he finally responded, "Er- I am- I'm Dante."

It didn't sound confident at all, but it broke the silence.

"-Can you please come to Dumary Island? I will be waiting for you abroad."

"Abroad? I don't think- Listen, why are you seeking my service?" Vergil opened several of the drawers on the desk in quick succession as he spoke.

He found a notepad and several pens. Among them sat two papers, filled to the brim with cryptic writings.

The very first line was, 'I can't take this anymore . . .' He tucked it away to read later.

The voice on the line gave information as he clicked a pen. He scribbled what he could.

"Please, it is one emergency." The voice spoke with semblances of sincerity.

"You know, I really think that's not- *sigh*, never mind. What is your name?" He grumbled, annoyed by the improper usage of language.

"My name is Lucia."

After some time, Vergil answered, "Very well, I will be there when I can . . . I- eh, I trust you know my rate?"

"Of course, half when you get here, half after dark." She said, sounding confident in her choice of words.

"Wait no, in what context-" And click.

She hung up the phone.

All he could do was look at the receiver and grimace. He heaved a long shudder, took the glove and brought it close so he could examine it. The Yamato's mark still there . . . It was like a scar.

There, the obvious cut in the middle of the palm, it was entirely the same glove as he thought. He exhaled and fell upon the chair. The silence in the place gave him a renewed, horrifying sense of emptiness. He never imagined the feeling of loneliness could engulf him, ever. Then there was that paper. It sparked his curiosity. At last, he reached into the drawer and took out the parchment.

He started reading and gulped hard:


I can't take this anymore . . . Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't help him. I tried to drag him out, I wanted him to be here with me, but he made a different choice. I suppose I knew he was always going to do that. He'd grown to value power more than any familial sentiment. His last words were for dad, I know you stressed his reverence. But . . . I can't let it go. I've tried to accept that he left, but it only ever comes back to haunt me. Now too, Vergil does the same.

Consider it another notch in the family's long line of bad choices. Not that Dad made a bad decision sticking up for humanity, we happen to agree there.

I miss you so much. I promise, Mundus will pay for it. No matter what it takes. I promise, I will try to find my way back to hell. I'll drag that stubborn bastard out by his ear . . .

I'm sorry Vergil.


He choked on air at the last line. He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was a letter addressed to their mother, beneath a header that said 'Anniversary.' Dante had never forgotten about her, keeping the woman close at heart. Vergil felt an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt, he'd let her memory fade long ago. And then there was this small note to her, a fond remembrance and lament for their torn family. Dante . . . had been feeling guilty for walking out of hell's jaws without him? It seemed he even regretted calling him a 'stubborn bastard.'

Heh. Hehehe.

Vergil broke out into a strange laughter, unable to restrain himself.

He kept laughing and laughing, slowly growing silent and distraught again as the reality crashed back on him like a freight train.

"You fool . . . Why?" He said under his breath, his voice cracking as he placed the papers down on the desk.

Sitting back in the chair felt so tiring.

"You couldn't have picked a simpler occupation? No . . . Of course not, you stubborn bastard-" Vergil coughed.

He left the chair and paced into a hall.

Climbing upstairs, he routed around through the place till he went through a door, inside to the bedroom. It was small but neat. It barely had enough space for a bed and a closet, though somehow Dante put both in here. Behind, or rather around, the armoire was a window where he could see a fire escape. Perfect view of . . . the desolately empty parking lot. The bathroom was open and had the basic materials needed. Dante was always pretty minimalistic.

Vergil took a pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet, assuming Dante used these to fix his hair. He was right.

Running his fingers through that overgrown mane, he messed around until it fell down over his face. It'd been a long time since he had it cut.

The length of his hair now touched his shoulders. He heaved a sigh and started cutting, shedding and trimming, hacking away until it was quite a bit shorter than before. Around twenty five minutes later, and a few of his bangs had been parted in front of his right eye. He leaned over the sink, throwing the light hair into the small trash can nearby. So many locks gone. A few more cuts would do it.

"I'm in your debt Dante. I am actually in your debt, for once." He whispered.

He leaned against the counter and rested his palm over his forehead. Sharply breathing in and out, he tried to calm his lost mind.

At last, he straightened himself, trimmed up a few rogue hairs, and walked out of the bathroom. His clothes were ragged and filthy.

So he threw them out the window, dumping them into the open dumpster outside. The closet was next.

Inside was a red and black zip up jacket. The black hugged the torso, with a red trench coat overhang to the tails and sleeves. At the bottom of the closet were several boots and pants. Vergil changed into red slacks that possessed two black holsters wrapped around his thighs, leaving straps visible. A belt featuring a skull-themed buckle wrapped around his waist, and he found, additionally, a pair of black, old-west-like gloves with three fasten-able straps designed to hold the material to the wrist on each one. Attached to his feet were knee-high black boots. All sections of red apparel fit together, marking a deeper scarlet than he remembered Dante traditionally wore.

With two, protracted coat tails down almost to his ankles, and a black long-sleeved shirt underneath, he snapped on a black holster, meant for Rebellion, wrapping over his right shoulder and around his broad chest. Two golden studs decorated the front of the strap. The harness fit well, functioning efficient also. He'd find a weapon to fit it one day, but for now it would simply have to exist empty.

Vergil returned to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.

It felt bizarre at first, completely wrong in fact. It was like Dante came to life, staring him down through the mirror.

There was a sense of empowerment through Dante's guise, and he thought to himself, 'So that's what that felt like . . .'

Once it was done, Vergil scratched the back of his head. The place was still dead-quiet, but it meant very little. Every footstep he made echoed throughout. The neon sign in the back flickered in and out as Vergil took hold of the front door handle, then closed it behind him. The street was still quiet. Everything hushed out into obscurity, and no one walked the sidewalks. Here and there, there would be one or two, since it was bed time.

Not his, though. He had made plans to depart for the island of Dumary.

Vergil stopped in transit when he saw a familiar face approaching.

It was a woman, with her pinstripe jacket hung so low as to reveal no bra, and unbuttoned lazily.

She had short raven hair, with locks on both sides of her face and a fringe covering her forehead.

Mary.


Thank you for reading.


Beta Reader here: Just a quick message from Angel Wolf, I noticed some rough edges to this and gave it a polish, allowing it to feel stylistically closer to later chapters. That's all for now, I just did a simple rewrite, not too involved. Anyway, enjoy the rest of the story.