Archive of Our Own

Hell changes them.

Of course it does.

It is strange to think that they haven’t known each other for so many years, and yet it feels like they never left one another, when the memories and feelings return as they breathe the same air, share the same space, act together—like they never left in the first place.

Their swords clash. A striking dance of synchronized movements.

When their blows collide, it is a form of communication. Every strike has meaning, every deflection has intention. Their attacks dance, their actions sing together. Their joint performance says

I’m here with you.

When they taunt each other, when they gain a victory over the other, it says

You are my reason.

When they cover for each other’s blind spots while attacked by other demons, it says

You are what matters.

They have been affirming each other in this way for what feels like an eternity. Basking in the novelty of it, how right it feels. Craving it. Providing it. Sharing it.

They want for nothing else.

And every drop of blood spilled between them is a promise.

The same blood, calling to them.

Their purpose. To spill each other’s.

Nothing is more gratifying.

They don’t talk about it. What point is there in saying anything else? They don’t need anything but this.

And yet…

They have been in hell for a long time already. It must have been weeks, back on earth.

Vergil finds himself in a contemplative mood on this particular day.

He thinks about what Dante’s life must have been like, while he was…

Dante swipes at him, a flamboyant arch of his sword. Vergil reflects its expected curve, carving an elegant path towards his brother with his katana in response.

What must it have been like, for his foolish younger brother? What did he ever see in his human life on earth?

Did Dante have meaning there? Something worth protecting?

Nothing good ever came from hell.

Vergil dedicated his whole life to seeking power from his demonic heritage and not once was he able to truly save the things he cared about.

He feels at home in hell the same way a homeless man may feel under a bridge.

Nowhere else to go but here.

Dante must feel the same way about earth, Vergil thinks, given the fact that he has made no attempts to return there.

For quite a while now he had wondered if he should ask Dante’s reasons. Had decided against it. But their blows feel heavy today, sluggish, and Vergil’s curiosity is wearing him thin. It is affecting their fight and he cannot allow that to stand.

He decides to speak. “You don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave,” he says. Shares his observation with a neutrality that is meant to be kind. Vergil can see in Dante’s eyes that it is perceived as needling instead.

Dante’s stance falters. Vergil lands a blow on him that feels undeserved. The older brother scowls.

Dante holds his side, but doesn’t acknowledge the damage otherwise, “Well, it’s not like I have much of a choice, now do I?”

“Do you not wish to return?” Vergil asks, showing an unusual amount of vulnerability by allowing the question. Perhaps this can be repayment for the undeserved hit.

“…Not without you,” Dante says.

Vergil hums in consideration. His awfully honest, stupid little brother is laying his heart bare in a way that Vergil deems dangerous. It’s a weakness. It’s a liability.

He doesn’t acknowledge that part.

Their fight resumes while Vergil thinks about it.

What point is there to staying in hell?

Not any.

They had cut off the last of the Qliphoth roots quite a while ago and wandered the underworld in a form of shared survival since. With the roots exterminated, the demon infestation on earth should have ceased.

Vergil thinks of Nero, then, who is back on earth.

Nero.

Whom Vergil had given his book and a promise to.

His son.

Does Dante not care for Nero, if he makes no attempts to return to him…

The thought irritates.

The irritation irks him further. Why does it illicit unnecessary emotions?

It matters not.

Vergil thinks of Nero and thinks of a rematch. Similar to how he had thought of a rematch with Dante, when he was dragging his decaying body out of hell.

He had a purpose then. A goal.

To fight his brother, one last time, before his life ends.

He had been fighting Dante all this while, ever since, and his life didn’t end. His desperate attempt at survival had worked. If at the cost of many human lives lost…

And while he thinks he will never tire of fighting Dante with his new found gift of life. He does feel… minutely sated.

But with Nero.

Something feels left unresolved.

Nero, he needs to get back to.

Nero needs to be figured out and won against. It is only right.

That is a goal worth pursuing again, is it not?

“And if I left?” Vergil asks.

“What? Left where?” his brother asks, incredulous.

“Here. If I returned to earth, what would you do?” Vergil elaborates what should have been obvious.

“Are you kidding me? Go with you, dumbass,” Dante replies in a way that sounds like his response was just as obvious.

Vergil scoffs. “I see.” It needs no further commentary.

Their fight continues. With the dreadful curiosity sated, their sluggish fight can surely be restored to its rightful pacing.

But there is a hesitation in their blows now. One that Vergil cannot discern the reason for. Dante’s expression seems more cautious, but his slashes are no more precise, no more intentional than before.

“Do you want to go back?” Dante asks, sounding uncertain.

“Yes. I have unresolved business back on earth,” Vergil allows.

“Unresolved business, huh? And how would you even get back there?” his brother asks, looking at him like he believes Vergil is without a plan. Foolish Dante.

“I will find an energy current suitable for opening a portal from and use the Yamato to do so. Were you not aware that was an option?” Vergil asks. He sincerely hopes his brother isn’t so stupid as to believe they were truly stuck here.

But of course he is. “What? Just like that?”

“Not ‘just’. But I can, yes. It will take time and effort to find a suitable place,” he elaborates.

“And you want to do it?” Dante asks, seemingly still baffled.

“I just informed you of my intentions, did I not?”

“Yeah, your unfinished business, got it. And you decided this just now, or…?”

Vergil thinks about it.

It was not… a spontaneous decision, no. But perhaps he had only just now taken heart to arrive at the conclusion.

He puts more energy into his next blow, sending his brother flying so that Dante lands some distance away from him. “Let us end this round here,” Vergil declares.

Dante huffs and holds his injuries, “What, you’re giving up already?” but he makes no move to challenge him. Vergil lets his brother's taunting wither in the space between them, unaddressed.

He sheathes Yamato meaningfully and focuses.

It has been a while since he has needed to feel for the signs of humanity in the air. His senses are honed for the demonic, not for earth. He takes a deep open-mouthed breath and lets the scent of ozone settle on his taste buds to give him an idea of how far off they are starting from.

Quite far.

The air is dense with the barrier of their father. A heavy pressure blankets hell. He will have to travel far to find a spot where it is thinner.

He moves.

He feels Dante follow behind him. Unsurprising.

They walk silently and Vergil inhales deeply intermittently to check their progress.

“What are you doing?” Dante asks.

Vergil wants to smack the incompetence out of his brother. “Sensing the barrier for suitable points of energy density,” he explains, trying to suppress his exasperation.

Dante hums a non-committal sound.

They keep moving.

The energy of the underworld fuels them. It is easy to remain active and awake off of hell's ambient power alone. But they have been fighting for a while. They require either rest or sustenance if they wish to keep moving efficiently. Vergil informs his brother of the fact and Dante seems to jump at the opportunity to laze about.

They rest in a suitably safe cave on a cliff side they find along the way.

Dante stretches his entire body out on the cold cave floor, joints creaking, and lets himself fall into a lazy sprawl afterwards. He could really use a nap. He is very glad that Vergil seems to be suggesting reasonable things for once. Return back to earth? Rest first? Those are the dang best ideas Vergil ever had. It surprises him. And makes him suspicious. Vergil’s ideas are never that sound of mind and agreeable…

He keeps one eye open and keenly trained on his twin, watching him.

Vergil settles into a seat, leaning against the opposing wall from him. Arms crossed to keep the Yamato resting in the crook of his elbow, he closes his eyes and rests his chin against his chest. Dante can feel that Vergil remains just as alert as he is, despite how he looks. That’s not efficient, and also not what they usually do. “Let’s take turns for watch?” Dante suggests.

Vergil hums in acknowledgement. “You can rest first,” he agrees.

“I’ll take that,” Dante says and lets his eyes fall closed. He wants that nap. He can postpone his suspicions for later.

Slumping down further, his mind wanders, a sort of not-quite-asleep, not-quite-daydreaming state of being. His extended senses remain tethered to his twin in the cave with him. He feels himself mentally holding onto Vergil’s energy in a way that oddly reminds him of when they were little kids and they used to hold hands when they were scared. Dante listens to Vergil’s heart beat and the rhythm of his breath, and it’s the best lullaby in the underworld.

Some time passes, and he feels more awake again. His joints don’t crack this time, when he stretches. “Love me a good nap,” he says to inform Vergil that he’s done with his half. “You go ahead now, I’ll keep watch.”

Vergil nods, and Dante can feel Vergil’s attention drawing into himself a bit more. His twin remains minutely alert, of course. Dante had never known him not to do that. But Vergil allows rest, with Dante around.

In turn, Dante makes his senses reach out further, beyond the cave walls, down the cliff and up into the sky. His hearing sharpens, his skin feels the tiniest vibrations, his smelling picks up on the shifting air. If anything were to approach, he would notice. He focuses on every detail and tries not to let his mind wander. He owes this much to Vergil’s trust in him.

He doesn’t really know how they got this far, honestly. When they flew down to hell together Dante really thought Vergil would rather get himself killed again than to trust Dante with absolutely anything.

But here they are.

It means the world.

So Dante keeps a careful watch.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but Vergil never rests for long. Doesn’t need it, or doesn’t allow excess, Dante doesn’t know. But Vergil’s energy spikes in a pattern that makes it apparent he is more awake, and his eyes open shortly after.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Dante says to him.

Vergil frowns at him and doesn’t reply.

“Shall we get going?” Dante offers instead.

“We shall,” his twin agrees.

Dante follows him out of the cave, and continues to observe his oddly behaved twin. Time to resume his suspicious observations.

He can’t pinpoint when Vergil changed. But he did.

Vergil used to be single-minded, stubborn and disagreeable. Well, he still is all of those things. But not as severely as before.

Where Vergil used to chase power to the point of loosing himself and sacrificing the world, the only thing he was chasing here in hell with him was a winning score above Dante’s. Something he could wholeheartedly get behind.

And where Vergil used to disagree with him on everything, they were in agreement more often than not, here in the underworld.

Why is that?

Did Vergil come back different, after he was put back together and demon-fruit powered?

Dante remembers his twin from before.

His chest feels tight at all the memories. He tries not to hold onto any one of them as they come to him. Tries to let them travel past, and tries to avoid looking at any of them too directly. But he remembers. Vergil was different.

There was a Vergil, when he was a little kid. When they were still one and the same, but not. When they shared everything, as much as they fought over everything. When they were whole.

Then, there was a Vergil, after it happened. The young boy was lost to tragedy, and turned into a young man who was obsessed with power and revenge and did not care for what was at stake in his pursuit. He became someone who Dante had to loose again. This Vergil fell into hell.

Then, there was a Vergil who was emptied of his human heart and soul. One, who Dante didn’t recognize until it was too late. One, who forced Dante to kill his own twin.

Dante flinches and forces the rest of the memories to pass.

All these Vergils, he had known, but yet, never understood.

And he still feels that way about this Vergil. The one here with him. But this one—his Vergil—seems to have something most of the others didn’t have.

That human soul that had been taken from him, that heart that beats in the same rhythm as his own—this Vergil seems to carry them again. Just like when they were little. Not exactly the same, but…

Dante isn’t sure if the Qliphoth tree is what gave back the parts of Vergil that were lost before. But when V and Urizen united, Dante’s instincts told him, Vergil came back whole.

He looks at his twin’s back in front of him. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s real.

Dante wants to hit him again, just to make sure he’s still not just imagining it. But he thinks better of it. He has been making sure more times than he is able to count. No need to check again immediately. There will surely be another chance later.

Why this Vergil wants to go back to earth remains unclear to him, though. “Unfinished business” probably meant Nero. Dante doesn’t like that.

He isn’t sure what Vergil’s intentions are, and he would check, later, before they get back, but… he doubts they are good intentions.

Nero doesn’t deserve another family tragedy.

If Vergil wants to fight Nero to the death—which Dante thinks is not beyond what Vergil could want—then he would have to stop him again, and that makes him uneasy.

Dante likes the stalemate they have going on. For as long as Vergil remains in hell, fighting him, he remains alive and not dooming the world. That is more than Dante could ever ask for. He hates to risk loosing that.

But Vergil wants to go to earth and… Dante wants to hope.

That maybe, just maybe, Vergil can remain alive and without dooming the world, while they are on earth, together, too.

Would that be too much to ask?

He hopes it isn’t.

He wants to believe that, since Vergil has changed, since he is whole again, that there’s a chance for them. That their fates can be different for once.

Dante isn’t a religious man but he had thought about praying more than once.

He is not above begging either.

Hopefully it won’t come to that, but he would.

Vergil takes another break to take a deep breath. Dante is starting to get what he is doing. He’s not just breathing to focus, Vergil can scent the energy currents he was talking about. It’s a bit freakish, but whatever, if it works.

Dante is of half a mind to give it a try himself. But the prospect of Vergil scolding him for doing it wrong prevents him. If Vergil could do it, Dante doesn’t need to be able to. If just one of them can get them out of hell, that’s good enough for him. As much as he hates being different in abilities… he can tolerate that much.

He tentatively opens his mouth to taste the air anyway. Not trying to taste anything in particular, no, just… see what it’s like.

There’s a heavy taste in the air. The sulfur stench of hell. The salt and vinegar of the rocks and vegetation around them. And… Vergil. Right in front of him. The air carries his twin’s scent over to him like a leaf dancing in the wind. It’s a warm scent. It tastes like cinnamon on his tongue and smells of tea leaves in his nose. His blood is warm and delicious in his veins, carried on by an alluring rhythm of his heart, and it makes Dante’s mouth water.

Dante swallows and stops what he is doing before Vergil notices.

They are making progress. Vergil thinks that perhaps they can reach a suitable point to try within a few days of travel. That is good.

His twin has been following him almost wordlessly and thinking way too loudly. Vergil cannot decide if he would prefer Dante resumed his talkative noisiness over this quiet one. It feels palpable, tingling against his neck. Dante is clearly watching him attentively. Whatever for, he cannot say.

Seeing as how his twin is so obviously distracted by him, Vergil takes special care to watch their surroundings and keep track of their progress for the both of them. They continue their journey via flight, under the gray skies and black moons, to cover more distance. It is also easier not to get ambushed this way, though it does take more of their energy.

They have been attacked at random intervals by hoards of lesser demons ever since they arrived in the underworld. Occasionally, they have been attacked by higher demons as well—the kind that sought to defeat them for power. It is ridiculous, however, that any of them thought they stood a chance. Not only is Vergil technically the only remaining ruler of hell, since Urizen had proclaimed himself as such, but the twins are together. No demon known to the underworld has any business thinking themselves strong enough to best them both, Vergil thinks.

The sky changes around them as they continue on. What was a seemingly impenetrable veil of heavy gray clouds in the sky gives way to an orange colored, roughly textured ceiling, distinctly solid and shimmering like wet stone. The air feels heavier and the wind lessens, as the ground below begins to match. The planes they had been traversing before become interrupted by big, darkly glittering lakes and terracotta colored hills. The vegetation, or whatever passes for it, becomes more sparse and rock formations and various structures dot the terrain. Huge stalactites and stalagmites point towards the innards of this gigantic cave like sharp teeth of a gigantic maw.

Vergil is unimpressed with the changes. Hell transforms as it pleases, and he spent enough years in the underworld to not be phased by its malleable nature. Nevertheless, he keeps his instincts sharply trained on any potential threats.

In the far off distance, a structure resembling a castle stronghold is built into the face of calcium white mountains, tinted by orange shadows reflected by the surroundings. An instinctual unease settles over Vergil at the sight of it. Best to stay clear.

They continue on their path, flying parallel to the mountain range, until they come across a small sheltered hollow, nestled between hills along their way, that they take another rest at. Vergil keeps an eye on the mountains as they regain their energy to resume flight. Dante seems to deem this the appropriate moment to regain his affinity for speech.

“What are your intentions with my nephew?” Dante asks, leaning forward provocatively.

“You are ridiculous,” Vergil scoffs.

“Not as ridiculous as my beautiful, homicidal, older brother,” Dante retorts. Again, his twin’s forward nature will get them in trouble at some point, Vergil thinks. “So?” Dante prods.

“My intentions, dear brother, are to settle the score with Nero, who won our last fight under sub-optimal conditions. Additionally, since he is, apparently, my flesh and blood, I must test his abilities and gain an understanding of his nature.”

“Uhhh-huh…” Dante makes, unimpressed. “So you want a rematch and get to know him. And what else?”

“What do you mean ‘what else’?” Vergil frowns. He thought he had made himself perfectly clear.

Dante sighs, propping his hands on his hips. “Be real with me for a second. What do you think of the kid?”

“What is the point of your question?” Vergil asks, irritated. Nevertheless he tries to answer, “He is strong and carries the blood of Sparda, that in itself deserves recognition.”

“Oh? You respect him?” Dante asks.

“I recognize his strength as a potentially formidable opponent, yes,” Vergil allows.

“’Opponent’. You gonna give him the family treatment of stabbing him with his own sword, then?” Dante doesn’t seem amused.

Vergil scoffs and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Dante keeps going, in spite of him. “I can’t let you make an enemy of the kid. He deserves better than your bullshit, Vergil. I get you wanting your rematch, but if you’re planning to make his life hell, I am going to have to stop you,” he says, and he means it. His expression is unusually severe. A meaningful sorrow darkens his twin’s face, like regret. “I spent the last five years making sure Nero gets as much of a normal life as possible, and I’m not letting you ruin that for me. I don’t care that you’re his father, I’m his uncle, and you will not mess up his life any further if I have any say in it, alright?”

Vergil has known Dante to be protective of humanity, of his believes, but never quite like this. For Nero. “What do you think of him, then?” Vergil asks. There is clearly more here than he was aware of. Dante has the audacity to look taken aback. Surprise and a sheepish blush color his face. Vergil wants to bite his cheek to drain the blood.

“Listen. I don’t know about you, but I get…” Dante gestures vaguely into the air, “…this instinctual connection with him. He’s family. Like you. I care about him, you know?”

Vergil hums.

Family.

A complicated matter.

Filled with pain and vulnerabilities.

His bond with Dante is indubitably a tether for his soul and a fate he cannot escape. His very life is undeniably tied to his twin. What they have meant to each other has changed over the courses of their lifetime, but it has never been a trivial matter. The gravity of their connection is stronger for his inner compass than any physical force.

If Dante feels that way about Nero…

Vergil perceives a comforting warmth and needling cold take hold of his chest simultaneously, and it prickles his skin.

What is this?

“He means that much to you?” Vergil asks, trying to make sense of his inner workings.

“He does,” Dante agrees, nodding with a grave expression. He is quite serious. Vergil doesn’t like this look on Dante, he realizes. He thought he wanted Dante to be less aloof, but seeing him like this is not satisfying him in the slightest. “Promise me that I won’t have to fight you over Nero, Vergil. Promise me… Please.”

Vergil searches Dante’s pale blue eyes. They plead with him, bearing down directly into his heart. How insolent. How dare Dante have such power over his emotions? And yet, he feels himself not actually offended. If anything, he wants this terrible vulnerability wiped off of Dante’s facade. His little brother shouldn’t look this concerned, this serious. Vergil closes his eyes and sighs. “I will attempt to abide by your wishes, little brother. How Nero reacts to my challenge, however, is out of my hands,” he concedes.

Dante seems relieved. “That’s a start. We can make this work,” he says, hope and enthusiasm returning to his demeanor at last.

It better stay that way.

Just as they are about to take off to resume their journey, Dante feels the energy of a formidable demon approach the hollow they are at. Strangely, this one isn’t exuding a very strong killing intent. “What’s with that one?” he nudges his twin.

Vergil’s eyes are trained sharply on the direction the demon is approaching from, tensed and battle ready.

The demon gets harder to see though, as suddenly the hollow fills with a shimmering fog that clouds his vision. “What’s this now? Special effects?”

The white mist thickens rapidly and in less than a few breaths Dante can barely see his own hand in front of him. “What the hell? Oi, Verge,” he calls out, trying to catch his twin by the arm in front of him, so as not to get separated.

Too late. His hand finds nothing in the clouds and his fingers leave a trail of swirling particles in their path, like motes of dust sparkling in the sun.

“Vergil,” he calls.

“Dante,” Vergil’s voice comes from behind him, and his twin’s hand reaches for his.

Their fingers connect and Dante shivers at the contact. His hand is cold to the touch. Vergil isn’t grabbing him by the wrist either, it’s a full-on hand-holding moment and Dante is a bit surprised by it. “Like we’re Hansel and Gretel, huh?” he jokes.

Vergil’s hand squeezes him in response and pulls him to follow. Dante can only see as far as where their hands connect and then he notices that Vergil isn’t wearing his gloves. “What—?” he wants to ask, before promptly his vision fades to black and he looses consciousness.

“What’s with that one?” his brother asks and Vergil knows that Dante is talking about the odd aura the approaching foe is exuding. Any demon not telegraphing a clear killing intent is either masking it, trying to trick you, or thinks themselves stronger than you. In any case, it is suspicious and Dante is right to point it out. Vergil readies himself for imminent battle.

When the demon comes into view, it is an androgynous humanoid silhouette, and the air fills with a crackling hum of energy. Long black hair frames a slender face of oxblood colored skin and burning scarlet eyes. Their muscled build is barely contained under a form-fitting simple black suit. Their eyes are meeting Vergil’s in apparent provocation, yet they do not seem to wish to fight. What are they planning? Their mostly humanoid appearance and lack of plainly grotesque features also suggests some amount of glamour or shape-shifting abilities and is probably meant to appeal to human sensibilities.

When they are merely a sprinting distance away, the demon stops, straightens, then humbly bows forward. A low voice rumbles forth, rough like gravel, “Lord Urizen. I am a messenger of the great Lord Grovutan, who extends an invitation to confer.”

Vergil bristles. This reeks of a trap that he would much rather avoid.

He looks to his twin behind him, who has been suspiciously quiet at the creature before them and finds Dante vanished into thin air. He instinctively turns to look around, eyes and instincts searching, and freezes when he feels an imagined jolt of electricity run through his chest as he realizes he is giving this unknown threat across from him an opening to attack. Swallowing down the sudden panic of Dante’s disappearance, Vergil turns to face them fully again and sees the demon grinning at him. They had seen the vulnerability and chosen to ignore it. How infuriating. Vergil grinds his teeth and grips the hilt of the Yamato tighter.

“Is something the matter, Lord Urizen?” the demon asks. Vergil wants to kill them right then and there.

“Where is my brother?” Vergil asks sharply.

“I apologize, I do not know what you speak of,” the messenger says in a neutral tone. As neutral as the demonic roughness can sound, anyway.

Vergil needs to think. Dante vanished while he was seizing up this demon. Did Dante run off to prepare an ambush? Did something happen to him that Vergil missed? Should he kill the messenger or try to extort information from them? Who is this Lord Grovutan and what is he trying to accomplish? Perhaps he can start there.

“What does your lord want with me?” he asks.

“My Lord wishes to discuss matters of ruling with you—Lord Urizen, who has claimed the strength of the Qliphoth tree, yet made no claim of the throne,” the messenger replies with another bow. Their tone betrays nothing.

Ruling. Claim of the throne. A flickering memory of the black throne briefly threatens to make him nauseous and he stomps down the thought immediately. He has no time for this.

He runs his thumb across the Tsuba of the Yamato to ground himself in the familiar sensation.

Without letting on his intentions outwardly, Vergil focuses his senses to look for signs of Dante. The air holds no scent of his, as if swallowed up by the ground. Vergil carefully lets the rest of his instincts reach outward to find him. A beat of his heart tells him Dante lives. A yearning in his guts tells him he seems to be far away. A twitch of his fingertips tells him he seems to be in the direction of the white castle. That tells him more than enough.

“Very well. Bring me to your lord,” Vergil says coldly.

The messenger’s bow deepens in acknowledgement, before straightening to turn and leads him towards the mountains.

The pull of his soul intensifies as they approach the stronghold. Dante is there.

As the white castle unfolds in front of him, Vergil tries to mentally catalogue all the entities they come across. It is entirely foolish to enter the stronghold of an enemy unprepared like this. But the situation leaves him with few options. He notes hoards of weak demons outside of the castle walls, roaming the immediate surroundings, and smaller groups of more formidable foes guarding entrance points. An honor guard lines the bridge on either side of them, when they cross over a mote into the castle’s innards.

Beyond a tall heavy door, opened by a pair of hunching chimeras, a grand hall of polished white stone and fluted columns greets them. The messenger proclaims their arrival, “Announcing the presence of Lord Urizen—Nefarious Usurper and Demon King—before His Lordship Grovutan—White Star and Ruler of the Red Caves.”

That is quite the line-up of titles, Vergil thinks. It tells him a good bit of what the demons here think of him, and who the residing Lordship is. First of all, that they have been referring to him as Urizen tells him that they have been watching the events on earth, but know only surface level details. Urizen proclaimed himself without a name, power absolute. The new name was merely given to him by the humans seeking to stop him. By his human half, V. By Dante and Nero and their associates. That they aren’t referring to him as Nelo Angelo must either mean that they know not to anger him, which is unlikely, or that they deem his actions as Urizen more impactful, which is foolish of them. And lastly, that they don’t address him as Vergil tells him that they deem his human heritage as weak and are likely to underestimate him in his present form, which could present an advantage, as well as underselling his connection to Sparda, which is an insult in itself. The messenger slinks away with a bow as Vergil steps up to the throne.

Grovutan is a brightly shining mass of shapes, vaguely arranged into a humanoid form. His head is a octahedron with a depression in its front in which a mostly human face is set. Light pulses out of his cone shaped torso, from which a myriad of other shapes spring forth as if approximating various appendages. He is seated on a throne of white polished stone, much like the rest of the castle.

“Welcome, Lord Urizen,” says Grovutan with a crystalline and echoing voice that rings like the music of a struck triangle. “It pleases me that you accepted my invitation.”

Once more, Vergil feels for Dante’s presence. If his brother is running amok in the castle and its lord has yet to get wind of it, then Vergil would treat the dimwit accordingly. But Dante’s presence runs faintly. It’s thin and meek and not at all the bright inferno of his true demonic form. Something is amiss.

“Where are you hiding my brother?” he asks. He has no intentions of playing along with whatever political nonsense this demon had in mind for him, has no plans to rule the underworld (lest he angers Nero and Dante both irreparably), and thus cares only for the one reason he accepted the invitation.

The lord’s expression darkens. The room fills with tension as the guards ready themselves for an attack at Vergil’s breach of etiquette. Vergil readies his hand against the Yamato in turn, displaying clearly that he will retaliate at the faintest provocation.

“I see…” says Grovutan slowly. “If that is the case…” He gestures one limb forth.

At the motion, the messenger from before moves, and within an instance Vergil finds himself befallen by a thick fog and great dizziness. His vision is clouded by heavy white smoke and his body seems to loose its coordination. He stumbles a step. “What—?”

A voice, like tumbling stones, warmed and honeyed, speaks in his mind, “Submit. Submit yourself to rule and return to your rightful place.”

Vergil growls sharply in irritation. The gall!

He suppresses the rising panic, the nausea, the desire to freeze, and converts it into anger and hunger for battle. He would fight to his death—again—before submitting to anyone—again.

Forsaking his vision—it’s not the first time he has fought without it—he closes his eyes and takes a stance, willing his body to cooperate. His remaining senses attempt to reach beyond the fog and locate his target, readying to cut the offending demon down.

“Calm yourself,” says the rumbling voice soothingly, “you are much better off giving into your nature. You serve power, do you not? Let yourself be filled with it, if you only let go…”

The pull of power is undeniable. Doubt sits around his heart like a veil.

Vergil tightens his core and steadies his breath.

He assesses the surveyed results of his remaining senses, his honed instincts and hard earned experience.

The feeling is sickeningly familiar, if not the same. The smoke must be conjured, he is certain. It is perhaps not physical. If so, there is no actual smoke around him, his senses are merely imposing it.

In that case…

He mentally focuses on the point in space he knows the messenger had moved towards before his senses where impeded, and unleashes a chain of Judgement Cuts centered around the location.

The fog quickly falls and before him the messenger appears, bleeding and enraged. “How dare you?!” The demon’s scarlet form unfurls from its humanoid disguise and grows into a hunching shape on all fours. Hair lengthened into a mane, hands becoming wide paws, and sprouting a whipping tail, the creature resembles a hulking red lion, if a lot less majestic and a lot more deformed.

Vergil jumps back a few paces and quickly takes stock of all the enemies present, evaluating what order to kill them in. That messenger would come first.

The red beast jumps towards him, frenzied from its injury, and swipes sharp claws down at him. Too simple an attack to read, for it to have any chance of hitting.

Vergil’s body moves all on its own, guided in part by the thirst of the Yamato, and in part by decades of survival.

How dare anyone attempt to subjugate him?! What a foolish attempt it was, as well. A thin veil like that is supposed to make him loose his willpower? They think themselves capable of a stronger mental domination than Mundus? With only a dizzying spell and some power-imbued words, they seek to best years upon years of torture, humiliation and enslavement? What a farce!

His throat feels tight with the thoughts. He would not be enslaved. Ever again.

Darkness and pain haunt Vergil’s body. Memories he can’t stop from running up his spine.

He feels the icy chains embedded in his body. They echo with the pull of damnation.

Plates weigh him down. His limbs not his own.

Skin, not his own. His actions, not his own.

A voice chills his core, that he refuses to hear.

Burning, gnawing, cutting, scorching, slicing, pulsing, bludgeoning humiliation, loss, and pain. So much pain. Pain. Always pain. Forever. Always. Forever.

His veins run hot, his breath runs cold.

He hears nothing but the thrum of his blood and the voice. He refuses to hear.

He lost everything.

His life.

His weapon.

His power.

His will.

His soul.

His reason.

Dante.

Dante… He doesn’t know where Dante is. Distantly, it occurs to Vergil that Dante lives. And… so does Vergil. He needs to get back to the present. Where—

His consciousness returns from inside of his mind and his vision slowly fills with the sight of the Yamato embedded deep into the face of Lord Grovutan, whose white light slowly dims. Cracks form along his body, and with the loud sound of glass shattering, it bursts apart into a million pieces beneath him.

Vergil pulls the Yamato back with a flourish and sheathes it, heaving heavy breaths. His lungs feel on fire and his head spins severely. He grips his sword tightly and the sensation returns him further into reality.

He forces his eyes to blink and the rest of his body to respond to intentional movement, and slowly looks around to assess his situation.

The white hall is covered in ash and the many corpses of dead demons. Lower hoards and higher generals alike are lying limply on the floor, some dismembered or decapitated, some mostly in tact, but bleeding out, some cut apart into too many pieces to count them, many already disintegrated into dust. The smell of blood and filth and demonic decay fills the air with its sulfur stench and offends Vergil’s nose.

No enemies remain alive on this floor.

Where is Dante?

Despite the smell, he takes a deep, calming breath and focuses inward.

Warmth. Energy. Power. Above him. Dante’s inferno roars brightly. He is fighting, some distance away, in his true demonic form.

Good. Alive.

Vergil moves.

He shouldn’t have let his mind get lost to the memories like that. He needs to stay aware of his situation. He needs to remain in control.

Tension sits in every single one of his muscles. He gnashes his teeth.

Move. Move forward.

At the edge of his awareness, Dante’s energy diminishes. Like a candle snuffed out.

No.

Vergil assumes his true demonic form on instinct, rushing forth at the highest speed he is capable of, hunting down the remaining energy of his twin.

Up a spiral staircase.

Down a hall.

There!

He crashes through the double doors, taking down parts of the wall with it.

In the middle of the room, on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, lies Dante, in his human form. His clothes are torn and he is injured all over.

Vergil rushes to his side to shield his twin’s body and hastily looks around for threats.

The room is littered with demon corpses. All of them dead, torn apart, brutalized, ended. Good.

Across from Dante, the corpse of a red lion, much like the messenger on the floor below, lies mangled and distorted. Their arm is extended towards Dante, as if reaching through death, still twitching faintly.

Vergil carefully picks up Dante’s unconscious form. He is in a terrible state. Pale, bleeding from all of his injuries and overall disheveled. Why isn’t he healing?

He looks for an exit.

The room has a balcony, leading outside.

The sound of many footsteps down the hall let him know that more demons are coming.

The hoards attempt to follow him. Dante’s body held carefully in his arms, Vergil takes off from the balcony and soars through the skies, away from the castle.

After some distance to leave behind their pursuers, he searches the surroundings for a place he can put Dante down and afford them both some rest. The color continues to fade from his twin’s face. His hair sticks to his sweat-damp forehead and his breath is stuttered and wet.

There. A small natural cave in the mountain's cliff side.

He lands. Extends his senses to scout for enemies, and finds no danger present. Wary, he dares to settle into the rocky alcove.

He lays down his twin’s heavy body against a wall of smooth stone, where he thinks the wind won’t catch. He spreads his wings behind him, sheltering Dante from the world in this small space and begins to take off Dante’s torn clothes to assess the damage.

The wounds revealed to him pulse a sickly brown ooze in sluggish waves and deeply purple veins run under his pale skin. A pained groan comes from Dante’s slack mouth as he moves him.

This isn’t good.

Not only is Dante’s healing not taking over to close his flesh, his general state seems to be deteriorating.

Vergil regains his human form to better tend to his twin. Holds the back of his hand to Dante’s forehead. He’s warm with fever. Unusual for them, and a bad sign.

He leans in closely to take in Dante’s smell by his neck.

Sick. Sulfur, puss and rot. Sweet and damp. Sour and painful, a cramping of muscles that smells of magnesium and tar. Underneath it all, weakly, Dante’s natural scent. Ash and rose petals. Rich and inviting blood, murmuring only an echo of its rightful strength.

Vergil deems Dante’s condition non-transmittable and knows what he must do.

Part of it is instinct. Part of it is also a familiar nightmare that Vergil unwillingly recognizes in the distinct smell and color of him. Vergil knows that Dante’s suffering is not inherently physical. What prevents Dante’s healing is mostly a condition of the mind. His wounds will need to be cleared of the rot and his mind needs to be returned to reality—ideally a soothing one—to heal him. And quickly.

Determined to be efficient in his care, he brackets Dante’s body with his arms and leans down to begin licking the wounds on his body clean—to give him a proper demonic grooming. He starts at a cut by Dante’s hip. Vergil keeps his tongue gentle, and his swipes thorough, emptying Dante’s flesh of any offending material, and taking in his tainted blood.

It tastes the way it smells. Bad. But still, there is something deeply rewarding about licking up Dante’s blood and Vergil dedicates himself to the task fully. It is smooth, warm, and full against his tongue, despite its taste, tickling his nerves and settling them alight. He imagines himself taking on all of Dante’s ails in this way, licking them out of him, as he moves from one cleaned wound to the next across his body.

Dante’s labored breathing above him evens out a bit and looses some of it’s raspy quality. Progress, hopefully.

Vergil is lost to the motion and licks deeply into a cut when a spur of fresh, brilliant, untainted blood graces his senses. It shocks his system and he shivers. So good and energizing. It tastes like life and purpose. It also means he should move on from that particular wound and find another. Reluctantly he travels his tongue across Dante’s abdomen, refusing to break contact, and resisting the urge to bite him for more fresh liquid. The unbroken skin tastes salty and inviting. Healthier than before. He finds a new wound to tend to, below Dante’s right pectoral muscle and mouths at it languidly, swallowing the bitter taste until it clears.

Dante’s heart beats more avidly in his chest beneath him now, as if regaining intention. Vergil places a palm above it to feel its pulse. Strong. Alive. Beautiful. He closes his lips around the flesh beneath him, the service of his tongue now more of an open mouthed kissing, and he feels his own heart strain to match his twin’s.

When he moves to a new wound near Dante’s collar bone, he hears his brother’s breath hitch, laden with sluggish consciousness. “Verge…?” Dante mumbles.

Vergil places a kiss over Dante’s heart before he returns to his task. “I’m here,” he says quietly.

“What—?” Dante makes in a small voice, sounding disoriented.

In lieu of an answer, Vergil knows that what Dante needs is further consoling, and with great effort—he hasn’t intentionally done this in many, many years—Vergil attempts to make himself purr with the natural rumble of demonic comfort. It’s rusty. Springing to life with a stutter, like an unused motor engine, before it settles into smooth and quiet vibrations from his chest. Good, he was afraid it wouldn’t work, but it seems his body hasn’t lost the function. A clear, purposeful purr carries through him into his brother and finds Dante shivering in delight.

“I’m… dreaming?” Dante asks with a quiet tone.

Again, Vergil doesn’t answer him. Continues the sounds of his chest and the task of his mouth. Dante’s wounds are almost all done.

“I love you,” Dante says, and Vergil almost flinches. He says it with warmth and urgency, but with such sadness as well, like it’s the confession of his death bed. Vergil frowns around his kisses. There was no need to say this. What was and is between them could never be expressed in words.

“I love you. Always have. Always will,” Dante reiterates. Like he must get the words out while he has the strength to speak them.

Vergil disapproves. Unwanted emotions war within him. He feels undeserving of Dante’s earnest expression of affection and the associated trust. He also feels deeply moved and motivated to act on Dante’s warmth. His mouth already being on his brother’s skin makes it more difficult to repress the urge to consume him whole. His jaw strains with the desire to devour Dante and his fingers twitch with the desire to take him apart.

Vergil huffs. “Foolish brother,” he says. With a parting lick to the last cleaned wound, he picks up his head to face his twin, who gazes at him with clouded eyes, mind clearly hazy and not quite there yet. Vergil presses one chaste kiss to his lips, to provide Dante with the last comfort that Vergil deems him in need of, for the purpose of healing his condition. Dante startles, and when Vergil pulls back, his twin looks like the parting of their lips ails him more than the affliction Vergil just cured him of.

Vergil sits back and assesses Dante’s supine form. His lifeblood runs bright red, his flesh is starting to knit itself back together, his breath is purposeful and deep. And while his gaze still looks muddled with the shadows of nightmares he was surely made to suffer through before, he is undeniably present with him and regaining control of his body.

Belatedly, Vergil realizes he is still purring, and stops.

Dante is healed and will be alright.

Good.

Satisfied, Vergil sits back on the other side of the cave and focuses his attention back on their surroundings. He licks his lips, chasing the last remaining taste of his twin from them, to regain his focus. They are still potentially being pursued. He needs to regain the alertness he neglected in the wake of his brother’s care.

Dante tries to sit up, appearing under great strain, groaning, and blinks himself rapidly further into reality. When he is upright with his back leaning heavily against the wall, he regards Vergil with a mistrusting look. “Hey,” he says, sluggishly.

Vergil looks to him, but doesn’t answer.

“What happened? … And why am I naked?” Dante asks then, as he looks down at himself.

“You were injured,” Vergil says. He feels no need to elaborate further.

“Uh huh,” Dante makes, sounding confused and begins the laborious process of trying to dress himself.

As soon as Dante is in any condition for them to move, Vergil hurries them further away from the last of the mountain range. The air tells him that the veil between worlds is suitably thin not far from where they are, and he drags them both towards their destination.

Here.

He lets his brother know that they have made it. Earth awaits them.

Dante looks like he wishes he had more energy to celebrate the occasion, and stands back to let Vergil do his thing.

“Opening this portal will take a significant amount of my remaining energy. Once we have crossed over, I will not be able to keep up watch for us both,” Vergil confesses.

“Alright,” Dante says. “I’ll make sure we make it home once we’re there,” he promises.

With a nod, Vergil draws the Yamato. He focuses his intent and shares his will with his blade to slash a cross through space. From it springs a tear in the fabric of reality, revealing a city in the other world behind it.

It’s time.

They step through the opening together, and Vergil looses consciousness shortly after.

“’Won’t be able to watch for us both’ my ass. You could have just said you’d be knocked out, you know?” Dante grumbles as he hauls Vergil’s unconscious body onto his back. Well, no point complaining over it. What’s done is done. Time to finally head home.

Dante feels surreal. His twin—alive, incredible, idiotic, unbelievable, and unconscious—is with him, and he’s back on earth. What a time to be alive!

Earth’s air has nothing on hell. It feel so refreshingly crystal clear to breathe. Even the worst city’s pollution would feel pure in his lungs after breathing hell for so long. On the other hand, earth also doesn’t run thick with space and infinite reality, like hell does with its ambient ether, and it’s probably why Vergil is passed out. Dante himself feels fit to crumble into a sore heap of meat without the endless energy supply. Well, time to get used to eating and sleeping again. Ah, feels good to be human, he thinks and cracks his neck as he starts walking on straining limbs.

He will have to figure out where they are, and how far away from the Devil May Cry that is. “Vergil couldn’t have made us a portal directly home, huh?” he mumbles.

They seem to be on the correct continent, for starters. And perhaps even the correct country. Not sure. But it could very well be. He doesn’t know this particular city from the looks of it alone, but he would figure it out.

Small town. Not much to see here.

Time for some hitchhiking, then.

Time to go home.