Chapter Text
In twenty-five years, Aifric’s Alehouse hadn’t changed even just a tiny bit. Same hefty old furniture. Same mucky walls. Same filthy floor covered in layers of dry alcohol that would stick your shoes to the wooden slats each time you'd take a step. Same lamentable drunkards looking for more alcohol to drown their sorrows in with their arms around women that would pretend to adore them for a night in exchange for a bit of money. And, now that Vergil dared breathe a little, there was the same foul stench of humidity, staleness and sweat in the air, typical of this kind of underground bars from the no-go areas of the Castle Town of Fortuna. And the music … It was better not to think about the music.
He never thought he would come back here one day.
His firm gloved hand grabbed the backrest of a wobbly stool that made the old wooden floor squeak with an unpleasant sound when he pulled it out to take a seat, revealing his presence to the brown-skinned man sipping his beer in silence next to him, his defeated pockmarked face hidden under a dirty thick white cloak that hadn’t probably been washed in years and that had lost almost all its glorious golden embroideries.
Vergil eyed at him for a second, the same way the Moor had eyed at the Son of Sparda when, more than two decades ago, he had sit on this very same stool, his then young frame hidden under a cloak similar to his but less odorous of course. He was a young wanderer looking for stories and answers back then. Strange how things seemed to move in circle.
“You’re too late. You know that?” The man’s voice was thickly and hoarse and it was not only due to the long years of alcohol abuse and to his endless contempt for that silver-haired ghost back from a distant past he thought he would never see again. It was especially due to his self-loathing. “Twenty-five fucking years too late to be more precise.”
He got no answer to that reproach, not a word, just a nod and a pregnant silence that made him scoff. But his laugh that was once so hearty and alive held today nothing but melancholy and detestation. “But at least she was right. You did come back.”
Vergil peeped at the man again from the corner of his icy blue eyes, a little longer this time, hiding his slight surprise and his judgemental thoughts he knew deep down he shouldn’t have behind the mask of impassibility he was known for. The barfly next to him was nothing like the man he had met years ago. He was just the broken shadow of the glorious man everyone in the Spardan Court used to call Adel the Honourable¹, The Moor of Fortuna, Captain of the Guard of Sparda.
“What the fuck are you doing here … Vergil?” He spat, literally, not caring about what the solemn Son of Sparda would think of him or what he would do to him. He spat to show him his disgust, his hatred, even though he knew that a bit of saliva wasn’t enough to show the extent of his feelings.
“Where is she?” Vergil asked with a calm voice that made Adel grimace (that voice was as nasally and annoying as he remembered) and he finally glared at him, allowing Vergil to see how the years and the pain had marked and scared his once-handsome face.
“You got some nerve to ask that now.”
“I need to see her.”
Adel firmly hit the counter with his empty glass before turning around to glare at Vergil, giving him a long disdainful look he thought he could only give himself. “Sure, I’ll happily bring you to her. But for that, you should give me that damn sword of yours. I need to shove it deep in your stone-cold heart first.” Vergil smirked. This was way too reminiscent of old foolish squabbles he once found very amusing though quite pathetic and most of the time one-sided.
“Why don’t you use that crossbow² of yours instead?” The taunt wasn’t meant to defy him. It was easy to guess if you knew how to read through Vergil’s phlegmatic voice. But the Moor³ interpreted his words as a threat and yet he refused to react to it, knowing how vain it would be. He was no match for the Son of Sparda and he had long lost the will to fight.
“I don’t have it anymore.” Adel opened his cloak to reveal a leather sling with no weapon attached to it. “I don’t have anything anymore. And we know full well that it wouldn’t have done shit to you.”
“Trust me, Adel. I know what it’s like to lose everything.” Was it an attempt at sounding sympathetic? Probably. After all, Vergil still felt somewhat confused by the occasional waves of humanity surging up from inside of him.
“Do you?” He laughed with bitterness, not believing him for one second. “Bullshit! And you know why? Cause you never had anything you cared about!”
If Vergil took this as a personal attack he didn’t show it, but he nevertheless let out one simple sentence, a boast he knew would displease the brown-skinned man, a display of his pride and superiority he always thought he had over that mere human.
“I had her.”
Quite expectedly, Adel jumped from his stool and before miserably falling back against the bar, tried to grab Vergil by his blue collar. But his grip looked too pathetic and clumsy to be considered menacing or dangerous. “Fucking stop talking about her!” He pointed his finger at him in defiance while tears formed in his dull black eyes that had lost their spark. “She fucking loved you! She loved you so damn much and you never cared, not a damn second. So don’t come at me with all your ceremony and shit, pretending you care now.” He sobbed loudly and wiped his eyes with his fists, a gesture that only made Vergil frown. How low had that man sunk! And how wrong he was.
“Nero needs to know.” The silver-haired man finally said, not very willing to continue this conversation due to a growing lack of patience. “He needs to know about his mother.”
There was a new brief silence that could only be filled with glasses clinking together, a noisy hubbub and the giggles of prostitutes. Both men gauged each other, wondering who should talk first and what to say after the name of the boy the woman they both loved had given birth to was brought into the discussion.
“So you finally know.” The Moor finally said as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How does it feel?” Vergil didn’t want to talk about his feelings, especially not with a man he hadn’t seen in years and that would be too eager to judge him. His feelings were his to ponder and only his.
“My feelings are none of your concern.” The brevity of Vergil’s sentences had a knack for annoying Adel who had almost forgotten how it was to have a conversation with the stoic Son of Sparda. And when some people would call it introversion he would call it self-importance, despicable self-importance.
“Do you ever think of her?”
New silence. But yes, there were times when Vergil would think of her because that’s what happens when someone as special as her shares even just a tiny bit of his life. Actually, he had been thinking of her even more lately, each time he had been looking at Nero or even just thought of him, each time he had remembered his journey in Fortuna. The mother of his child was a part of his past he would never be able to cast away. But again, none of Adel’s business.
“Look, you don’t need to talk to me about her. Just tell Nero. I bet you know how to find him.”
Glad to finally leave, Vergil stood up and dusted his long dark coat he felt had been soiled by such a dirty place. But right after he turned around to walk away, his old acquaintance spoke again with disarming and heartfelt honesty. “It feels like hell to me.” Vergil stopped and slightly looked back at him from over his shoulder. Adel's defeated look was staring deep in his empty glass again. “Like fucking hell actually. Seeing that kid of yours growing up right under my nose to become just like her but at the same time just like you. That smug smirk he got from you on the lips he inherited from her. Everything about that child makes me want to vomit or pluck my eyes out because that makes me realise all I lost, all I could have had if you had never stepped a foot in Fortuna. You took her away from me, away from everyone, and when you finally got out from my life, you dared leave behind you a living reminder of your victory over me to torture me for the rest of my miserable days.” Vergil stood still, withstanding the man’s rancour without batting an eyelash.
“The fact you considered her love a victory maybe is the reason why you never had her.” Vergil replied and before pushing the double-leaf door of the bar he waited for an instant, staring in the distance as if he was expecting something or someone to come in, but Adel was stubborn and not keen on accepting defeat.
“You took her away from your son!” He shouted.
“If that’s true, go tell him that then.”
***
Nico was pissed. Nero could tell it by the way she was furiously trying to fix the neon blue sign of their van. But what could he do about it? It wasn’t his fault if a starving empusa had decided to snack on the E while Nico was parked waiting for her friend to come back from his demon ass kicking routine. “D vil May Cry” Nero read out loud with a pout. “I don’t know, Nico. Works for me.” And yet, he had a feeling being angry over a damn light was just a pretext to let out some pent up frustration due to god knew what.
“Really? Is that how you gonna treat your family heritage now?” The black-haired woman harrumphed, threatening to hit her friend with a monkey wrench. “Is that how you gonna treat my precious Minotaurus after all he did for ya? After he followed you right into that hellish ficus?”
“Qliphoth.” He corrected with a smile.
“Yeah whatever.” Nero had a brief laugh but eventually shrugged, not seeing the problem as he read the neon sign on the van again.
“The E doesn’t light up anymore. So what? We still know it’s Devil May Cry.”
“When your deadbeat dad tore your arm out from its socket, didn’t I give ya a new one?”
Nero grumbled, not finding the comparison funny or admissible. “That’s not the same! You can’t compare my arm to a damn neon letter. I needed my arm!”
“And Devil May Cry needs its E! So stop complainin’ and pass me the stillson.” She ordered as she kept on adjusting the colourful wires hidden in the dented bodywork of the van. Nero sighed but handed her the tool anyway.
“I thought you were tired of being my pet mechanic.”
“ I am but like I said, I can’t let you treat my baby like that.”
And then, he dared say it. “Seriously. I thought you would be busy reading those new files you found in your father’s old stuff? You didn’t say anything about what they were.” And, as Nico dropped the wrench on the hood, he immediately knew he maybe shouldn’t have talked about that.
“Cause they're not interesting. Just pieces of diaries he wrote when he was young, explainin’ how he started working for the Order and why he didn’t want me or my mother in his life anymore.” Nero frowned, not believing Nico for an instant. Her sentence didn’t make any sense to him cause he was sure any child who had grown up without a parent would be even just a tiny bit interested in knowing who they were or what they did.
He knew he was.
God! What he would give to know even a just of small piece of information about his mother, about who she was, how she looked like. But unfortunately for him, the only person who had all the answers to his questions was never prompt to give them, acting more like a vault than a chatterbox.
“And that doesn’t interest you? Raaah come on, Nico!” He clicked his tongue.
“I’m interested in his work. Nothing else. I couldn’t care less about his adventure with that other chick which is FYI probably one of the reason why that asshole left my mother and me.”
“ You father left your mother for another woman?” Nico glared at Nero, catching a judgment in his voice that never was there.
“ Well I least I know why my father left my mother… No, actually, I know my mum, period.” Nero hadn’t heard that kind of words in years but the burn was as painful as he remembered. How many times he had heard the kids in Fortuna disrespecting him, disrespecting his mother, claiming she was a prostitute⁴ from the ill repute places of Fortuna. How many horrors he had to listen to. And how many punches he had received and given because of them. “Damn! I’m sorry, Nero. I didn’t mean...” Nico declared, horrified by her unusual behaviour and by the sudden sadness Nero tried to conceal behind his blue eyes. ..
“Forget it. I’m used to it.” He gestured her to let go and went rummaging in the toolbox for no particular reason but to occupy his mind with something else. But Nico wasn’t willing to end their conversation like that, the feeling of guilt eating at her.
“I’m sure your mother was someone fantastic, Nero.” She had a soft comforting smile. “I mean, she had to be, you know … to stand your father.”
Nero chuckled but there was still that hint of misery, that very particular misery he only felt when thinking of his mother. A mix of bitterness, void and love. “Maybe she never really had to stand him. Maybe she was … a prostitute like the rumour said.”
Nico frowned; refusing to believe Nero would go for such bullshit. Didn’t he know how close-minded and rumour-hungry the people in Fortuna were? “Nah, I don’t think so.” She declared as she funnily wrinkled her nose. “No money in the world would be enough to accept to spend a night with your dad. Your mother had to be veeeery nice and patient and ooooh so in love with him.” Nero spared a glance at Nico, deeply moved by her attempt at comforting him and hoping she was right. “Damn, I bet that poor woman was a saint, ‘cause Vergil might look yummy to most people’s standards but he ain’t fun.” Her lips pinched together, she had a sort of deep serious frown that wrinkled her entire forehead, a somewhat amusing grimace Nero was sure was meant to emulate his father characteristic impenetrability. She kinda nailed it but …
“ Did you just say my father looks yummy?” Nero asked, quite disgusted. A crush on Lady, that he could get, but on his father … It made him shiver and want to throw up.
“Huh, to most people standards!” She repeating, clapping her hands between each syllables. “I’m not most people.” Nero’s eyes widened when he heard familiar slow and steady footsteps coming from behind the door of the garage. “I mean, do you really think I could feel even just a tiny bit attracted to ‘Power! I need more power!’ ?” She imitated with a cavernous voice and Nero tried not to laugh. But it wasn’t Nico’s new impersonation of Vergil that was making him want to do so. It was actually his father standing on top of the stairs, stoic and still like a marble statue staring impassibly at Nico making a fool of him. Maybe he should warn her of his presence. Yes, maybe he should.
He timidly pointed at his father standing right behind her; still unsure he wanted this scene to stop. But he couldn’t wait to see Nico’s face when she would notice Vergil. And oh god, how priceless it was.
Nico was an intrepid, loud and lovely person but when her dark eyes took a small glance of Vergil, she froze and cleared her throat, definitely uncomfortable and … yeah a tiny bit scared. “But it has its charm. You’ve got some charm. That’s undeniable.” She rectified, looking at Vergil who eventually nodded, a faint smile on his face that meant more ‘yeah right’ than ‘how funny’ in Vergil language. He didn’t find this funny at all.
“Good evening to you too, Nicoletta. Nero.” He nodded once again, casting his aura of solemnity all over the garage.
“Nico. Just Nico … nevermind.” Nico mumbled in a whisper that Vergil heard but chose to ignore. Nicknames were not his thing… They had never been his thing.
He went down the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of his precious Yamato as always and looked at the van with a new frown. “You two are busy working on some repairs, perhaps.” He asked in an effort to be as familial as possible, something that wasn’t his forte at all. It made the two friends exchange a curious glance.
“Yes … I mean, no, we were done.” Nero replied, wondering what his father was doing here. After all, unexpected visits were not in Vergil’s habits.
“No, we were not. Gotta fix that E, remember?” Nico tapped at the letter with insistence.
“That again?” The young man sighed. “Is Dante here?” That could explain Vergil’s presence in Fortuna. But as 90% of the time – or more – the Son of Sparda evicted an answer, changing the subject – or ignoring it – with a destabilizing yet infuriating indifference.
“Miss Goldstein is right, a E is important.” He spoke, his icy blue eyes looking towards a distant past, towards memories he held in his heart he was rediscovering more and more with each day spent with his family, with his son.
“Thank you! See, I told you!” Nico shouted, proud to be right.
“What are you doing here?” Nero finally questioned, impatient to finally know the truth behind his father’s presence.
“I was in Fortuna visiting an old acquaintance.” Vergil weighed his words with smoothness as he paced in the garage looking at his surroundings without no real interest in them.
“You … got acquaintances?” The slight frown of disbelief on Nero’s face made him suddenly look so much like his father but Vergil didn’t notice, too busy staring at the extinguished E that looked so dull surrounded by such neon blue lights when it should have shone as brightly as them if not more.
“Hopefully, he should visit you soon.”
“Wait! What? Why?” Nero always saw his father as an impenetrable mystery, even when he was just V, but right now he couldn’t tolerate him being so evasive.
“To give you the answers you want.”
And he couldn’t not tolerate him being a stolid piece of shit either. “About my mother?” Or a mute one. But with Vergil, silence often meant a lot. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like that!” Nero caught his father’s right arm with a violent strength, a vision that stirred a new one, an old one, one Vergil regretted. “Plus, why would you send a stranger in my house to talk to me about my mother? Why don’t you do it yourself?” God! If she knew what he had done to their son. What would she say? What would she do? “Silence. I thought so. You don’t even have the courage to tell me her name so why should I expect more from you.”
In his lifetime, only a few persons had been able to defeat Vergil, one of them being his son. So, after looking down at his boots for a second, he walked away, not keen on riling up Nero even more, not today.
“Elissa.⁵” The name, left unpronounced for so many years, burnt Vergil's tongue when each blazing letter, probably angry to have been reduced to dormant embers for so long, managed to escape the barrier of his tight lips. But Vergil welcomed this fiery pain without blinking and even dared say it again, embracing the ignition once more with a soft melancholic smile. He was part demon. Fire couldn't hurt him. So why being afraid of it? “Your mother’s name was Elissa.” Plus there was no danger in saying her name, just liberation. It was a beautiful name, after all. And for a second, he felt like his young self again. “Now fix it, would you?”
That E meant a lot to Vergil.