Sword of the Soul
Two men stand face-to-face, staring each other down—or, more like scowling each other down—their angst growing in the few moments that pass while they stand within a little decaying garden enclosure. Their eyes peer a similar expression back at one another, and, oddly enough, with the same blue eyes—eyes glistening like azure-colored jewels in the pale moonlight. The small garden animals nearby scatter, leaping over rocks and bushes just to get away from the palpable pressure mounting between the two men.
Patches of dirt lay splotched all over the ground, which is enclosed within a rectangle of six-foot high stone walls and partially dead grass. Up above is the blackened arena of night with a few billowing clouds looming overhead. The blinding full moon seems larger than usual, ominous even. A few twinkling stars barely shine through the light gray clouds to overcome the moon's overwhelming presence as it hogs the sky.
The two men stand about ten feet apart, facing each other, as any two men ever have when about to begin a duel. They look pretty intense. Their hands move to their respective weapons. One grabs the hilt of a very long, large, oddly-shaped sword hanging on his back. The other man lightly caresses a smaller, sleeker, more elegant hilt of a sword, still hidden in its sheath, at his left hip. They both drill their boots into the earth beneath them, bending their knees, balancing themselves. It seems like they have studied each other so closely they can mirror one another. This is done completely unintentionally—at least, that's what the younger man thinks.
"I believe you have something that belongs to me, boy," says the older man to him, breaking the silence. His tone is authoritarian, monotonous. He's wearing a long azure blue coat so sheen, it reflects the moon light and his hair is exactly the same color as the moon. His entire appearance perfectly suits the dark, lunar quality of their surroundings.
"Oh, yeah? And, just who the hell are you?" asks the younger man. He's wearing a long, indigo blue denim coat while tossing his head a bit in a youthful, arrogant manner. "I've never seen you before, so I doubt I've ever taken anything of yours. I'm not some kind of thief, so I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy, creeper..."
"Oh, I've got the right 'guy,' alright," confirms the older man. The tiniest hint of a grin pulls up the sides of his mouth. His eyes narrow so naturally, it's as if he were born with a deadly glare. "Your name is 'Nero,' and you have my sword. Give it back to me."
"I'm gonna have to teach the moron who told you who I was a lesson when all of this is over. Can't anybody in this small town keep their mouths shut? Geez..." Nero shakes his white, feathery head, his grown-out hair flapping around like the wings of a swan in flight. His hair is the same color, or lack of color, as the older man's, but he doesn't make too much of this fact.
"I wouldn't be worrying about someone else's mistake right now if I were you, boy," warns the older man. His eyes grow wider and more threatening as he glares at Nero. "This matter only concerns us …. Now, hand over Yamato, or tell me where I can find it, so neither you, nor anyone else has to get hurt."
"Get hurt?" parrots Nero, exaggerating the phrase. He relaxes his eyebrows for a moment.
His mockery agitates the older man, whose blood seems to run cold, deep in his veins. His sharpened gaze pierces Nero's eyes, causing the boy to reflexively look away for a moment. But, Nero steadily works his own glare back over at the man, shooting him a stern look to match. A few moments pass, utterly silent and motionless, except for a light wind tossing around a few dried leaves on the ground.
"So, what is this? Some kind of staring contest?" Nero chuckles at his own stupid joke, as if he were making up for the lack of an audience to appreciate it. "So, you want my sword? ...Come and get it!"
Nero throws down the sword hanging on his back over his shoulder, as the tip whacks a few blades of grass growing out of a patch of dirt. He growls at the older man, a fellow white feather-headed swordsman, but with slicked-back hair, digging his brown boots into the ground.
The older man's snarky glare reflects apparent disdain at Nero's lack of refinement. Even his own ferocious glare is like that of an irritated grizzly bear pushed too far.
"I really loathe repeating myself, boy, so I won't tell you a third time!" says the man, getting emphatic and annoyed.
It signals Nero, snapping out of his stance. He lunges at the older man with his large sword, as if released from a sling-shot. His growl grows louder with each step, but before he can land a blow, the older man is hovering above his head, directly over it, upside-down, as if he were floating under water. Before he lands, he deftly kicks the large sword out of Nero's left hand, and all in the same motion, draws his own sword fully out of its scabbard, shoving the sharp tip of the blade only a centimeter away from Nero's throat. The man's feet land on the ground so light, barely making a sound. They both freeze.
"Guh-huh!" gasps Nero while sitting on his knees. The man's incredible speed surprises him, although it reminds him of his own. Nero's saucer-like eyes lock onto the blade at his Adam's apple. He pants heavily at the sight of it while his arms flail around like a puppet without arm-strings. But, his right arm, strangely formed and colored compared to his normal-looking left arm, begins to glow in the darkness. The light blue glow fills his eyes with new-found confidence.
"You know what you need to do …" commands the stone-cold warrior. Now he has the upper hand. He relaxes, as if he assumes his younger opponent has taken his current predicament as evidence of his own inferiority.
Nero suddenly grabs the man's light blue coat-sleeve, squeezing his arm as tight as he can, lighting it up with his arm's glowing powers. The older man's annoyance increases, as he grabs the glowing arm, picking him up off the ground, and, with all his physical might, hurls him away into the distance. Nero flies off to the other end of the enclosure, slamming into a stone wall, releasing a deafening yelp. Before he knows it, he's face down, eating dirt and chunks of the wall that landed on the ground around him.
The older man stomps his way over to him like a robot. Nero stumbles around on his hands and knees amidst the stoney debris and patchy dead grass. He nearly regains his feet when the man slashes at him with his katana—but, Nero blocks it with a katana of his own that suddenly materializes out of a smokey-light flowing out of his strange right arm.
"Yamato!" says the older man, as if a light blub flicked on over his head. His wide blue eyes look surprised, but super happy and relieved. "That's it! That's my sword, boy. Now let me have it!"
"No way!" shouts Nero, pushing him away, which sends the man backward a few feet. He squeezes the hilt of Yamato even tighter in his grip. "I'm not giving you this sword. A friend of mine entrusted it to me, so I'm not gonna just hand it over to some psycho who wants it!"
"It used to belong to me several years ago...," says the man.
"Right … and I die my hair this color just to be cool and different!" Nero spits out fresh blood onto the ground, chuckling a little like a maniac.
"Well, I'm sorry to have to break it to you, but your problems with your hair do not concern me," says the man, composed. "Whether you believe me, or not, it doesn't change the fact that that sword was entrusted to me by my father, probably before you were even born. It is my very soul …. "
Nero holds out Yamato with both hands, pointing the blade's tip directly at the man. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than spouting some junk about fathers and souls to convince me, pal!"
"Is that so?" says the older man, narrowing his confident eyes at him.
They both gnarl their teeth, shooting themselves directly at each other head-on, as if fired out of the barrels of two dueling pistols. Two katanas clash in the air, causing a spark to ignite between the blades in the already electric night air. They switch positions, still boring glares down at one another, readying for another synchronized lunge. More lunging, more sword clashing, and more switching of places. They seem to be evenly matched now for some reason.
"Is this all ya got, old man?" laughs Nero, wiping the side of mouth. "So far, you haven't even scratched me since I started using this sword. You afraid to make me use it, or something?"
"I don't need to worry about something like that," says the man, coolly. "There's no way someone like you could ever wear out, or damage that sword."
Nero clenches his teeth, as if to bare his fangs. He doesn't appreciate the comment. He runs at the older man with all his might, raising Yamato above his head, gripping its hilt with both hands, then leaps up into the air, shouting to aid the force of his swing. It comes down over the older man's head, but the man simply stands there, peering up at Nero's extremely peeved face.
Just then, Nero's entire world starts to slow down. He can feel his whole body headed for the ground. His eyes widen. He gasps, landing on his hands and knees. He feels the urge the cough. When he does, the heave produces copious blood, sputtering out all over his chin and onto the dirt beneath.
"I'm—I'm cut!" Nero barely squeaks out the words, just as he plops face first into a patch of grass. The older man wrings out his sword blade to his right side, away from Nero, to remove the excess blood from Nero's chest wound. He deftly hurls the tip to its scabbard's opening at his left hip, pointing down into it. Then slowly, precisely, he slips the entire blade back into it's sheath, like the act is a perfect blend of an exact science and an art form.
"Don't be so surprised, boy," he says, keeping his back to Nero. "I'm far too fast to be beaten by the likes of you." The man steps over to Nero's head, and grabs the coveted sword laying on the ground in front of the young man. He squeezes Yamato's light blue hilt, twisting his gloved hands all around it, getting the feel for the grip. "I finally have you, again, Yamato. It has been far too long …."
Nero's narrowed eyes watch the older man's boots as they stand a couple of feet away from his head. He makes a fist with his left hand, the only one he can see with his head facing that direction, and pounds it on the ground. He is too weak to give it much force. "Dammit... How could I have done that!" he chokes out.
"You can still speak," says the man, genuinely surprised as he glances down at Nero. "That must mean you really are of devil blood, like I've been suspecting. Humans don't have arms that glow in the dark, after all..."
"I can't let it end like this," says Nero, his vocal chords regaining some composure. He begins to push himself back up onto his hands and knees, his head hanging down like a dog, panting. "I—I can't let you take that sword from me, no matter what."
"You don't have the power to change that, at the moment. You are barely able to breathe, or have you not noticed?"
"That doesn't ma … matter," says Nero, coughing up a little more blood. "The man who gave me that sword told me it was very important … very dangerous in the wrong hands …. Besides," he says, balancing himself on top of his knees, gazing wearily in the man's direction, "I don't wanna deal with that guy when he finds out I let it get stolen. I'd rather be burning in Hell, than have to deal with that guy pointing his stupid finger at me, telling me he'll kick my ass, and all. He's just too … annoying …."
"That is none of my concern, although I feel I ought to sympathize with you about your 'friend'," says the man, quickly turning towards him, then quickly away. "But, I won't …."
"I can't let you have Yamato, whoever you are …." Nero clumsily rises to his feet, grabbing the Red Queen, his long sword, which is nearby on the ground, pushing himself up with it. "Who are you, anyway?"
"My name is Vergil," says the man, gleaming in the moonlight, peering into Nero's eyes.
Those eyes suddenly pop open as they hadn't yet done since he met this difficult guy. "Wh—What?" says Nero, stammering, incredulous. "Vergil?"
"It is as I said," states Vergil, flatly. "… So, I've given it some thought, although only a few moments worth, but I think I have the solution to your 'problem'. If your friend were to find you dead, I doubt he'd annoy you if you were in that condition, am I right?"
Nero's eyes stay widened. He continues to hold himself up with the Red Queen sword in order to keep from collapsing. He knows he can't stand on his own, much less pull its tip out of the ground in time to block an attack. Nevertheless, Vergil raises Yamato straight up in the air, his eyes filling with wildness and the full moon. He pulls his arm down from the air, inching closer and closer to Nero's white head …
"Hghhuh!" Vergil shouts, rearing his right hand back to his eyes. They follow down to see that his hand, along with Yamato, lay on the ground at his feet. A bleeding stump is all that is left on his right arm. His eyes bulge and he catches sight of a figure off in the distance. He slowly turns his head to face him. A man cloaked in a black hood stands there, holding the other katana Vergil has—had at his hip. He wrings out the blood on the blade at his side. Both Vergil and Nero stare at him, mouths agape.
"Didn't you listen when your parents told you not to take things that don't belong to you?" asks the man in the cloak to Vergil.
His astonishment grows in leaps and bounds. "Who—Who are you?" shouts Vergil, gasping and shaking all over.
The man's face is shadowed, but he decides to throw off his hood back onto his shoulders. The man's features come to light: middle-aged, narrow, chiseled features, and short, shimmering silver hair, slicked back from his face. Azure blue eyes. The man walks towards Vergil. "Don't you recognize your own flesh-and-blood?" the stranger asks him. The man glances over at Nero, then back at Vergil again.
Vergil gasps, glaring at the old man as he nears him, step by step. "What are you implying?" says Vergil, through gritted teeth. "No. You can't be 'him'! That man is dead!"
"So, you're saying I'm supposed to be dead?" repeats the older man with his velvety deep voice. It's laden with certainty and confidence. He steps to Vergil, leaning to within inches of his face, "You too are supposed to be dead … but, you look pretty well alive to me..."
Vergil swings his stump at him.
He lunges backwards. "Hmm..." hums the old man, thumbing around for something beneath his cloak, as if he were searching for something in a shirt pocket. He pulls out a small glass monocle and holds it up over his left eye. "Is this a bit more convincing now, Vergil?"
"I refuse to believe you are who claim to be," states Vergil, narrowing his disgusted, bewildered eyes at the man. "Besides, if you really are my father, then why did you just chop off my hand!"
A momentary pause … "Because, when he is finally capable of wielding it, Yamato always passes from father to son," says the old man. He whips the hood back up over his head. Then he turns, leaping up onto the top of the six-foot high wall in front of him.
Vergil, beginning to realize he's leaving, starts after him, but the man leaps off into the night sky, towards the bright moon. Vergil leaps onto the same spot on the wall, watching as the mysterious man disappears into the distant darkness.
Thunder and lightning clap together overhead and a small sprinkle begins to lightly shower over everything. Vergil's expression becomes the definition of contemplation. He stares out at the black nothingness ahead him. Nero is still holding himself up with his Red Queen, and begins to shuffle around what little he can.
"So, you're Vergil?" starts Nero, picking up from when he last spoke. "You know, I can see your resemblance to Dante, but only in your face and hair color. Man, you two are as different as night and day." He shakes his head, as he's prone to doing.
Vergil whips his own head around down to look at Nero. "Dante?" he asks, in a start. "You know him?"
"Of course I do. He's the one who gave me Yamato."
Vergil leaps back down to the ground inside the spooky garden enclosure. "But, why would he do something like that? How could he have just handed it over to someone outside of the family? That idiot!"
"I don't really know," says Nero, shrugging his shoulders. "But, he said he got this feeling like the sword belonged to me. For some reason, he thought it looked like it seemed right in my hand. So, he let me keep it …. Maybe it was because there really was no one else in his family to give it to, or so he thought. Somehow, he's gotten the idea that I'm related to him. He's even started giving me some of his jobs."
"He thinks you're related to him?" says Vergil, walking towards the boy. He's pensive. "Let me ask you something, Nero. Who are you, really?"
"Who knows?" says the clueless kid, gesturing with his devil arm. He brings it up to his eye level, studying its red color, its tough skin. "I'd like to know that myself."
"Related to us? It can't be …." says Vergil to himself, pacing away from Nero. It looks like he's trying to brainstorm the solution to a riddle with the help of other imaginary people surrounding him. He spends a considerable amount of time pacing back and forth, muttering to himself.
Much to Nero's chagrin. He sighs. "Oh, man..." says Nero, his hand on his hip, rolling his eyes. "I should just take back Yamato while I have the chance." Nero steps a few feet away, lifting Yamato up off the ground. Vergil's severed hand still lies nearby where it first fell. "… But, I won't. Vergil, since you really are the original owner of this sword, then I guess I'll give it back to you. Gotta tell ya though, I've been planning on keeping it because I never figured you'd come back from the dead."
"—You keep it," says Vergil, his back facing Nero.
"Say what?"
"You heard me. Just keep it. It rightfully belongs to you now, Nero. You are now ready to wield that sword. It has accepted your soul. I want you to have it." Vergil turns around to face him, giving him a sharp peer into his eyes. "Just, make sure you give it to your own son one day, when he's old enough, ready to handle the burden …." Vergil leaps up onto the top of the wall enclosure, disappearing out of sight.
"Chuh … Creepy guy is creepy," muses Nero. He searches the bright blade of Yamato in his devil hand. "All that just so I can keep what I already have …." Yamato quickly turns to smoke, as it disappears into his strange arm from whence it came. He opts to leave through a wooden gate in the wall, heading back to his Fortuna Island devil hunter shop a mile away. The little garden creatures finally feel safe enough to scurry back to their homes.
The End