"From on high he sent fire,
sent it down into my bones.
He spread a net for my feet
and turned me back.
He made me desolate,
faint all the day long."

-Lamentations 1:14

Nelo Angelo was burning.

The blue flames lapped at his skin with the intensity of the sun's writing flares. He howled in pain. Vanished into oblivion.

He had failed his master, and now would go to a fate worse than death.

The pain was tortuous, but the blue flames refused to leave him, guiding the unwilling demon onward to his fate. He stopped his shouts. They did no good. The more he did, the more intense the pain grew.

Then, out of the darkness, something blocked the flames' path. They continued, but dissipated into nothing on contact. The something wrapped Nelo Angelo in its embrace. Raw Power. So dark a black it shone a dark light. Comforting, in a way. Nelo Angelo slipped from his demonic form, unable to sustain it. Translucent skin showed dark, pulsating veins. Red, bloodshot eyes. He may not be carried by the flames anymore, but he was still on Death's doorstep.

"My son, you have done much in your short time, but there is still much more for you to do."

The voice came from the Power around him. He gave a small gasp of surprise, and choked from the effort. He was rarely surprised. But this voice... this Power...

"Father?" He rasped.

"Naturally."

He sputtered. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to exist. "What..."

"Like I said, my son, there is still much more left for you to do."

The son's red eyes closed, though his breathing still rattled on. He was so weary. "But father, you're..."

"Dead? I'm disappointed in you, Vergil, to think that such a petty thing as death could stop me from protecting my son."

Said Sparda.

Vergil smirked. "There is nothing that can be done for me. You are wasting your time."

"Quite the contrary, Vergil. I can ensure that you live, and recover. But it will be painful, and difficult, and it will require some careful meddling. You will have much to learn. But I am confident that you will triumph. For now, though, rest. You will need to recover some of your strength, to survive re-entering the mortal world."

Vergil wanted to speak more to the Dark Knight. Inquire into the trials he would face. But Sparda's words were laced with compulsion, and the already battle-weakened son fell into a healing rest, protected by his father's aura.

.:fin:.

I have had this in the making, with this prologue finished, for some time now, but I've been unable to come up with a title, and so couldn't post it.

Finally, exasperated about it, I decided to Hemingway it.

I opened my bible and put down my finger. I landed on the verse that you see above.

It was too unbelievably perfect.

I don't care about reviews or anything. This story is written almost purely for myself. My OC muse for this story is very prominent, and I want some practice working in a first-person style again, which you will see in following chapters, if you stick around.

I just... couldn't not post it tonight. It was too perfect. This is too perfect.