Yadda, yadda. I don't own anything Devil May Cry related, all property belongs to Capcom and whoever else was involved in the making of the series.
Dante.
Mother would kill me for not writing to proper form but I highly doubt this letter is going to get delivered because: A) There doesn't seem to be a postal service in the demon world; and B) Mundus wouldn't let me out of his sight long enough to deliver it, anyway. Think of this as a memoir, then. An honest memoir since, in all honesty, I am tired of upholding formalities when all I want to do is lie down and experience a long, unending numbness.
Where do I start? Hello. How are you? What have you been up to? I would assume you've been on the old hunting game again but it's been… four years? I think it's been four years, but time here doesn't exactly flow as it does for you and sometimes I suspect it doesn't flow at all. The demon world inflicts both physical and mental bother, which hopefully you will never have to experience.
I wonder if I have to be careful about the contents of this letter. Mundus knows I'm writing it; he's always watching from somewhere. Since I'm not going deliver it, it shouldn't really matter, but then again… Mundus was never very kind, and even when he doesn't fancy the way I look at him he flays my hide until I'm cracked and bloody. It's only worse if I resist—so I exist in a vacuum of perpetual obedience and am forced to smile whenever he does whatever he pleases with me.
Today has been quite peaceful. By peaceful I mean that I've only been set on by two demons. This is virtually unheard of even in the human world, so it makes me think Mundus is storing up a particular bout of nastiness to which he can subject me sometime soon. They were large demons, of course, and I'm so worn out that I fell over as I was trying to dodge, but it shouldn't be surprising that it took me an entire twenty minutes to kill them. Every day is a challenge, and you'd think four years in (again, not a certain figure) I'd have at least built up some resilience to it all.
Well, I have. Last month I felt awfully smug with myself because I had to pretend to scream when he impaled me. It was on another one of those Vlad-ish spikes of his, right from the rectum upwards, but he's been quite lax about letting me feed recently. I know it's a habit you dislike but I have to do it down here. It's not as if the slop they call human food can sustain me, and if I drink enough demon blood I find my eyes with a soft golden glow. Do you remember how I could feed on two human beings and my irides would be fully golden? That's how bad it is down here. The blood tastes awful – think mouldy soup, please don't try it – but it's at least better than the flesh and the occasional bit of piss you encounter.
It feels like Mundus is going soft on me as of late, but I would never underestimate the man even if I were so naïve. I know I write it down as if it's jovial and only a slight inconvenience but I stress – so much – that it really isn't. I am a permanent resident of Hell, and I am not yet dead. Mundus gets quite the kick out of seeing me squirm in any way he can think of. I lose no dignity in saying that he uses me, among many others, as a toy. Often he'll tear me so much that I'm left bleeding for hours if he doesn't allow me to feed to recuperate my strength. Often I find seed trickling down my thighs which he then makes me lick up with my fingers as if it's some rare treat and I'm a boy.
The worst is when he creates these little demons. They have a demon's awful stench but they resemble you and I when we were boys. He laughs as he makes what is supposed to be me rape what is supposed to be you. It knocks me sick because these little avatars are aged eight and that's the time when It happened. I won't deny I've had my fair share of immoral activities but it's always been for a purpose, and you know what that purpose is. Mundus simply likes to play with me. I theorise that's why he created a demon to represent our mother. He calls her Trish but unless I call her Eva he doesn't stop pulling out my vertebrae one by one.
This Trish is not much to write about. She has Mother's physical appearance but none of her fire. She sits in the corner as if she's dead and just stares. She only becomes alive when Mundus orders it of her; and then she is Mother entirely, and it makes my heart ache. She coos and makes me suck on her teat while she looks at me as if I am some sort of prize trophy. Mamma's beautiful devil boy, she says as she plays with herself, Father soaked Mamma's womb in such powerful seed, Virgilio, and he gave me a strong, healthy son.
I won't deny that it strokes my ego. I won't deny that it makes me hard, but we both know I've never been quite right. Remember when I had you on your back and was pummelling you balls-deep? Remember when I had you stroke yourself just as you were about to cum and you said with the most perfect tone, Sparda's my daddy, Vergil, I submit to Sparda? I don't think I've ever cum so hard in my life. I have always had an admiration for Mother and everything she was, but Mundus likes to play on these darker elements of my psychology.
I have a feeling something big is coming. I have spent four years (perhaps) against devils and demons and the torturous daily life under Emperor Mundus. Sometimes I almost consider it a jail sentence and then I realise there is no end to this. This is my punishment; I am denied death because I rose up and challenged Mundus shortly after you and I fought for the final time. I think we were nineteen then… or perhaps I am nineteen still and only a day has passed. Who can tell? The point is it feels like Hell is my home and now it hates me.
It always hated me before, of course. And you, but this is different. Mundus puts it down to your human insolence, I think—for me, a devil, he puts it down to pride and arrogance. This is by far the worse of the two. He takes time breaking me because he hates Father and what Father did to him and the rest of the demon world; he exacts it on me, coupled with his hatred for everything I am, as well. I wonder what he would do to you if he ever had you. He would quite like having the both of us together: I can foresee him breaking your neck in front of me and watching me hiss and snarl. Perhaps he'll crucify you for the religion I have forsaken.
I wish God would save me, even if I am a devil.
Sincerely,
Vergil.