"Dorian, I've told you no."

Vergil sighed and lowered his arm, letting his stick rest against the ground. He knew better than to waste his breath; once his ward ran off like that, it was impossible to teach him anything. He'd be lucky if the boy came back by dinnertime, and it'd be a miracle if he came back without an injury of some kind.

He was seven years old. Vergil had acquired the boy when he was five months old, and despite the fact that they technically shared a house, they hadn't spent much time together until this year. He'd only agreed to take the boy in the first place because of his demonic bloodline, and because he didn't think that any grandson of the powerful Sparda should be raised in an orphanage.

When Vergil had found him, Dorian had been in an orphanage (which was dark and filthy and made Vergil shudder) with no name and no potential family. There was no way of knowing who—or what—his mother might have been, but it was obvious who his father was. If Vergil hadn't known just by looking, a subtle sniff would have done it.

If Dante had been a little more responsible, Vergil wouldn't have had to bother, but responsibility had never been his brother's specialty. So in addition to the small household he already maintained—a cook, and a couple of maids—he hired a nurse first and then added a tutor when his nephew got old enough.

And now, he was getting close to the age that Vergil remembered his father picking up the sticks and patiently walking Dante and him through swordplay. Except that they'd actually paid attention and even Dante hadn't given Sparda this much trouble.

"You have an hour. See to it that you're washed and at the table by then," he called up the tree, then bent to grab his nephew's stick from where he'd dropped it. Maybe letting him play for this last hour wouldn't hurt—Dorian had given it a good try earlier, and he was only seven. And maybe Vergil was feeling a little indulgent.

He remembered once where Dorian had jumped, a long time ago when Vergil had come home from a trip and he'd been reminded of Dante, who'd climbed trees as a child, too.

"Uncle Vergil, look at me!"

daddy, vergil, watch me fly!

He'd looked up, automatically, present and past blending in his mind as he saw Dorian and the shadow of Dante at the same age, perversely wondering how he'd gotten that high before his nephew spread his chubby, short arms and dove-

dante!

-and Vergil had somehow managed to get himself underneath the plummeting four-year-old, who was laughing at the feeling of falling through the air.

vergil had both hands balled in his father's elegant waistcoat, but he screamed as his brother jumped and let go to cover his eyes. he couldn't keep them closed. sparda took two giant steps forward and caught dante, and to his surprise vergil was the one who started crying.

The child in his arms smelled babyish and clean and Vergil scowled. Dorian was laughing, his eyes closed as he caught his breath, and he wasn't afraid. "Fun!" Dorian gasped, and he opened his eyes at last. "I wanna do it over!"

"No," Vergil snapped, close to losing his temper now that he knew his ward was okay. He sat the child down on his feet, roughly. "Never do that again!"

He spun and stomped into his house. Damian burst into startled tears behind him. He nearly collided with the nurse, who was running out the door to check on him. "Keep a better eye on your charge," he hissed through clenched teeth, inches from her face, "or you'll be looking for another position."

He'd been gone again by sunset.

"Wass' doze, Oncel Fergil?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Dorian chewed and swallowed, then pointed to a pile of food on his plate. "What's those, Uncle Vergil?"

"What are those. They're beets," Vergil replied. To set a good example, he took a bite of one. It took a lot of concentration to keep from making a face. He wasn't fond of beets.

"They're bleeding," Dorian pointed out bluntly, poking one with his fork and watching the dark red liquid ooze out.

"It isn't blood. It's a juice. It won't hurt you."

Dorian shrugged and popped a beet into his mouth. Immediately, it was all Vergil could do to keep from laughing at the face his nephew was making. Obviously, his nephew wasn't fond of beets either.

Dorian looked like he was about to gag, but he swallowed, and then wiped his tongue on his napkin. "I don't think I like beets," he said blandly when he was finished.

Vergil allowed himself a chuckle. "No, I don't think you do, either."