First of all, the legal mumbo jumbo: Disclaimer: All DMC characters and entities are © Capcom. Alas; I do not own them, and am using them without permission. And I am not making any financial gain in doing so.
This is fiction. Anything remotely resembling real life, is purely coincidental. Or my life is just plainly FUBAR'd, your choice.
Oh and fair warning, this story is copyrighted by me. It is not to be archived, copied or otherwise without my written permission. Any violations to this copyright will be taken very seriously.
Yet another DMC fic. This one isn't romance, may be a bit angsty.
Time frame: Shortly after Mallet Island.
Many details about Dante's family are left out. Open to speculation. Et al: Were his mother, Eva and brother, Vergil killed, or were they taken by the forces of darkness, blah blah blah. Was Nero Angelo, or Nelo Angelo really Vergil? Or just a clone of him, much like Trish is a "clone" of Eva. Who knows?
Ok...This is a completely fictional story. Based on IF Vergil had kept a journal of his life before and during his stay on Mallet Island, serving as castellan of Mundus' castle.
This is pure speculation, but I thought it could be interesting. And besides, I'm the curious, what if this happened type anyway.
Parts of this will be written first person. Mainly the journal entries. Which will be denoted by a different font, or something.
Off we go.
The silver-white haired, red clad man, cautiously picked up the small, ornate, leather bound book from the nightstand beside his bed. He gazed at it thoughtfully. He'd been avoiding it for one reason or other: too busy, too tired, and in a moment of complete and blatant inner honesty, too frightened to open it. He ran his fingers over the gold leafed lettering. It was in a different language, but one he knew well.
One of the demonic languages of the residents of the Underworld.
He sighed heavily as he put the book down, lest he give into the temptation to open it and find out the truth.
The truth that his twin brother hadn't been dead these past twenty years, and he may well have killed him on Mallet Island, when he was there three months earlier.
He didn't want to face that possibility. He turned and walked away. Leaving the room, turning off the light, and closing the door. Not noticing the book had been blown open by a wayward breeze through the window he'd negligently forgotten to close earlier.
The framed picture of a beautiful woman, with long dark blonde hair, and a red cape smiled out through time. One of the three objects on the nightstand. His mother. A photo from a time when she was young and vital. Now? She was gone, and all he had were the memories, and a few precious items that were hers. The breeze also tipped the picture onto the book. He didn't see it, didn't know it wasn't just a breeze.
Dante Sparda, owner of the paranormal detective agency, Devil May Cry, and resident of the apartment upstairs, came down the steps thoughtfully. He walked into the small, dingy kitchen and sighed again at the dishes piled in the sink. Time for dealing with such mundane tasks later. He dismissed the mess, and opened the refrigerator, took out a cold bottle of beer and went to sit at his cluttered desk and mind the phone.
The journal wasn't the only thing he'd brought back from his previous adventure. He'd brought back many weapons, and Trish, his new partner, and friend. He glanced toward the newer, less disorganized desk where the female who bore an uncanny resemblence to his departed mother was busily writing something.
He silently drank his beer, and put his black booted feet up on his desk. Light blue eyes, all but hidden under the mop of near-white silver hair, going distant as thoughts overtook him. He could read that journal. Should read it. Not now though. He brushed an invisible speck of lint off his red and black leather coat's sleeve. And settled into his chair, tipped back and attempted to blank his mind.
He'd found it after he'd defeated Nelo Angelo for the last time. In his chamber in that cursed castle from Hell. After many tribulations against other foes, he'd faced the Dark Knight for the third and final time. He remembered telling him, he'd had "Guts and honor. It was a shame he served Mundus." Or something like that. And having defeated him, he found on the floor; the twin of his own amulet that he'd worn since his mother had given himself and his brother the necklaces on their birthday all those years ago. Both of them had inscribed on the back, "Vergil and Dante."
Upon further but quick inspection of the large and very dusty though well decorated chamber, he also found, near the throne-like chair that stood on a raised daise toward the back of the chamber, a stand and upon the stand a small book. A very beautiful book, brown leather cover, gold leafed lettering, and the script was the scrawled, yet decorative writing of the written higher demonic language. Always one for doing further research on his chosen field, Dante had grabbed it, and ferreted it away in a pocket of the red vest he wore beneath his long, red and black leather trench coat.
He thought of his father; as his mind wandered back toward the journal. His father had kept a journal much like the one he'd found.
His father was the reason he knew how to read the dialect.
His father had been honorable as well.
His father had also served Mundus for a time.
His father had been a Nelo Angelo, himself.
He shook his head to clear the troubling thoughts, and opened his desk drawer, revealing a magazine he kept there to occupy his active mind when he'd rather not think of other things. He opened it up to an article that had caught his eye once before, and started reading.
Later that day:
He came back exhausted and dirty from a call that had come in earlier. Trish and himself had dispatched the small invasion of strange demonic presences from a fancy hotel.
Wasn't good for business. Scared the guests silly to have these things clinging to walls and screeching at them. Baring long fang like teeth, and generally causing chaos throughout the hotel.
He wasn't sure what they were. Yet. He'd have to look them up, in one of his many books regarding the residents of the Underworld. But later. Right then he climbed the stairs exhaustedly and wanted nothing better than to fall into bed.
He usually wasn't as tired from fighting demons, but having to fight over 50 of the monkey like creatures all at once was more than the average amount of physical and mental exertion.
He stumbled into his sparsely furnished bedroom without turning on the light, and fell face first into bed fully dressed. Falling asleep instantly.
Never noticing the book had opened, and the picture of his mother had fallen onto it.
He didn't notice either the faint aura that had appeared around both objects, flickering with a faint yellowish glow briefly, and then disappearing altogether.
The book waited, as the Devil Hunter slept. Words that had been written by a half demon, half human, who did not remember who he was, or where he came from. Words that hadn't been read by any eyes other than the author's.
A breeze once again blew; knocking the picture to the floor, with a soft thud, although the man who slept but inches away, slept too deeply to have heard it.
The disturbed air, touched on the book, turning the parchment paper pages to the beginning...