Chapter III

His whole body felt heavy, but his eyelids especially. Why was it such an undertaking just to open them? A dim room swam into view; a pair of leather-booted feet, planted firmly apart and a… must be a sword sheath standing upright between them.

Dante's eyes flew open; he tried to turn over, to prop himself up on an elbow, but his arms weren't functioning properly: they remained stubbornly leaden at his sides. Craning his head back (more burning pain in his spine), he squinted upward at the stately figure seated above him.

Vergil leaned forward over him, hands folded serenely atop Yamato's hilt, and an unreadable expression written over his countenance.

Unreadable? What the hell was that? They were twins— Dante knew Vergil's face better than he knew his own, and although they may have been physical replicas, their expressions reflected a strong conflicted nature. Oh, he had the narrow-eyed angry one, the bitter, pinched, frustrated one, the stony, cold, greedy one… Dante's thoughts were slipping out of his own grasp now. Why was this so goddamn confusing? Without his bidding, his eyelids slid him back into restful darkness for a moment.

Vergil shifted his weight; the creak of the floor beneath Dante's pounding head dragged his jumbled thoughts back to the present situation, of which he realized suddenly he had yet to take stock of.

A quick calculation of assets: one pounding headache, one brutalized body that ached from fingertips to toenails, no Rebellion, no Ebony or Ivory… he was still having trouble breathing as well, but it was the lack of familiar weaponry that pricked his senses back to full awareness.

His arms seemed to have regained their functionality and he turned himself over onto his stomach with a pained grunt and raised himself up off the floor… only to look up in time to see a heavy foot swinging directly toward his face.

Normally, he would have grabbed the foot, twisted it at the ankle, flipped its owner onto his back, and then fired several rounds into his head. And instinctively he tried to do this, but his thoughts were rushing back in a flood now, and as Vergil's boot connected with his jaw, he distinctly recalled (not without a surge of fire licking his innards) the poison.

Poison…

Dante collapsed back onto the hard planks and felt a sick squelching from the vicinity of his chest that prompted a gasp to rise unbidden to his lips. He was panting now, and every breath was searing him from the inside. That poisonous red haze was rising back up, obscuring his vision again, flooding his view of those advancing boots, pouring back into his ears and blocking out the clicking of Vergil's heels on the wooden floor.

The word helpless snaked into his consciousness and he actually snarled aloud as he forced it back down into the recesses of his mind.

The advancing boots halted when the animalistic sound ripped itself from Dante's throat, and the pause was long enough for the gathering adrenaline to garner a quick release. Muscles burning, Dante surged up off the floor and closed the distance between them in half a stride. He seized his brother's collar and landed the strongest blow he could muster (but it probably wasn't that strong…?) to Vergil's cheekbone.

- - -

Dante actually looked surprised that he had successfully landed a hit; Vergil had to smile indulgently, condescendingly, at him. What damage could he possibly do in his state?

Dante staggered, but remained standing, though his fist trembled as it remained clenched on Vergil's collar. With quiet calm, the older twin pried his brother's hand from his coat with cool, strong fingers.

"Don't, brother. You'll only humiliate yourself."

Dante's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't seem to have the strength to put up any more valiant resistance. He almost allowed himself to be pushed back; he sank to his knees, blue eyes cloudy. The fight seemed to be fleeing his body, and he was the picture of dejection as his shoulders slumped.

Vergil hated him for it.

Dante was supposed to be strong. He had always been superior in physical strength, in raw power. As much as he despised to admit it, Vergil had always been painfully aware of this. Something called pride was preventing him from taking advantage of the oddly turned tables; and something else (it couldn't possibly be pity… could it?) was preventing him from taunting his twin, from goading him into more pathetically helpless fury.

The mixture of odd feelings in his gut were prodding him into inner turmoil; wrath twinged with sympathy? It couldn't be. Dante was a traitor to his, to Sparda's, power. Nothing was more unbecoming than weakness, than helplessness.

Dante wasn't fit to wield the power of Sparda if he allowed himself to succumb to something as lowly as poison…

Vergil's teeth were clenched now. He wanted to kill his brother, to feel his blood spill over Yamato's hilt onto his hands, to pour onto the floor between them. He wanted to rip that power, the power of Sparda, from Dante's body and feel it flow into his own.

But there was pride (and fuck, there was something else too).

Now it was his turn to force an ironic smile; to allow a harsh cold chuckle to escape. Who was really the helpless one in this scene? Was it the man, weakened from poison, wounded, tired, weaponless, kneeling on the floor at his feet? Or was it he himself, the one armed and sound, who couldn't strike the fatal blow?

The silence was only stretched longer by the rasping of Dante's labored breathing.

An impasse, thought Vergil. Truly, human emotions are a poison in themselves.

Chapter III FIN