"Man doth not yield himself to the angels,

Nor unto death utterly,

Save only through the

Weakness of his own feeble will."

-Joseph Glanvill

"Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n."

-John Milton "Paradise Lost"

"Vergil…" She calls to me ever so softly.

But my name is not Vergil. Vergil does not exist.

I am Nelo Angelo…

Like a shadow, hurled in indignity and shame from heaven and earth, I pass through a void of darkened, murky shades; sights and sounds all dimmed and distorted around me, undulating amorphously to my hasty passage. Colours and textures melt away at my approach, and myriad whispers ebb the faster I travel through this pandemonium. It is like looking through a grimy, fog-obscured window to a world stripped bare of its paradise virtue.

And I, weary but restless, am drawn to the pull of my inevitable destination; the last journey every man and devil must make. I, Vergil; Son of Sparda, have failed. My own last words besiege my consciousness still, hollowly mocking me, reminding me of what I had once been, what I could have been.

"If my father did it, I should be able to do it too…"

How those words haunt me now, torment me as I submit to the divine will that is far greater than my own, condemning me to the bitter fate I had authored for myself all along. Echoes of a past memory emerges in defiance of my annihilation; fears, regrets and longings reflected in masks of those I had loved and loathed; two in particular, that of my mother and brother. The masks merge with my suffering, take on a flawless shape to the sudden clarity of my vision, made manifest by my refusal to be fully obliterated, and my longing to draw one final breath.

As I begin to remember the last sight I beheld before my soul severed from my body, anger bestirs my shadow… Her face…

Death came bearing the face of my mother. Her beauteous face had not been radiant, but dark with malice as her false light had penetrated my chest, the husk that now lays ensanguined and ravaged. The Prince of Darkness had been a cunning, devious, clever foe… having instantly realized my vulnerability, and had not even lifted a finger to bring me to my knees in defeat. He had only to pit her likeness against me, ensuring my distraction, my initial reluctance to strike at the false image of my own mother. How could I have lifted my sword against her, condemn myself to the sight of her lovely face crumpled with agony…But she had been a devil, a devil like me.

I howl my rage and despair halting my passage, and I hear his powerful, commanding voice, resonating through the stream of time and cosmos. Suddenly, it is made clear to me; if I surrender my will to the Acheron's river, whose flow ends either in Hades or Elysian Fields; I shall pass on quietly, without suffering, my identity and the last speck of purity borne of love retained, and my memories preserved, and I shall slumber the oblivion's eternal rest.

If, on the other hand, I give in, conquered and enslaved, to his dark supremacy, I shall be lifted from my descent, but shunned forevermore by holy design. I know it is a most elaborate trap…A second chance. A temptation.

I embrace my pain and anger, abandon my fear, I reject heaven's hope, and spurn seraph's mercy. In silent obedience I bow down to him, The Prince of Devils, and pledge my soul and sword in servitude. Maybe this time I shan't fail, and find a way to make him suffer as I did, for his transgressions against me, my father and my mother…

My thoughts are laid bare to his all-knowing gaze, my unravelled soul exposed fully, and he knows that I shall rise to challenge him once more given the chance. He knows. But instead of striking me and plunging me into the chasm of nothingness, he lifts me up, and I wonder at this so-called benevolence, though I give no resistance.

The shades, sounds and movements scattered into a chaotic pattern around me begin to coalesce, and I feel a restless, sudden twitch of my mortal coil, animated a second time by unholy powers, my torn flesh made whole again, gleam of life flaring in my sightless eyes.

I feel the light's demise, I revel in it. And the masks shatter, the face of my mother and brother are no more. I reach out in my grief, and struggle to hold onto a tiny fragment, but it burns me, sears me. The moment it falls away from my grasp, I slip away from death's final eclipse, and awaken to a world that no longer remembers the legend of mighty Sparda, and the terrors of Temen-ni Gru.

And I, remember nothing, forevermore…

…The sea was vast, its black waters deep and cold, tinted by nightfall. The elusive glimmer of crescent-phased moon touches the restless waves ever so languidly. I knew these waters to be azure when night retreated in defeat, murky even in tarnished daylight. Blue as her eyes; two precious sapphires set in a masque of beauty; beauty of dolls and angels; a masque nonetheless. Dolls and angels…I was fond of neither.

"Vergil?" She called to me ever so softly.

Vergil…The name bestirred illusions, fragments of a life that mattered no more. I pondered upon this curious name. It bore no significance, and I cast it aside like a worn, rusted armour one sheds once the battles are fought and lost.

I turned slowly, and gazed upon her as a devout pilgrim must surely gaze on the sacred idol. Her face, paler than a lily laid upon a beloved's grave, quickened something inside me. I watched her unseeing, until a flicker borne of faded recollections and a moment's glimmer of recognition awakened, and died, as darkness –pure, exalted, infinite- passed over my eyes. And I wondered what it was; that struggled to break free and rise up in despair within me, from the waters of a past that lay buried and forgotten.

I stared at her vacantly, unknowingly, wondering too, the reason why I was drawn in to her, or why that particular name should hold any meaning to me.

"Very good, Vergil." She said to me softly again, his voice merging with hers; an angel's caress.

Mystified, I longed to be near her, an innate need that defied explanation, a dream forsaken…I ceased to wonder when she bestowed upon me her smile, one that gently haunted her face like a treacherous ghost. At my submission, I felt my Lord's approval through her, and his vigilant, omnipotent gaze burned across my vision.

"Do you not remember still?"

The question penetrated my mind; which was nothing more than a hollow glass that reflected all it saw in twisted shapes. Slight confusion crept through me, and I promptly suppressed it, like all the other darker emotions that taunted me time and again. My eyes shifted to the turbulent sea once more, as if the gloomy waters could somehow alleviate the inky stain that clung to my memory. I glimpsed no answers upon the icy waves, no secrets within its lightless depths. I stared on blankly, trying to somehow discern its blue shade beneath its midnight mantle, with the awareness of a child slowly learning to appreciate the beauty of such a simple thing that had been trivial once in a previous life; the beauty I had never cared to acknowledge. The revelation struck me unawares, and I perceived it to be nothing more than a delusion summoned by the weakness of my flawed semi-human psyche…Nothing mattered.

The moon-gilded sky above me held no meaning, nor the black, colossal, isolated fortress, the warped, distorted world of corruption behind the polished, gilt framed mirrors that adorned the castle's numerous chambers. I only saw the perverse reflection of what I had become, behind the ashen blue of my eyes that had long since turned grey.

Then I reminded myself, that only my Lord's presence, and hers, could banish my doubts and cure my affliction. All of my questions and reservations and inner conflicts faded away like ethereal flecks of snow scattered upon a tempest wind.

"Nelo Angelo" Dubbed me she; the angel-woman who called herself Trish. The Black Angel, the death-bringer, the ravager, the destroyer, anathema to life and light and false promises of fallen paradise humans so foolishly pursued.

I donned the black armour, slipped on the gauntleted black gloves and the horned, sable-visored helmet that concealed my features completely. Out of old habit maybe, I reached for the weapon at my side. The katana I must have wielded once no longer bore any resemblance to its original slender shape; having also transformed; into a giant blade forged of sharpest jet-black steel.

"Arise, Nelo Angelo." My liege ordered, satisfied, and I did so, looking up at the mighty king to whom I owed all that I was. Mundus sat triumphant and magnificent with his infernal legion of heaven shunned fiends in reverent fear and worship at his feet.

My devil-sovereign showed to me the face of my nemesis then, for he who rose against his dark majesty was my enemy.

My loathsome adversary…Devil and human both, with a face that mirrored my own. What travesty was this? What black sorcery had spawned this being that wore my face framed in moonlit hair, swathed in crimson and scarlet afire in self-righteous zeal, carrying a sword sharpened with the blood of thousand demon legions.

"His name is, Dante." Trish spoke then, much to my delight. "Prepare for my summons."

I inclined my head slowly in acknowledgement. She looked at me, cerulean irises focused onto mine own ash-grey ones, a tiny frown spoiling the otherwise doll-like serenity of her countenance.

I could not help but wonder just what it was she saw when she looked at me like that. With a pale hand she pushed back her hair; that glorious mantle of purest molten gold, shadow of moonlight's shimmer threaded through her long, glistening, soft strands. Had my deceitful eyes ever beheld a more radiant apparition, hallowed in nothing but her own sweet, august light? Silently her golden lashes lowered, turned away abashedly perhaps, stoking the dark flames of my bizarre infatuation. Then, my gauntleted hand touched briefly in displeasure the crimson jewelled pendant that rested over my heart; a bauble, this blood-gem, the only trinket that escaped the dark transformation.

I concealed it beneath my armour, unable to bear its sight for reasons I knew not.

I too, then turned away from her, lest her light blinded me, and bowed to Mundus. This darkness my lord bequeathed unto me becomes my strength.

And thusly I awaited, a cursed sentinel, armed with my unspoken hatred, for the devil-foe promised to me...

"Vergil…" She whispers one last time, before she departs, to lure the devil-human to the island.

I do not respond…Vergil does not exist.

I am Nelo Angelo…