A/N: This fic is compliant with events of Sweet Dreams Form A Shade, and It Is Eternal Winter There. In the first, Vergil and Nero spend a four-day odyssey of blood trapped in a dome with endless hordes of demons and discover what it is to be father and son. In the second, Nero realises what it is to desperately wish for a father, and Vergil finally figures out how to be one.
It is not strictly necessary to read the above fics to understand this fic, but having read the previous two will enrich the experience of reading this one.
And Binding With Briars My Joys And Desires
Eirian Erisdar
Chapter 1: Burnt The Fire Of Thine Eyes
Music for this chapter: No Time To Die, classical guitar
" And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires."
- The Garden of Love, William Blake
He first sees her as winter gives way to spring in his eighteenth year.
Their first meeting is a simple, accidental brush of hands in a bookshop on Fortuna. She apologises; he does not, engrossed in his research of the Temen-ni-gru.
But by late spring he has put aside his research in favour of spending time by her side; she is like sunshine after the longest rain, brilliant, untouchable.
He tells her his story as they curl side-by-side in the meadow under the summer stars; all of it, with all the desperation and grief of it pouring out at last a decade after the loss of his childhood.
She takes his hand there among the fireflies and promises never to leave him. He cannot bring himself to promise the same, but she seems to understand; she presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and he abandons his grasp on the Yamato in favour of folding both arms more tightly about her.
Autumn brings with it the first chill wind; he is so close to contentment here with her that the thought terrifies him. He dives back into his old research, seeking a manner by which he might gain his father's power.
Perhaps…perhaps if he had all the might of Sparda within his hands, he might be able to promise that he would never leave her.
The winter snow falls in great drifts of mournful white the day he takes his leave. She weeps, and a part of him hates himself for causing her tears; he makes no promises he will return, but she ghosts a kiss across his lips, and murmurs her own promises against his cheek where he makes none.
He does not see, as he draws up his hood and steps into the snow, how her hand drifts as though of her own accord towards her stomach.
And then there is the Temen-ni-gru, and Dante.
Vergil falls, and does not truly stop falling until his youth is behind him and he finds he has a son.
(:~:)
It is the summer of the year after the cleansing of Red Grave City that Vergil is unmade.
It his not his first. He has been unmade before – by Mundus, and by his own hand.
But those were an unraveling and re-knitting of body and soul; this is an unraveling of the mind.
It begins twenty-three years to the day after the death of the only bright spark Vergil had in his life after the destruction of his childhood; twenty-three years to the day Mundus came to the deepest, darkest cells of the dungeons, drew a casual line of new pain across Vergil's broken body, and told him she was dead.
It begins with the merest of battle wounds.
(:~:)
The air tastes of ash and demon blood.
Vergil moves in a blur of ice-fed blue fire, the Yamato a devastatingly precise instrument of whispering death in his sword-hand; Dante is a maelstrom of crimson flame at his back, Ebony and Ivory flashing in rapid staccato of bullets as they carve a bloody circle of eviscerated demons about them.
Dante laughs as he whirls King Cerberus a hairsbreadth above Vergil's hair to decapitate the Hell Caina Vergil had just been about to finish off.
"Fifty-six!" Dante calls, his grin a blaze of blood-spattered white teeth as he ducks nimbly under Vergil's retaliatory strike.
"That one was mine, Dante," Vergil snarls, and darts out a hand to jerk his brother backwards by the collar, so that the tip of the Devil Sword Dante misses a Fury's head by a whisper.
"Hey!" Dante shouts, and Vergil smirks as he lunges past his brother on a flare of blue-lit energy to plunge the Yamato into the Fury's eye. The light of the setting sun turns the thrashing spray of ichor into a fountain of wine-red coins.
"Fifty-eight," Vergil says with considerable satisfaction. He makes a point of flourishing the Yamato just so as he withdraws the blade, so that Dante receives a generous helping of gore to the face.
Dante ignores the approaching cluster of Pyrobats in favour of lunging for his brother. "VERGIL–"
"Fifty-nine," Vergil says unaffectedly, sidestepping Dante's strike to disembowel the first Pyrobat in a whirlwind of mirage blades. "Do try to keep up, Dante."
"I swear I'm gonna rearrange your face, you smug bast–"
Whatever else Dante had been about to say is lost as a blazing beam of pure white light roars through the space beside them, turning the very air to ozone.
Vergil blinks the spots out of his vision, and turns in place, surrounded by the smoking remains of vaporized demons.
"Seventy-six," a new voice challenges.
As irked as Vergil is that his count is overturned, he cannot help the faint pride that wells up within him as Nero approaches, coat flaring dark blue in the dusk light. Behind him, the wind whistles over the cliff edge down to the crashing breakers below.
Nero shakes the twisted remnants of a Gerbera to the ground and slots a punchline into place. Slung on his back, Red Queen's nacelles still glow red-yellow with the fury of her last revolution.
"If you two old men are done bickering, we can finish this up and head home," Nero says pointedly. "Not that either of you have a chance of catching up."
"Aw, c'mon," Dante grouses, holstering Ivory. "That was practically cheating."
Nero barks a laugh. "You have…what, eight or nine different switchable weapons on you at all times? I'd call that cheating." His eyes glimmer with restrained humor as he meets Vergil's gaze.
Vergil feels the corner of his mouth twitch in response, and knows his son understands when Nero's smile widens.
"I would agree," Vergil says. "But Nero was always more skilled than you, Dante."
Nero flushes.
"Might I remind you, he also beat your score, Vergil," Dante says as the three of them move towards the glowing crack in the stone a little ways away – the tear in reality that leads to Hell beyond.
"A quirk of chance," Vergil says blithely.
"Or maybe I've just had good training," Nero says softly, and Vergil looks to him in surprise. Vergil had made it a habit to train with Nero the past half year, but for Nero to speak so sends unexpected warmth spreading through Vergil's chest.
Nero's ears are turning rapidly red in response to Vergil's questioning stare.
"You've got your father to thank for that, Nero," Dante says, looking between the two of them with a cheshire grin.
"I do," Nero mumbles, and Vergil suddenly finds himself unable to look anywhere near his brother and son as his heart trips with sudden joy.
In the light of the setting sun, their three shadows stretch before them, shoulder-to-shoulder, coats swinging in the dusk wind. Nero's shadow is perhaps a little shorter than Vergil and Dante's, but there is calm assurance in the line of his shoulders now where there was none a year ago.
Vergil closes his eyes briefly.
In truth, it is a good thing to be demon hunting with his brother and son. Vergil does not make a habit of counting the days, but when he had woken this morning a small part of his mind had whispered twenty-three years since her passing, and Vergil is quietly glad for Dante's exuberance and Nero's cutting humor. It reminds him of what he has now, and not what he has once lost.
He will light a candle in her memory once he returns home, and that will be that.
Just ahead, the portal disgorges a small group of long-limbed, wide-jawed demons, like warped, twisted hounds – Msira, to Vergil's surprise. It has been a long number of years since he has set eyes on their kind.
Nero frowns. "What are those things?"
"Msira," Dante says. He sidesteps smartly as the first demon spits foul purple venom in his direction. "Gbusmsira," he clarifies, grinning in challenge. "This takes me back. It's been a while since I've seen these ugly little puppers." His glove flashes in and out of his coat faster than an eyeblink, and Ivory blasts a smoking hole in the demon's face. Acidic venom hisses into the ground as the Gbusmsira crumples.
"Take care, Nero," Vergil says sharply as he leaps into the fray beside his son. "They are inconsequential on their own, but as a group, their venom is nothing to be trifled with."
Nero nods, taking his gaze off the demons for an instant as he glances at Vergil, and Vergil sees the moment a Gbusmsira takes the opportunity to leap for Nero's wrist, jaws slavering with venom.
Vergil moves.
Nero has reversed Red Queen in a flash of crimson steel to catch the demon's jaws in a lock, but the Gbusmsira's throat bulges with venom–
Vergil thrusts Nero behind him and takes the venom spray directly with his sword-hand, purple venom searing past his fingerless gloves to hiss against the Yamato's tsukamaki as he takes the demon's head with a single strike.
"Dad!"
It is as though his sword-hand is afire. Vergil looks down the venom seeping into the exposed bones of his hand as his demon powers take over, knitting new flesh and over the steaming, necrotic wound.
"I'm fine, Nero," he grits through his teeth as he tightens his blood-slick grip on the Yamato. "Stay behind me."
Nero makes a noise of outraged concern by Vergil's ear, but the air around them turns heavy and crimson with demonic energy as Dante blasts past them both in full Sin Devil Trigger.
In the space of an instant, the remaining Gbusmira are nothing more than bloody lumps dissolving in their own venom.
The air shivers, and the demonic energy folds back like furled lightning as Dante's human form reemerges.
Vergil looks down at his hand, and notes with mild consternation the dark veins running across his skin in sickly purple lines. His hand appears otherwise healed, but he can still feel the venom in his bones – a slow, bubbling heat.
"Dad? Dad."
Nero's voice.
Vergil takes a slow breath, sheathes the Yamato, and lowers his hand to his side. "I am fine," he says, turning to his son. "You need not concern yourself."
"That didn't look fine," Nero retorts as he stalks closer to reach for Vergil's hand.
Vergil takes a step back, shifting his hand behind his back, and Nero's brows crease in a frown like thunder.
"I am well," Vergil insists.
"Vergil? Nero?" Dante jogs across to them, concern written plainly on his face. "You both okay?"
"I'm freaking great," Nero growls, spinning towards Dante. "But he's hiding an injury."
Dante turns to Vergil, eyes sharp, and Vergil bites back a curse.
"Verge," Dante says, a note of warning in his voice. "We have a rule about this."
A pause. Faint guilt wars with the pride in Vergil's chest.
In the end, it is Nero's concerned, disappointed gaze that sways him.
"Very well," Vergil says. "But after we seal the portal."
Dante relaxes into his usual ease. Nero's shoulders loosen minutely, but Vergil still feels the heat of his son's gaze on the back of his neck as he moves to close the portal to Hell.
The Yamato feels just as it usually does as he stitches the tear between worlds closed.
Then Vergil steels himself, sheathes the Yamato, and turns to proffer his sword hand for inspection.
Silence. The veins shine ugly purple-black against his pale skin in the oncoming night.
Dante's low whistle breaks the stillness. "Well. You want the good news or the bad news?"
"Spit it out, Dante," Nero says, still staring at Vergil's hand. His hands are balled into fists at his side.
Vergil places his good hand on Nero's shoulder. "Nero."
At Vergil's touch, Nero takes a slow breath and uncurls his fists.
"The good news is that I know what that is," Dante says. There is grim twist to his lips. "The bad news– well. The side effects aren't pretty until we get an antidote."
Vergil tightens his grasp on Nero's shoulder before Nero can speak.
"Every now and then a Msira produces a different kind of venom," Dante continues, flexing his hand and looking down at it as though in memory. "At least, that's what Trish figured when we worked it out. But until we get the antidote, you might find yourself…seeing things."
"Seeing things." Vergil repeats. He looks about, and sees only the sun setting on the cliff edge a little ways away, and his brother and son standing opposite him.
"It's not immediate," Dante says. "It…shows you what you wish for. Or some variation of it."
"That doesn't sound so bad," Nero says, relief evident.
"Depends what you wish for," Dante says uncharacteristically quietly, glancing at Vergil. "I– well. It was a long time ago when I was hit with it."
Vergil frowns at his brother, but Dante is already moving.
"C'mon," Dante says. "Let's find Nico. I'm starving, and Kyrie makes the best pizza. I'll call Trish on the way."
"I don't recall inviting you to dinner," Nero retorts as he starts after Dante.
"You know Kyrie would have cooked enough for five anyway," Dante counters.
"That's beside the point–"
Vergil smiles faintly, folds his hand within his ruined sleeve, and follows.
The faint burn of poison in his bones fades to a soft, warm hum, as though it always belonged there.
(:~:)
"Verge?" Dante says as they step through the portal Yamato cut into the wall to emerge into the quiet of the Devil May Cry shop. "You okay?"
Already up the stairs and nearly to his room door, Vergil pauses and glances down at his sword-hand. He can barely feel the poison any longer, and the veins across the back of his hand have faded to dull violet.
"Yes," he murmurs, mind already lost in his plans for the night. There is a candle in his bedside table, and he has a singe crimson camellia in his pocket, plucked from a cliffside bush where neither Dante nor Nero had noticed.
Dante steps closer, slowly, careful of Vergil's space in a way that comes rarely to him.
"But there's still something," Dante says, and there is none of his usual cocksure humor in his voice, only quiet concern. "Are you…have you started seeing things? I know Trish said the antidote would take a day or two, but I could call her and try to hurry it along–"
"No," Vergil says, and it comes out sharper than wont, an echo of the old bite in his voice whenever he spoke to Dante, before. "No," he says, fighting a wince at the expression in Dante's eyes. "I haven't started seeing things. Not yet."
There is a heartbeat where Vergil almost believes Dante will leave it be; but Dante only nods once, and says quietly, "Is it something to do with the flower in your pocket?"
For a moment, Vergil cannot breathe. His fingers whiten on the doorknob.
Dante steps back instantly.
"It's fine," Dante says, with a reassuring smile. "You don't have to tell me. Just– don't feel like you have to go through anything alone." He presses a hand briefly to Vergil's shoulder, solid and grounding, and turns away.
Vergil feels an indefinable emotion twist in his gut.
"Twenty-three years," he whispers, and down the hallway, Dante freezes.
"Verge?"
"Twenty three years since she–" Vergil swallows past the ache in his throat. "Since I–"
"Oh shit," Dante says.
Vergil looks away. "Twenty-three years to the day she died, and the day I became–"
He cannot bring himself to say the thing he became under Mundus; just as he cannot bring himself to say her name, after all this time. He had not broken to Mundus's torture until he had learned of her death; he had naught else to live for, once he knew.
"I planned to light a candle," he hears himself saying, his voice sounding very far away.
"Hey." Dante's hand on his wrist, where the pale violet veins meet unmarked skin. "Do you want me there?"
Vergil takes a breath. "No," he whispers. "This I must do alone."
"Okay," Dante says, and releases him. "But do you want a snuggle buddy later?"
Vergil scowls and looks intently at the floor. Ever since the incident at the dome the year before, he and Dante have made it a practice to occasionally sleep in the same room when either of them find themselves haunted by the spectre of their memories – but Vergil can never quite put his pride aside enough to ask.
Thankfully, Dante has no such qualms.
"I'll take that as a yes." Dante's smile is audible. "I've got some paperwork Morrison's been nagging me about for a month. Come find me downstairs later."
A measure of relief washes through Vergil. He feels Dante squeeze his wrist once before releasing him as Vergil steps into his room and closes the door.
He sets the candle in the windowsill and places the camellia before it; by the candlelight the camellia petals turn glowing, fiery red. Beyond the glass panes of the window, the sky is lit with uncounted stars.
For a long while, he simply sits there, bowed over his knees, watching the orange flame flicker and white wax drip down the sides of the candle.
"Burnt the fire of thine eyes," Vergil whispers. He remembers the aching softness of her hand under his chin, the bright green of her eyes glimmering in laughter; the indescribable feeling in his chest as he caught her hand to draw her close.
No. Not so indescribable.
Joy. It had been joy, and contentment.
Contentment he has not felt since, for all his happiness and love for his son.
Their son.
She would have made a wonderful mother; she would have covered all his faults, taught him to be a better father.
Oh, Vergil misses her so; on this day, even more than he misses his mother.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the brush of her raven hair across the back of his neck and the warmth of her fingers in his.
And then, he finds, he truly does.
Vergil snaps open his eyes and stares.
She smiles back at him from her seat on the windowsill, clad simply in a dress of red wool, the same she wore the day they first met save now the lack of a white hood. The starlight crowns her unbound hair with silver, and her laughing eyes glimmer green and mirthful in the warm candlelight.
"My poet," she says fondly. "I have missed you so." She lifts his hand between gentle fingers to press a kiss to his thumb, her lips a startling warmth against his sword-callouses.
Vergil cannot speak.
Her voice is as lovely a music as he remembers.
She appears older than she was; closer to him in age then the girl he had left behind in the snow as a youth. And yet, there are the eyes that looked at him with such fondness; the lips that once murmured promises against his cheek, and there, where her hair meets her brow, the faint childhood scar that he would gladly press his lips to whenever she laid her head on his shoulder.
She is as beautiful as the cursed day he left her.
His gaze drops to the hand she presses between her own; the faint violet lines that run across his knuckles, still.
"You are not truly here," he whispers, and feels the words catch in his throat.
She looks at him sadly, and lifts a hand to caress his cheek.
"Perhaps," she murmurs. Her fingers linger at the curve of his ear, achingly gentle.
Vergil shudders, and gives in to the urge to lean into her touch. Even the lines of her palm are the same as he remembers; the faint scent of camellias at her wrist.
"The years have been hard on you," she murmurs, leaning close to press a kiss to his brow. The breath hitches in Vergil's chest, and he closes his eyes against it, only to find that with his eyes shut he can only feel her presence even more vividly.
"I have missed you," he whispers, tasting the iron tang of the words like blood as they slip over his lips. "I have missed you every day, and every hour." His hands tremble with the effort of resisting the urge to pull her into his arms so he might hold her close and never lose her again.
"I know," she says, her breath ghosting warm over his hair. "As have I, my poet."
My poet.
Vergil wants nothing more than to remain in this moment – to exist in this single breath of starlight and pretend.
But he cannot.
"My angel," he murmurs into her hair. "I am sorry."
He tears his hand from hers and flees without looking back, as he did long years ago that winter evening. The crash of his falling chair is thunder in his ears.
He nearly careens into Dante at the base of the stairs.
"Verge?" Dante is looking at him, alarmed, and Vergil realises with horror that his cheeks are wet.
The air is terribly still as Vergil swipes carelessly at his eyes. "Shut up," he snarls, although Dante has not said another word.
"You saw something," Dante says, and steps forward to grasp Vergil's shoulder.
"It is nothing," Vergil says. He raises his head forcefully to meet his brother's gaze. "I saw nothing."
Dante looks at him, expression unreadable, and pulls him into a hug.
Vergil shudders, turning his face into his brother's shoulder despite his twisting pride.
"It's never nothing," Dante says quietly, one hand carding through Vergil's hair. "I know. I told myself the same, once."
"I cannot share this with you," Vergil whispers. I cannot bear it.
"You don't have to," Dante says plainly. "But I'm here."
They retire for the night in Dante's room. Vergil catches a glimpse of his own chamber as they pass, with the candle burnt down to a smoking stump and the camellia shining crimson in the starlight. He does not know whether he is relieved or disappointed to find the rest of the chamber empty.
For once, Vergil does not mind the mess of magazines and weapons and dirty clothes that is Dante's room. Dante curls around him protectively as they fall asleep, and Vergil will not admit it, but he is comforted.
He dreams of her voice, her laughter.
He dreams of sunlit afternoons sitting at her side by the sea, with the taste of salt on their lips.
In the small hours of the night Vergil wakes, half in dream, with his brother's arm wound tight around his middle and Dante's face pressed into the back of his neck, and finds a familiar hand in his where his arm stretches towards the edge of the bed.
She sleeps slumped against the side of the bed, her dark-haired head pillowed on the coverlet, her hand loose in his. He can feel each quiet exhale of her breath against his knuckles.
Another sensation he had forgotten.
He knows he should withdraw his hand, close his eyes, and forget.
And yet.
Vergil runs a slow thumb over her knuckles, and falls asleep with the warmth of her fingers in his.
Next up: Vergil falls further, and Nero makes an announcement that shakes Vergil to his core.
I cherish all reviews and comments! I am also on AO3 and tumblr at eirianerisdar.
