Dante found that he rather preferred the rush of weightlessness he experienced during his ascent to the rush of the ground he was now experiencing as he left the demon world. The weathered stone top of the Temen-ni-gru was approaching much too fast for his liking, and at the last minute he managed to bend his knees, absorbing the shock of his feet slamming into the stone.
As it was, he still faltered a little, pitching forward as the momentum of his descent reverberated through his body. Dante rested there for a moment on his hands and knees, his mind blissfully blank as fatigue settled in.
After a moment, he stood and took a look around. The top of the massive tower looked a lot different in the daytime, the statues that had risen to the top stood out in stark relief against the pale sky, and if he looked up, he could still see the slowly closing rift that led to the demon world.
Vergil…
Dante shook his head. His brother had made his choice; he'd chosen to take the fall.
But where was Dante's choice in all this?
Sure, he'd reached for him, tried to snag even the smallest leverage on his brother's silken coat.
Vergil had chosen to slice his hand.
But he had another, right? He'd taken worse hits than that, surely he could have recovered enough to reach out with his other, unwounded hand.
Why hadn't he? Vergil had left him no choice, Vergil had always tried to make his decisions. Always being the older sibling, thinking that his younger brother didn't have enough wits to choose.
He was tired of it.
Dante blinked suddenly, stopping in his tracks. He had already made it halfway to the stairs that led up to the dais and he hadn't even realized it. A sudden clenching of his fist caused the gash on his hand to ooze a few droplets of blood out onto the ground, and Dante found himself fascinated by it.
His blood…
Sparda's blood….
Vergil's blood…
Dante'd made up his mind; he was going after his brother. It was his choice, damnit, and it was his brother.
His blood.
His twin.