-Every night & every morn
some to misery are born-
Defeat after defeat…a decade of endless torture…humiliation… pain…and most of all, time that never would return.
-Every Morn & every night
some are born to sweet delight—
Vague memories of sweet childhood sang to him, almost like in a dream. The more he grasped, the more he clawed, the more they ran away. A once happy family, whose future was devoured by ruinous flame.
-some are born to sweet delight-
A younger brother, loud and brash, ever the target of sweet mother's embrace…where was he now…?
-some are born to endless night-
Weary eyes awoke to sickening daylight.
Broken and bloodied from past enslavement, the lost warrior found himself downcast in an unfamiliar chapel. Shattered pieces of demonic armour still clung to his skin like a parasite, sapping precious vigor and draining his cognition. A thousand needles pierced his tired lungs with every breath, and yet he could not help but heave. Much of his previous life's memories remained lost to him, clouded by pain from what came before. All he knew was to rid himself of the painful implements designed to cage him in constant agony. With what little strength the man could muster, he clawed at the cracked demonic armour enshrouding his body, trying to pry it off but to no avail. Its hold over him was still too strong.
And so, he forced himself up from his prone position, barely able to stand over two legs. His first attempts were…unsuccessful, to say the least. Almost doomed to fail as he struggled with the sheer weight of his armour, the heaviness of his breath, and limbs that simply refused to listen. He used an adjacent wall until he was able to find a broken sword impaled on a maiden's corpse, curiously still warm. Its edges were cracked and blunted, much like himself. The broken man found himself almost letting out a chuckle, before the pain resumed and he was left a coughing mess on the ground once more. With his newfound tool, however, he could at least find some purchase with the ground until after countless more attempts, he was finally able to stand on his two feet.
The man dragged himself out of the chapel, only to notice the sheer state of disarray it was in. Walls were either cracked or missing, yet some doors still seemed curiously intact. It appeared as though dusk had somehow fallen though the man could surmise that only a couple of hours had passed since he first regained consciousness. Curiously, an enormous tree obscured his vision with almost blinding golden rays. Perhaps this was the light that roused him from his restless slumber. He continued on until he reached a stone arch preceding a large statue of a woman with arms held aloft. Words were scribbled on the path leading to it, warning of great dangers and even asking wary passerby to turn back.
"Turn back? Surely they jest."
That these messages were written in blood were of no consequence to the former black angel. What could possibly be worse than what he'd already survived? He cautiously walked through the barren courtyard until he came face to face with what he could only describe as an abomination.
Cloaked in ornate rags, a towering creature sported dozens of appendages—misshapen arms and legs alike—brandishing two golden swords and wooden shield held by outstretched grey arms. It scurried about like a spider yet moved with a speed too great for a creature of its size. Bracing himself for combat, the fallen black angel readied his sword and attempted to study the creature's movements.
Though great in stature, the creature swung wildly, almost clumsily, giving the man opportunities to deftly dodge its strikes. Bits of stone flew past the ground whenever it struck, and the deafening shriek it would utter only became more frequent the more its frustration grew. Eventually, the beast leapt up and smashed its shield forward, catching the man off guard. Under better circumstances, he would have been able to anticipate and determine a swift counterattack, but his present situation proved too unforgiving. A leg gave out before he could move away and he immediately felt the gravity of his mistake when the shield came crashing down on him. Bits of demonic armour flew through the wooden shield and quickly embedded themselves into the monster, causing it to cry out in pain. The man could only grin at his misfortune but found himself feeling slightly lighter. He wiped off the blood that he had been coughing up just moments before as he once again stood using his broken sword-cane.
Unorthodox as it may be, he had found a way to rid himself of the accursed armour; that it greatly pained his assailer only added to his satisfaction. He braced himself as the creature brandished its weapons. With the shield cracked open, the weary warrior could finally gaze into the eyes of his oppressor. Embedded into the centre of the monster appeared to be no more than a child. Sickly as it looked, the abomination nonetheless attacked with the ferocity of a wounded animal. Unlike before, the ashen-haired man now had a countermeasure. He stood in place, waiting for the right opportunity. One…two…three steps the creature took before swiftly swinging its two swords. The man anticipated as much and crossed his arms, allowing his armour to take the brunt of the incoming force. The already-damaged armour crackled with traces of demonic fury, flying towards its attacker as it broke free from its prisoner's grasp. The abomination winced in agony as its flesh gave way to the parasitic shards. With its stance momentarily faltered, the man willed himself to charge forth, pushing his blunted sword into the creature's neck and quickly slashing it away. The sword, already frail from disrepair, shattered as the man pulled it out of its target. The creature proceeded to cough out blood while attempting to seal its hemorrhaging neck, but it knew its end would soon be at hand. Not one to leave a job unfinished, the fallen warrior lunged forward, burying what remained of his broken blade in between the creature's eyes and ending its misery. As the light faded from the creature's eyes, the man could only scoff, for he too was in a similar position…a painful reminder of his most recent defeat.
The memories may have been a blur, but the man could distinctly remember the feelings of anguish that permeated through his very being…the blistering touch of cerulean flames that once swallowed him whole. He grasped his head and vainly tried to shake away the sensation. It was then that he noticed a hollow emptiness on his chest, as he grasped for a precious amulet that was no longer there. In this fleeting moment of despair, the man recalled a crystal memory from a previous life.
"No one can have this, Dante. It's mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda!"
Despite the constant agony that still ravaged the man's body, he found himself grinning wildly at the sudden realization of his identity. From the broken vestiges of his demonic armour, he could finally reclaim his name—for he was Vergil, son of Sparda.
