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If Vergil was the type of person who cared, he'd think Mundus was disappointed with his defeat. Nelo Angelo was supposed to be the perfect warrior, his favourite puppet, but he faltered and was eventually defeated at the hands of the demon hunter Dante. Worse was how the god had recovered his dishonored knight, abandoning the amulet in his haste. Without it, and with the fresh impression of his brother in his mind, Vergil resurfaced. He was decaying, armor pieces crumbling away from his skin and his soul a sputtering flame, but he was lucid enough to recognize the agony of dying. And Vergil was unfortunately conscious enough to hear the icy, almost-fearful bite to Mundus' lecture.
It was a surprise that the Prince was so taken aback by Dante's victory. He was almost scandalized, offended and furious with Nelo for the weakness he thought he'd purged, but Vergil knew in that human way of his that it was inevitable. Here was what Mundus didn't know, for all his ancient wisdom: there was nothing that could hurt you like family could. And Dante was as close as family could be, a near-perfect copy of Vergil disfigured by experience and his fervid humanity.
So, no, Vergil was not surprised by his defeat. It burned like shame and irritated his admittedly extreme competitive streak, but it was something to live around. This defeat would join the others in the tight curl of his stomach, churning and branding thick scar tissue. Dante would always win, and Vergil would always get him back. It's how it always was, and how it will always be.
Or at least, that's how Vergil thinks it was. Nelo's failure meant he needed more training, which meant that Vergil would be ripped apart until all that remained was his power. Sentiments like family were worthless, even if Mundus seemed to appreciate the Cain instinct the twins shared.
The Prince of Darkness didn't want to take any more chances. Vergil's memories of his brother began fading like ink smudged by a careless hand. He remembered Dante liked pizza, but not what his favourite spot was, and he remembered Dante wore red, though his silhouette was getting blurrier by the moment.
So. There wouldn't be another mistake like the amulet. It had made Vergil vulnerable enough to submit, but it left a part of Nelo Angelo soft — his metaphorical Achilles heel.
Vergil scoffed. If Mundus was going to make him the perfect weapon, he should've done it right. He should've split Vergil cleanly into two, purging the weak human parts of him. That way, the amulet would've had no hold over him, and his neck wouldn't be missing the weight of it.
Suddenly, he remembers falling to one knee in ashen water, a gloved hand gripped around the twisted hilt of the Force Edge. A piercing coldness that stabbed into every pore spread up his knee and the hand that braced his fall, the sound of rushing water filling his ears.
"Am I... being defeated?" Vergil's head is bowed low, and the reflection of his shameful form in the water below makes him sick.
"What's wrong? Is that all you got?" Dante hisses, all self-righteous fury and buried desperation. "Come on, get up. You can do better than that."
And Vergil can, so he gets up. He must get Dante back for this humiliation. Then the ground shakes and groans, and Vergil knows that Dante is running out of time.
"The portal to the Human World is closing, Dante... because the amulets have been separated–" Vergil starts, but his little brother is a petulant child.
"Let's finish this, Vergil." His brother's eyes are crinkled in a way that means he's frustrated enough to cry. "I have to stop you, even if that means killing you."
Dante means it. Vergil can tell in the way his mouth is set about the edges, but his chin threatens to wrinkle. He doesn't want to, but he will. And what kind of brother would Vergil be if he didn't encourage his brother's convictions?
Without another word, Vergil slowly lifts Force Edge and spins it flashily, just because he can. And Dante lets him, because this is how they always start. They charge towards each other through the murky water, throwing up roaring waves in their wake.
The weight of his soaked tailcoat feels like hands pulling Vergil back. The slick, unyielding metal of his father's sword doesn't fit to his hand like the braid of the Yamato's tsuka, and it weakens his grip to point away from Dante. It's always stupid human things like family and exhaustion leaving Vergil open to injury.
With twin guttural cries, both brothers swing, but only one blade sinks into skin. Vergil's blood sprays out in an arc following the momentum of the Rebellion. He staggers for a moment, frozen in his last movement, before he lurches after his amulet as it falls. The Force Edge is thrown behind him somewhere, but Dante can have it. Vergil picks the amulet out of the water, careful to keep the broken chain in its eyelet.
"No one can have this, Dante." Vergil clutches his half of the amulet to his chest as Dante sheathes his sword. "It's mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda!"
It was his. A fist clenched tight somewhere in the roiling mass. Power meant claiming what was yours, and as a son of Sparda power was also his birthright. So Vergil clung desperately to the memories of his amulet, even as acrid sludge plugged his mouth and nose and pressed against his eyelids.
He thinks about a bright, burning red smudged against a colorless land. It narrows into a shining ruby oval inlaid in silver, and the cool metal thumps gently against his chest. Vergil remembers it — he must remember it. There was nothing else to do in the wastes of Mundus’ territory, so he ran his mind over the shape of his mother's amulet again and again. Mundus would not have him again, not when he had failed so pitifully the first time.
Vergil thinks about his mother’s hands and nails dyed orange as she peeled clementines for her sons, the peels neatly stacked in her skirts. The older twin would eat his half, and then pick off the pith on his brother's as he waited for him to come claim it. His little brother didn't care about the strings, but Vergil needed something to do with his hands.
He can't remember the sound of Eva’s voice as she cajoles him about the health benefits of orange pith, and he doesn't remember if Dante ever shows up. If he did, were the oranges sweet? Or did Dante's face screw up and did he demand Vergil's half, his sticky hands reaching towards his cringing form. Did his mother laugh? Or did she try to convince his brother to leave him alone, but Dante pressed his disgusting hand into Vergil's face, and then they fought like usual?
Maybe, he thinks. He imagines. He guesses. But he doesn't know. He just keeps picking at Dante's half of the clementine, pulling at hair-thin strings until his nails catch on the thin membrane and it splits open. And he stares at the glistening flesh on the inside, little tear-shaped pockets of juice, and wonders if he even likes oranges. Wonders why he's sitting alone, but with only half a clementine and no sweet-sour taste in his mouth. He thinks he was waiting for someone.
It feels like something is slipping through his fingers, slowly dripping away, and Vergil unclenches his fist. A spongy mash of pulp and filmy membrane remains in his palm. He hesitantly brings it to his mouth, and it tastes like sweat and the musty air of an old castle.
Snap out of it, you fool!
Vergil was losing memories he didn't know he had until they were scraped out of him, his nerves throbbing like they were snapped. He remembers them as they slip by, catching glimpses and grains as they go. The curve of his mother's smile, the smooth cover of a book, and the weight of his brother against him — the crushing presence of knight's armor forces it all away.
His mind and soul scrape against his insides, cleaved and struck carelessly to sharpen its softness. It leaves him gasping for something more than air. While Vergil wanted to abandon his humanity to achieve true and absolute power, his attachments were the only things keeping Nelo Angelo at bay. In an act of desperation, Vergil tries to recall his father's face, but the most he can muster is a bastardized version of his own. There's a sudden flood of despair, and then the Black Knight’s helmet snaps around his head.
How humiliating. Vergil is flickering out like an old neon sign, and the shame of it drags him deeper. He would've liked to go out in glory, but instead he disappears like a whisper — like he's falling asleep.
…
…
The Prince of Darkness seemed pleased. He doesn't know how long it's been, or how deep he'd fallen, but then…
Somewhere in the depths of hell, past the sludge corrupting him, Vergil feels his brother's blood on his blade.
He gasps. His human form bursts out from that damned armor, ooze dripping from every part of his body. He slams to the ground and coughs, splattering black globs against himself. He is alive. Vergil blinks away clumps weighing on his lashes and runs a shaky hand through his stained hair. Mundus is roaring, surging towards him, but that doesn't matter.
The most important thing is that he remembers Dante, the look on his stupid face as Vergil fell, the cut on his palm, and the Yamato thrumming with his twin's blood on its polished edge like it sings now. It recognizes the Sparda blood, tinged with misfortune and pain, and it seeks its master. The longing tugs at Vergil's soul, human desire curling around it and smoothing where Mundus had carved his place.
This was no time to doze off. Vergil wheezes a laugh as the devil descends upon him again. How foolish — Vergil crouches into a battle-ready stance even as chains coil around his ankles — he wouldn't succumb a third time.
After all, he had a score to settle with Dante for sullying his beloved blade.