Summary: The mysterious man you had met that day was more that meets the eye.
Contents and warnings: graphic depiction of a corpse (Extremely brief), Poetry, developing relationship, set pre DMC3, possible inaccurate depictions of the Order of the Swords beliefs, religious themes, Grief, Vergil’s amazing communication skills, OC added for plot convenience
Notes: I spent the longest time researching trying to find a concise list of what the people of Fortuna actually believed in but anything unanswered would just be defaulted back to Christian beliefs. Trying to think of William Blake from the perspective of Vergil was challenging but hopefully it’s accurate. Anyways I hope you enjoy!!!! ٩(^‿^)۶ (may make a 2nd part to this)
You rushed to the library that evening. You run through the streets of Fortuna, almost tripping over the hard cobblestone roads several times. You had to rush, of course, you couldn’t miss the meeting time you arranged with the mysterious man you met the other day.
That day, you were sitting in the Fortuna chapel way after mass had ended. You found yourself staring at the statue of the legendary knight Sparda. It stood tall in the center, looking down on the pews. You cursed it, if he was such a savior, why did he allow for such suffering? He shouldn’t be worshiped for sealing hell when demons still haunt the earth.
You clenched your fists, remembering your dear friend Lylabelle. She was smart, beautiful, and the kindest person you had ever known. She didn’t deserve the fate awarded to her. You remember seeing her dead body sprawled on the ground of the forest. You clutched the child she had pushed out of the demon’s line of attack. That act left her gored by the demon, its claws stabbed through her stomach. You could never forget the sickening sound of the demon's claws retracting before swiftly stabbing Lylabelle’s stomach again. What sickened you further, was hearing her last words pleading for Sparda to save her.
You stood in the forest, clutching the hand of your now unrecognizable friend. It was the only part of her left intact. The cries of the child were muffled through your rapid thoughts, but one repeated over and over in your head: why her?
“How can anyone have faith in you…” You muttered under your breath to the statue.
“Whom else would the people turn to if the demon world were to open? ” A voice spoke up.
You frowned, you initially assumed it was one of the more dedicated members, and he was about to lecture you about questioning your faith. You turned around, and it was a hooded man. You remember him, you saw him walking the other day, his hood was worn and dirty. You had spared him a glance before going about your day. The hood was still dirty now, but you could see his shadowed face, his piercing blue eyes standing out.
”It doesn't dull my worries, hoping for a savior. It heightens it, it makes me realize how crazy you all are. Thinking Sparda would come back and save everyone when he already doesn’t save his worshipers.” You admit to him.
The man sits next to you and grabs one of the Bibles that were left in the pew. “You believe I’m a—as you put it—crazy worshiper?” The man asked.
”I didn’t say that exactly, but yeah, tell Sanctus if you want, I don’t care.”
“I won’t, I’ve been struggling with my faith for the past couple of years as well.” The man said reassuringly, “However, I cannot deny Sparda’s existence.”
The man never answered, instead he reached into his cloak and flipped through the book he pulled out of it, glancing at it, then looking at the statue of Sparda “For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care.” He then turns his head to you, maintaining eye contact as he continues, “For Mercy has a human heart, pity a human face, And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress.”
“William Blake,” You blurted out. The Man nodded, “I know that poem, humanity is an embodiment of God's qualities—Sparda isn’t God.”
“From our scripture and Santus’s preachings, I can tell why you would make the comparison.” You admit, “Mercy, Pity, Peace, while he did do that two millennia ago, it’s not enough for me.”
”I agree, it wasn’t enough.” The man looked back up at the statue, “However, it’s everything to me.”
You didn’t pry as he didn’t answer your other question. “I’m glad you can be civil instead of lecturing me. I like how literate you are, it seems like the only book anyone can talk about is scripture.” The Man closed his poetry book and handed it to you. You held it gently and brushed the well-cared-for cover, and not a single speck of dust has flown off.
“Is there a way we can talk more?” You asked, looking up at him and handing his book back. He grabbed the book and smiled, “The library, at the end of the week, I’ll be there at night-time.” He said as he tucked the book back into his cloak. “When you get there, check the poetry section.” You stared as he walked out of the chapel. As the door closes, you quickly follow him, you had to ask his name!
You rush and open the heavy doors, but when you peek outside, you notice he is gone. You stood there confused, but you knew you had to meet up with him again.
Back to the present, you approach the old library and open the doors. As you step inside you take in the emptiness of the place. The library would always be deserted, however not even the librarian was there that night. It creeped you out as you noticed how most of the sections were dark, the candles having been put out already.
The only candles on were leading to the familiar route of the poetry section. It was near the back of the library, past the many sections of books.
Your footsteps are the only sound you hear as you walk towards the back of the library. As you passed each bookshelf and got closer to the back you could hear the flipping of pages and the occasional shuffle of feet.
You approach the section and peek your head into the tall shelves. There the man stood, this time unhooded revealing his elegant blue coat and black under attire. He had pure white hair and the same blue eyes you had first stared into.
He looked focused on his book, you walked up to him and placed a hand on your shoulder. He didn’t look surprised at all, he looked back into his book before turning towards you. “When I’m dead, my dearest Sing no songs for me.”
“I know that one,” You muttered, the man had paused his recital and looked down on you, a bit annoyed at your interruption, “Sorry, continue”.
”Plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree-”
His words drowned off in her ears. You knew this poem well, and you hated it.
“- I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain, I shall not hear the nightingale” The man had paused and looked at your scrunched up face
“You struggle with grief.” He stated. “You’ve lost someone haven’t you.”
“Haven’t we all?” You sighed, “She was my closest friend. I never knew family, but I knew her. She may not hear me now, but my heart cries for her.”
You brushed your fingers against the poem, the tips of them brushing against the words at the end of last stanza, “Haply I may remember and haply may forget.” You echoed.
“I’ve lost my mother long ago, but I realize, it made me stronger as a man.”
You looked at him confused, he closed the book, placing it back into the shelf. “It hurts at first, but once you get over the initial shock and hurt, you rebuild stronger and you feel glad. Her death is why I am like this today. I grieve no more and look towards the future.”
“That’s impossible, you just can’t…” You paused, you knew nothing about the man, what mindset you have would be different from others, “It’s your mother…I don’t understand…”
”Of course the average person couldn’t understand,” He said softly, brushing his fingers through his pale white hair.
“What’s your name?” You finally asked.
He looked around the shelves pressing his finger against the books and used the tips of them to scan through the books he paused and plucked the book out of the shelf and handed it to you.
You looked at the book, it was The Georgics.
”George…?” You questioned, smiling.
The man had sighed and held his temple before pointing to the author's name.
You looked up at him and he nodded. “That’s an interesting name,” You said, “Have you read The Georgics?”
”Barely, it’s about agriculture but I enjoyed how someone could explain something so laboring and dutiful as something beautiful and rewarding.” He put the book back.
“Do you think what you’re doing will be rewarding?” You asked him, “Burrowing down your grief?”
Vergil paused and tilted his head, “You know not of what I do,” He scoffed, “You’ve barely known my name.”
He stared into your eyes, your words had clearly affected him. His eyebrows furrowed and he clutched his book towards his chest.
“You spoke a thousand words when you talked about your mother.” You stated, “You’re suppressing your emotions, and for what strength? Why does that matter to you?”
You gently rested your hand on his arm, he was tense, “Grief makes us human, it separates us from…from those wicked demons.”
”I suppose I’m in the middle.”
He grew less tense and leaned closer into your touch, “Your friend, after her death how long did you mourn?” He asked.
”I still do.” You stepped closer to him, “That’s what I was doing at the church, she loved church, more than anyone I had known. She loved Sparda, she did everything in his name.”
”You curse him for not protecting your friend?” He questioned.
“I…” You paused, “I do but, I more so get angry.”
”At Sparda?” Vergil interrupted.
“At Lylabelle!” You blurted out, “If she…if she just had more sense! More knowledge instead of those stupid preachings, she wouldn’t have been so involved with the church! If she wasn’t involved with the church we wouldn’t have been going on walks with the orphans at night! If we weren't on walks with orphans at night she wouldn’t have been massacred by those demons!”
You felt the tears well up in your eyes burning them. They slowly fall down your cheek and you wipe them with your hands hoping they’d stop but they would keep on falling.
You felt strong arms wrap around your frame pulling you in close. It wasn’t the most comforting hug, it was rough, almost forced, as if he didn’t know how to portray affection. However, it was all that you had at the moment and you really needed one.
“I understand…the anger part.” Vergil breathed as he awkwardly pulled away from the hug, “Loved ones leaving you, and you have to pick yourself back up.”
”It makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the world,” You sniffed, wiping your damp cheek again.
”I am the only person in my world.” He stated.
You didn’t ask, instead a grin was forced through your lips, “I’m right here,” You laughed.
Vergil smiled, “Do you have time for one more poem? You can choose it.”
You nodded and went to scan the shelves. You realized, maybe you didn’t have to search. You look back at Vergil, “Can I see your book?”
Vergil nodded and handed you his book. You opened it and quickly flipped through the pages, finally landing on the poem you were looking for.
You clear your throat, “ I head an Angel Singing, When the day was springing:
Are the world’s release.’
And the hay cocked looked brown.”
You’d look at Vergil, you then reached out your hand silently asking for him to grab it. Vergil looked back at you and then the poem before raising his. You took it and placed his finger tip on the page, running it along as you read each line.
Over the heath and the furse:
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
and mutual fear brings peace,
Are mercy, pity and peace.”
You let go of Vergil's hand and finish the poem,
”At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens grave a frown.”
Vergil contemplated the words. You spoke up, “I thought it would be a nice addition to the first poem you had recited to me, back in the church. Heavenly qualities, Mercy, Pity and Peace, cannot be achieved without suffering.”
”I always saw it differently, I saw the devil as…the smarter and more analytical half of a whole, the angel, the foolish and naive part.” He paused, “The world scorns at the Devil's truth, shunning him.”
”Poetry can never be interpreted wrong.” You added.
You closed the book, brushing over the elegant cover once before handing it back to Vergil. He gently took it and put it once again back into his coat.
”I haven’t talked to someone like this in years,” He muttered, “It was…I guess it was nice…” He scratched the back of his head.
”I supposed it’s easy telling complete strangers things like this, we may never see eachother again after this night.” You continued, “Unless you would like to talk more?”
Vergil looked shocked at first, there was an aura of doubt however, like if he was deciding if this would be a good idea.
After his quick silence he spoke up, “I wouldn’t mind.”
The candles of the library begin to dim, letting the both of you know that it’s time to go, Vergil gestures for you to walk beside him as you make the trip back to the entrance of the library. “I’ll walk you home,” He said while averting eye contact, “I wouldn’t want you to get uhm, harmed on these dark streets…” He shrugged awkwardly.
You smiled at his awkwardness, finding it adorable that a man who could speak so well about poetry and philosophical ideas finds it hard to maintain regular conversation.
You smiled and gestured towards the way back to your apartment, taking the hand of your “protector”.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
You whispered but Vergil didn’t seem to hear.
