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, Vergilâs 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 itâs accurate. Anyways I hope you enjoy!!!! Ù©(^âż^)Û¶ (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 couldnât 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 shouldnât 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 didnât 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 demonâs 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 Lylabelleâs 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?
âHow can anyone have faith in youâŠâ You muttered under your breath to the statue.
âWhom else would the people turn to if the demon world were to open? â 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.
âIt 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 doesnât save his worshipers.â You admit to him.
The man sits next to you and grabs one of the Bibles that were left in the pew. âYou believe Iâm aâas you put itâcrazy worshiper?â The man asked.
âI didnât say that exactly, but yeah, tell Sanctus if you want, I donât care.â
âI wonât, Iâve been struggling with my faith for the past couple of years as well.â The man said reassuringly, âHowever, I cannot deny Spardaâs existence.â
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 âFor Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care.â He then turns his head to you, maintaining eye contact as he continues, âFor Mercy has a human heart, pity a human face, And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress.â
âWilliam Blake,â You blurted out. The Man nodded, âI know that poem, humanity is an embodiment of God's qualitiesâSparda isnât God.â
âFrom our scripture and Santusâs preachings, I can tell why you would make the comparison.â You admit, âMercy, Pity, Peace, while he did do that two millennia ago, itâs not enough for me.â
âI agree, it wasnât enough.â The man looked back up at the statue, âHowever, itâs everything to me.â
You didnât pry as he didnât answer your other question. âIâm 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.â 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.
âIs there a way we can talk more?â You asked, looking up at him and handing his book back. He grabbed the book and smiled, âThe library, at the end of the week, Iâll be there at night-time.â He said as he tucked the book back into his cloak. âWhen you get there, check the poetry section.â 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 didnât look surprised at all, he looked back into his book before turning towards you. âWhen Iâm dead, my dearest Sing no songs for me.â
âI know that one,â You muttered, the man had paused his recital and looked down on you, a bit annoyed at your interruption, âSorry, continueâ.
âPlant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree-â
His words drowned off in her ears. You knew this poem well, and you hated it.
â- I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain, I shall not hear the nightingaleâ The man had paused and looked at your scrunched up face
âYou struggle with grief.â He stated. âYouâve lost someone havenât you.â
âHavenât we all?â You sighed, âShe was my closest friend. I never knew family, but I knew her. She may not hear me now, but my heart cries for her.â
You brushed your fingers against the poem, the tips of them brushing against the words at the end of last stanza, âHaply I may remember and haply may forget.â You echoed.
âIâve lost my mother long ago, but I realize, it made me stronger as a man.â
You looked at him confused, he closed the book, placing it back into the shelf. âIt 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.â
âThatâs impossible, you just canâtâŠâ You paused, you knew nothing about the man, what mindset you have would be different from others, âItâs your motherâŠI donât understandâŠâ
âOf course the average person couldnât understand,â He said softly, brushing his fingers through his pale white hair.
âWhatâs your name?â 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.
âGeorgeâŠ?â 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. âThatâs an interesting name,â You said, âHave you read The Georgics?â
âBarely, itâs about agriculture but I enjoyed how someone could explain something so laboring and dutiful as something beautiful and rewarding.â He put the book back.
âDo you think what youâre doing will be rewarding?â You asked him, âBurrowing down your grief?â
Vergil paused and tilted his head, âYou know not of what I do,â He scoffed, âYouâve barely known my name.â
He stared into your eyes, your words had clearly affected him. His eyebrows furrowed and he clutched his book towards his chest.
âYou spoke a thousand words when you talked about your mother.â You stated, âYouâre suppressing your emotions, and for what strength? Why does that matter to you?â
You gently rested your hand on his arm, he was tense, âGrief makes us human, it separates us fromâŠfrom those wicked demons.â
âI suppose Iâm in the middle.â
He grew less tense and leaned closer into your touch, âYour friend, after her death how long did you mourn?â He asked.
âI still do.â You stepped closer to him, âThatâs 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.â
âYou curse him for not protecting your friend?â He questioned.
âIâŠâ You paused, âI do but, I more so get angry.â
âAt Sparda?â Vergil interrupted.
âAt Lylabelle!â You blurted out, âIf sheâŠif she just had more sense! More knowledge instead of those stupid preachings, she wouldnât have been so involved with the church! If she wasnât involved with the church we wouldnât have been going on walks with the orphans at night! If we weren't on walks with orphans at night she wouldnât have been massacred by those demons!â
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 theyâd stop but they would keep on falling.
You felt strong arms wrap around your frame pulling you in close. It wasnât the most comforting hug, it was rough, almost forced, as if he didnât know how to portray affection. However, it was all that you had at the moment and you really needed one.
âI understandâŠthe anger part.â Vergil breathed as he awkwardly pulled away from the hug, âLoved ones leaving you, and you have to pick yourself back up.â
âIt makes you feel as if youâre the only person in the world,â You sniffed, wiping your damp cheek again.
âI am the only person in my world.â He stated.
You didnât ask, instead a grin was forced through your lips, âIâm right here,â You laughed.
Vergil smiled, âDo you have time for one more poem? You can choose it.â
You nodded and went to scan the shelves. You realized, maybe you didnât have to search. You look back at Vergil, âCan I see your book?â
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, â I head an Angel Singing, When the day was springing:
âMercy, Pity, and Peace,
Are the worldâs release.â
And the hay cocked looked brown.â
Youâd 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.â
You let go of Vergil's hand and finish the poem,
âAt his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens grave a frown.â
Vergil contemplated the words. You spoke up, âI 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.â
âI always saw it differently, I saw the devil asâŠthe smarter and more analytical half of a whole, the angel, the foolish and naive part.â He paused, âThe world scorns at the Devil's truth, shunning him.â
âPoetry can never be interpreted wrong.â 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.
âI havenât talked to someone like this in years,â He muttered, âIt wasâŠI guess it was niceâŠâ He scratched the back of his head.
âI supposed itâs easy telling complete strangers things like this, we may never see eachother again after this night.â You continued, âUnless you would like to talk more?â
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, âI wouldnât mind.â
The candles of the library begin to dim, letting the both of you know that itâs time to go, Vergil gestures for you to walk beside him as you make the trip back to the entrance of the library. âIâll walk you home,â He said while averting eye contact, âI wouldnât want you to get uhm, harmed on these dark streetsâŠâ 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 âprotectorâ.
âWho has seen the wind?
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.â
You whispered but Vergil didnât seem to hear.
