Content Warning: Reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns. Vergil x Reader. I feel that Vergil himself is a content warning in and of himself. Vergil is a prick to the reader(accidentally...kind of). Reflections on consent, body autonomy and the role of a wife in the medieval era.Mentions of war and its consequences. Period-typical misogyny.
Word Count: 3500
Author's note: Part II of Fangs upon Feathers. I’d like to make it clear that this AU doesn’t strictly follow the timeline/events from the original franchise. The names of the characters and events are borrowed, which is why they feel a bit all over the place.
⚔︎Part II.
The events from last night were ones that you could not prise from your mind. Thus, as soon as you had bid your family farewell, you wandered the castle gardens in hopes of collecting yourself.
It was no easy thing to grow accustomed to the sheer scale of your new home. The gardens alone might have rivalled a quarter of your birth castle. No matter how long you might dwell here, you might never be able to know every hall, chamber and corridor that lay within its walls.
Yet for all its enormity, it was a place of undeniable grandeur.
More of a fortress than a castle. Black walls rose so high their peaks vanished into the clouds, spires impaling the very sky above. A dusting of summer snow lay soft upon its harsh edges, but it could not soften its presence. If anything, it lent the structure greater severity, as if it were older than the vast forest surrounding it.
The castle was austere, brutally unadorned despite its magnitude. Almost as if it were a separate, sentient entity. A sleeping giant that had no master and obeyed no law. Only the banners gave a sign that it had been claimed and made subject to a house. Black-and-grey, they hung from the gates and towers alike, each bearing the sigil of the Spardas: a white bear, rearing upon its hind legs, jaws ajar, caught in the moment before a strike.
However, within that battle-scarred shell, the gardens told another story. Lovely, almost delicate to the eye. Narrow paths of worn stone wound between small trees with spiralling trunks, their sage coloured leaves trembling faintly beneath the touch of the cold air. Bushes of muted burgundy grew low to the ground. The camellias bloomed in harmony alongside the winterberries. The weeping willows bent overhead, their long branches falling like a curtain, sheltering you from the caress of the falling snowflakes. All the while, the scent of the pines made the air feel fresh and crisp. The snow enveloped every gift of nature like a mother tucking a child with a fine veil.
You absently touched your nose, imagining the chill of it there. You wished there would be someone to kiss it. How marvellous was the fantasy of it all.
It made you wonder if, inside all imposing things, softness could lie underneath.
You thought of him.
A faint tingling stirred at your fingertips; the events of last night had taken hold of you. Each time your mind recalled the same memory, your ears turned pink in response and felt the urge to take wings and flee from this place entirely. How were you meant to face him now? After what had passed between you two…
When you rejected him, he did not seem angered. Confused, perhaps, but not offended. And for that, you were glad. All your life, you had heard tales of husbands whose pride did not let them take refusal lightly, and reacted the only way they knew how, with wrath. He had not been such a man. But was it improper of you to deny your husband? Of that, you were not so sure.
You found yourself wishing that your mother were beside you. Or your aunt. Even your grandmother. Any voice from home who might offer guidance where your own thoughts ran incomplete, granting the much-needed wisdom you were desperately searching for. Had any of them refused their husbands? On their very own wedding night, had any bride ever done as you had?
This question had never crossed your mind before. Even after all the love stories you had read. Even after those long years of guarding your virtue with such care. Since you were a child, you have been taught to turn away lust before you knew what that word meant. It had always appeared so simple; love would blossom as naturally as a breath. That once betrothed, you would look up to your husband's eyes, and you would simply fall to his feet in complete awe.
But when you saw him, you felt none of that.
There was a complete lack of charm that repelled you completely from him. He had scarcely acknowledged you throughout the wedding, save when he absolutely had to. No words or fond glances were spared unless it was strictly needed, and even then, it felt reluctant. You had hoped that a knightly prince would behave as a chivalrous gentleman. But there was just a coldness to him, so deep it made the frost around the castle feel warm in comparison.
Your dear family would have little patience for your tempers. They would call you ungrateful or spoiled. What right had you, the daughter of a minor house, to find fault in him?
Your husband was handsome and young, an avid warrior who fought bravely for the kingdom in the rebellion. A family of ancient blood, proven in battle and held in high regard. His house stood among the greatest in the realm. He was the heir to the throne.
What more, they would ask, could you possibly desire? What greater height could you ever hope to reach?
Had he not already been promised— had the oath not been hastily sworn before the war— he would have stood as the most coveted bachelor on the continent.
If only he had not been betrothed to you.
You ought to be grateful he showed no sign of disappointment. The wife of an heir was not a distinction granted lightly. Such places were reserved for the great families of the realm. Those whose names carried weight enough not to pale beside the crown. And you— You were a Cobrayne. A minor house, a lesser branch. But you were the eldest daughter, its face, its pride.
Your mother had told you that you were fortunate beyond measure. That you ought to be grateful. Most of all, she had delighted in the vision that her daughter would be queen— Queen of the Underreach. How proud she and your father had been. That their grandsons would be princes and princesses. That their blood would sit beside the crown, not under it.
They were right. The fault clearly lies with you. What did it matter if you found him cold? Perhaps there was gentleness beneath it, deeper than you had cared to look. What did it matter if the notion of facing him again filled you with a strange, unwelcome embarrassment? You would fulfil your duty. If you could not do it for mere volition as a wife, then you would do it as a daughter.
And it seemed the gods themselves had chosen to reward your sudden wisdom. For there, some distance to your left, half hidden beneath the weeping branches of the willows, stood your prince. Absently wandering in serene solitude.
His entire body ached.
Sore, tense. But he was not injured. It was a dull, unyielding weight that had settled so deeply into his muscles that sleep could no longer erase it. Not even the cool breath of the gardens could ease it. It had not done so in some time.
A season ago—when he had only seen but twenty winters— his morning had been differently.
He would rise before the summer sun and take to the yard beneath the slow fall of snowflakes. Letting the cold bite into his skin until warmth returned through motion alone. Steel in hand, he would feel the sharp air turning to heat with every step and strike. Occasionally, he would spar with knights and soldiers. And, in time, his brother would join him.
And that was when the morning truly came alive.
Those knights were sworn to protect him, and soldiers were too cautious to fight him in earnest. But not Dante. Few things proved more entertaining than crossing blades with him.
Whether Vergil held diligently to swordmanship, his brother had never favoured a singular weapon. He shifted between them as whim took him— blade, bow, crossbow. Mastering each just long enough to cast it aside for another. And yet, he would always return to the sword, if only for the chance to stand against him.
Even now, Vergil could almost hear it. The distant clash of steel, the steady rhythm of movement carried across the ground, and beneath it, his brother’s voice. A voice brimming with mirth. Heightened only by pure thrill and the battle-lust coursing through his veins.
Strange, he thought, that they had been born hours apart. And for those few hours, Dante remained free. Free to spend his mornings as he pleased, to train and spar beneath the open sky and alongside the crisp, morning wind. With nothing demanded of him but the strength of his own arm.
But Vergil could not share the same fate. Not anymore.
Each morning, he and his father were bound instead to councils, to letters, to the slow and ceaseless demands of the Kingdom. The better of such duties, few as they were, offered little more than courtesies and empty assurances. The rest spoke only of what remained: ruin, loss, and the long, grinding work of mending what war had broken.
The Argosax rebellion had left the Underreach barely standing, and what remained was held together by urgency alone. The realm would have to heal itself hastily. Faster than its enemies could gather strength, faster than its wounds could deepen. Or else, it will risk losing what little it has endured.
At times, against his will, the voices of the council returned to him unbidden. Reports, tallies, grievances—all spoken in the same grim, unrelenting tone, until they blurred together into a single, ceaseless murmur. It was only the stern of his father’s gaze that drew him back to himself.
It was no easy thing to attend to such matters at the break of day. To hear, before the birds had begun their song, that the northwestern defences lay in ruin still. That one of the realm’s greatest cities had been sacked, its people buried beneath both debris and grief. And the fields burned to ash must yield again, though fewer hands lingered to tend them. Too many people had been lost, and too quickly. And those who prevailed could not yet rise from their mourning.
War had left nothing but wounds, and too little with which to mend them. Each answer uncovered another failing. Each solution revealed further needs. It was slow labour. Endless labour.
Vergil spoke little in such councils, but he listened, especially to his father, who, to his credit, was meticulous in his instruction. He knew his son still had much to learn. And what he must learn would have to be learned quickly. Heirs knew who they were from birth and, therefore, were raised and shaped for such burdens from the cradle. Vergil had not been that lucky.
However, one lesson stood above the rest. Knowing how to win a war, he had come to understand, taught a man nothing of how to rule what remained after it.
Today, his mind strayed only once. He tried to avoid the depths of his head, as there was no comfort to be found in them. Only the feeling of being on the brink of a vast, endless pit that only stares back at you, hungrily praying for you to fall into its jaws.
Eventually, his thoughts spiralled downward. Down, down and down. Until they found you.
You were his wife, but he did not know what to do with you.
Of all the things set before him, marriage— and the bedding that followed— had seemed like the simplest of obligations. But it had not gone as it ought, and he had not expected the matter to perplex him as much.
Why had you rejected him? What exactly had you meant the night before? Had he failed, in some regard, to meet an expectation he had not been made aware of? Did you find him unsuitable for your standards? The notion confused him more than it insulted him. He had assumed that his sudden ascent, from ninth in line to heir, was an undeniable improvement in status. Is it because you did not know him before the arrangement? You did mention that last night, but said circumstances were hardly uncommon in successful marriages of rank. There has to be something else. What was it then that you believed he lacked?
The more he pondered possibilities, the less sense it made.
Unless there was someone else.
Yes, that must be it. You must have wished to wed another man.
Who was that someone who already held your affections? In truth, he could hardly blame you for it. You had been strangers before your union, and you were no child. It was not unreasonable that a woman, as romantic and naive as they were, might form an affection elsewhere before marriage. So long as you had not acted upon those feelings, he saw little reason to take offence. Yes, that must surely be it. You loved someone else and thus refused him.
How… How childish, Vergil regarded with disdain.
Certainly, one might wish to squander one's youth on romance and indulgence, but duty remained duty regardless of personal feelings. He was expected to fulfil his obligations no less than you were. He understood well enough that he was likely far from your ideal vision of a prince. Truthfully, he had never considered himself as one either. The title had always sat strangely upon him. If he had ever imagined a future for himself, it had been as a knight and nothing more. Marriage had always been some distant inevitability, an obligation to be settled eventually, no different from any other oat demanded of him. And fatherhood… less so still.
And no one had asked what he wanted, either. The arrangement had been made long ago without his opinion ever being sought.
So yes, he could understand your dissatisfaction. But he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he wishes your dissatisfaction wouldn’t extend to him. He hoped only to fulfil his duty and have the matter settled with as little unnecessary conflict as possible. He knew there were likely a thousand places you would rather be, and a thousand men whose company you might prefer over his own. Yet none of that altered the truth of it. Neither of you had given a choice. Therefore, it seemed far more sensible to him for you to simply accept it, put childish desires and whims aside, and be done with it.
Besides, everyone spoke of it— of his marital problems, everyone did.
The court. His family. The castle itself. It would not be long, he thought, before the rest of the realm took it up as well. Sometimes people had the decency to be secretive, and sometimes they completely forgot themselves. The topic was so prevalent that it had become… much more persistent than he would have preferred. Embarrassing, even.
He had no habit of speaking of women, nor of his night affairs, to anyone. Not even his twin. When it was raised, he dismissed it where he could, though it returned all the same. He would have preferred the matter remain between the two of you and nowhere else.
He considered seeking counsel, but quickly decided against it. He had no desire to bring such awkward questions before his father. And he did not trust his brother to treat the matter with any seriousness. He could already hear Dante’s: that he ought to be more charming, less bitter or even better, be more like him, and women will simply fall at his feet.
His family would not be of use, he concluded, until another name came to mind.
Perhaps his younger brother.
He, who was away from the court and its noise, in the citadel of Fortuna, might be able to give him some advice. He was no libertine, but he had always been a romantic. Much gentler than he, his twin, or his father could ever be. After all, he was the only brother capable of inheriting his mother’s soft nature. Yes, he could help him.
Vergil made a mental note to send him a raven with a letter this very afternoon.
Too many things had cluttered the young prince's mind, and most were not particularly sound solutions. So, he decided to maunder through the castle gardens. As there were paths, narrow and seldom walked, where the press of court and duty did not follow so closely. A place where he could wander without notice, if only for a time. It was there he had meant to remain, to find that measure of quiet he so desperately craved. Alone, at peace and in silence at last.
That was until he heard your voice.
“I’m glad I found you, my lord.”
Vergil lifted his gaze from the stones beneath him to meet you as you approached. Your steps were quicker than the distance required. You came to a halt before him with a suddenness that made you forget your grace. Your breath was not even, and your cheeks touched faintly with colour. He could not tell if that was because you were very nervous or you were not used to sprinting.
“I have been meaning to talk to you,” you continued, drawing in a breath to steady yourself. “Would you mind accompanying me for a brief walk? I know you are occupied, but it will not take much of your time.”
Vergil felt his jaw muscles tense, and had come to the garden precisely to be alone. He pondered to politely, if he could manage it, refuse you. But his whim for solitude hardly warrants sufficient reason to reject you. And he could not afford to appear discourteous to his wife. So, while gritting his teeth, he inclined his head.
“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” he yielded, as gentlemanly as his mood would allow. You smiled at him. He offered his arm, and you took it at once. You seemed pleased by the gesture, and he noted it in passing.
“I wish to apologise for my behaviour last night. I was discourteous. ”
“There is no need,” his reply was clipped, “If fault is to be found, it lies with me. I was overly blunt.”
He spoke as if he had rehearsed that line, because he had. Not because of you, specifically. But his father had prompted him so much to beware of the bluntness of his words that, out of habit, he muttered that line in almost any given situation. And it always fitted.
“Not at all, my lord. It was my own nerves that overcame me, and I should have known better.”
Vergil kept his gaze fixed ahead, upon the winding path before them. He did not look at you as you spoke, and so he did not see the tension in your hands, nor the careful way you chose your words, nor the soft blush in your ears. Vergil did not pay much attention to you, and unfortunately for both of you, he spoke either way.
“Please, I understand perfectly what you are going through. ”
You were slightly taken aback. “Oh? Is that so?”
“I understand that if you are so greatly displeased with the arrangement, you would not wish to spend a night with me.” Without realising, you started slowing your pace, eventually stopping both of you entirely. Vergil did not seem to notice, as he continued speaking, “It must feel like a tiresome obligation to you.”
“No, my lord. That’s not—”
“And believe me. It is the same for me.”
Silence fell between them.
“...I beg your pardon?”
Vergil could not fully read the expression upon his wife’s face “It is evident enough that it is a tiresome duty to both of us. And there are plenty of things we would rather do than endure each other’s company.” He kept speaking, unaware of the venom crippling through his lips. “But duty is duty. You would do well to set aside this momentary discomfort and see the matter done without further delay—”
The sharp burn of your hand against his face cut him off.
His head turned with the force of it. He slowly raised his hand to his cheek, the heat of it blooming beneath his fingers. He looked at you with wide-open eyes, and his lips slightly parted.
“My lady, I—”
“Do not ever come near me.”
Before he could gather an answer, before he could so much as make sense of what had passed, you had already turned from him. Your skirts swept sharply as you stormed away from the garden, leaving him completely alone.
He remained where he stood for as long as the sting of his face lingered. He could not comprehend what had just passed.
It seems he won’t be able to wait until this afternoon; he ought to send a letter to his young brother right now.
I wonder what it was like sleeping with Leon once he came home, rejuvenated by Elpis. Cured, healed, literally de-aged.
His fixed posture is immediately noticeable when he holds you tight in his arms. His back is straight and now slightly leaning over you. His core feels much firmer. Before, you had to mind hugging him too tight or else he'd lose his balance.
Now he's a rock solid wall.
He kisses you like he's in his twenties again. He hoists you up effortlessly. No sound comes from his lips. No grunts of effort. Just tossed over his shoulder all casually.
He's unsarcastically rough with you. Not rough rough, but for a man his age, and of his health (as far as you knew) this was not your husband. You haven't been kissed this harshly, held this tight in years. You don't remember him getting it up this quickly since you were in your twenties.
He's needy, and he's on top of you, with no regard for his legs or back. The pounding between your thighs is relentless. One split second, you're filled to the brim, and the next, empty. And then you're full again before you process. And then you're empty. In. out. in. out. in. out. It's so fast, and for a change, you're clawing at his back, pleading him to slow down, when typically, it's the other way around.
Glimpses of your loving, gentle husband is still there as you're being fucked like a porn star. His hands grasp yours, his fingers curl around yours like he's holding a bundle of sticks, unable to be bothered to twine your fingers--his forehead dips just above yours to gently touch, and rub your noses together, giving your bruised lips a break.
Your hips are literally off the bed--he's lifting your hips and angling you. It's so overstimulating it's almost painful. He's fucking you like he hates you, but muttering to you like a confession.
"I know, honey--I know, I know--I'm sorry--I'm sorry--I need you--fuck...--I need--"
You didn't even need your "assistance" that night. Postmenopausal hormones were pesky (and Leon had no problem lending you a hand. Or a wand.) but this was the first time you had not one, but a string of organic orgasms since your thirties.
"Come on, one more, honey... One more.."
Leon decides he'll tell you about Elpis once he's finished.
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