A little rough excerpt from a potential fic about Nero's mother
“Hatred,” she whispers, head bowed into his neck, “isn’t worth it, Vergil.” Her tan fingers curl into the navy fabric at his breast. “And I’m so tired of pretending.”
His eyes are so wide and vulnerable, his breath so slow and careful, and his touch so light and gentle where his snowy hands lift to overlay her own, like the first fragile frost that adorns the earth in autumn. Warmth furls inside her chest, endeared despite herself.
His hands have slain hundreds, if not thousands, yet his skin is unstained.
His hands could shatter hers, if not shatter her, yet his hold is soft.
A blackened past drags after him, like a revenant that claws at his back so he may tumble into the sightless grave dug by his sins – a soundless screaming spectre that shadows his eyes, heard by all who gaze into them.
Yet it is not the dark slayer who gazes back at her. Instead, the wavering ice of his steel blue irises reflect innocence – the resurfacing of a boy who dared not strive for a life freed of the curse impressed upon his lineage.
In a humble gesture of his lips, Vergil smiles, and she beholds the ashes of hope light with faint embers.
