#1 = DMC
Try 1,892, people.
For Amanda, milkmoon. She wanted a DMC story with Vergil and Dante having some sort of serious talk. I think this is set quite obviously pre-DMC3. Based off of a lot of theories and crap.
It was a tradition, to do this, every year since their mother died. It was a tradition that once included Dante and his brother, but after so long, it was only Dante himself that would continue on, annually, faithfully. Winter would arrive, and snow would cover the lands surrounding the gothic mausoleum. Trees dark and bare for their seasonal hibernation only added to the dreary feeling of the cemetery, centuries old, surrounding the large tower.
Dante fastened his jacket snug around him after giving his black shirt a quick brush, ridding of fresh snow that had begun to sprinkle over him after he entered the large grounds. Across his back, Rebellion was strapped with his dual pistols, on the ready, as even in-no-especially in cemeteries were the dangers high for otherworldly attacks. Creatures that enjoyed feasting on the flesh of the dead and scaring the living plagued cemeteries. Mere annoyances to him, and no doubt either coming or going one or two would be stupid enough to try to take him head-on.
Fortunately, his journey up the icy and slushy dirt road that joined at the base of the mausoleum tower was uneventful. Which was very good, as he had no desire to fight on this day. At least not there, not where his mother and those before her in his human bloodline were laid to rest. Fighting seemed disrespectful there, even if that sentiment didn’t stop him from protecting himself.
Up to the wood doors he meandered, and through them he went. Inside, the dark hall was lit by bright electric lanterns five feet apart on each side, and lining the insides of burial alcoves. Dante remembered a time when the mausoleum didn’t have electricity for such amenities, and the shock when they first installed them. He’d opened the door, and blurted out a few choice words in surprise. Oops to him that there had been a family in there that looked rather irked to hear such words thrown about when they were religiously honoring their family in their private alcove. And it was pretty much why Dante chose only to come from that point on, late in the night. When he was sure no one would be around, save a groundskeeper occasionally.
Feet carelessly plodding and shuffling on the stone floor, bricked in patterns and blackened with age, Dante made his way through the mausoleum hall. At the far end of the hall, to the left, the alcove dedicated to those of his mortal family stood, dark and seemingly abandoned.
Oh well, at least for this fine Christmas Eve it wouldn’t be, like for every Christmas Eve. It was his mother’s favorite holiday, more than Christmas Day itself, he remembered, and thus where the tradition lay. Every Christmas Eve, he’d pay her a visit and talk for a few hours to the nameplate marking her tomb. Normally, he would have some sort of floral gift for her. Some token to leave behind, for her soul to have something on Christmas Day, but the flowers he’d purchased for her had been destroyed on his way to the cemetery when he was barraged by wraiths. He hoped she’d understand, after he explained it to her.
Dante rounded the corner of the alcove entry, opening his mouth to blurt out his greeting as he did every year, when a blotch of potent cerulean by her tomb made the words choke up in his throat. He stopped dead and his hand immediately grasped at Rebellion’s hilt.
“Vergil…”
Clad in blue, as he always was, stood Dante’s elder twin, Vergil. His head had been bowed, his hands clasped to his favorite katana in front of him. Eyes shut, and not bothering to open even when Dante said his name, Vergil replied, “Dante. So loud. Can’t you see I’m praying?”
Dante narrowed his eyes. “Praying? Heh, you’re not the type.” In a show of good faith, Dante’s hand dropped from Rebellion and he sauntered in towards his brother. “What are you doing?”
As Dante approached, Vergil opened his eyes and raised his head, but not to look at Dante. Instead, they fixed ahead on the nameplate belonging to their mother, Eva. “I had some free time this year, you see.”
“Yeah,” Dante replied with a snort, traipsing around behind him in a slight dance. Vergil glanced over one shoulder, and then the other to watch the younger twin as he did so; Dante continued, “I know how much being a megalomaniac takes up good valuable time you could be using to be a ‘fine, upstanding citizen’.”
“So sour, brother,” Vergil replied, still glancing at him sideways. “Must we bicker here, this night?”
Dante shuffled a little in his jacket and shrugged. “Dunno. I guess I’m just surprised, seeing as to how you pretty much said this wasn’t a priority anymore last time I mentioned it.”
“Hm.”
That was Vergil’s way of blowing off a subject that would only cause him to dig a futile hole for himself. Though Dante scowled at him each and every time he did it, it was also something that Dante rather envied. As combative as Dante was, he couldn’t leave such accusations to rest, even if they were true. Then again, Dante never screwed himself over, resulting in such accusations being hurled his way.
Vergil’s eyes had returned to the nameplate again when Dante started to speak. “This isn’t going to lead to some diabolical plot to open Hell, or something stupid like that, right?”
“I’m hurt.” Vergil shifted around to face his brother fully. His hands never left their place in front of his body, clutched to the katana. “Not everything I do leads up to a plot to control all this plane of existence, Dante.”
“Could’a fooled me,” Dante replied, folding his arms over his chest. “So, what, you’re actually only here to see her?”
“Believe it or not. I could care less.”
“I know.”
Vergil snorted and went to pacing. He didn’t stop, even as he reached out occasionally to tap the nameplates of their ancestors as he passed by. “Did you see what they did to our home, Dante?”
‘Home’. As in their childhood home? That’s what Dante believed, as it was the only place in which he and Vergil lived together. Not exactly born into poverty, Dante carried fond memories of getting lost within massive halls and the gardens out in the back. Their mother and their father always having to seek them out, or the occasional groundskeeper or maid would locate them and drag them to their parents for a swift scolding for wandering out so far (and usually followed by a humored chuckle, of course). Christmas Eves were the best there, too. While their family was a relatively reclusive breed, for many obvious reasons, some years Eva would successfully convince Sparda to allow them to have a Christmas ball with some of their most trusted family and friends. The Admiral (for the life of him Dante could never remember his name) was always the favored guest for Vergil and himself. Interesting stories of war and military companionship came from the Admiral, often preoccupying them the entire night through.
“I haven’t been home in years,” Dante replied. “No point, ya know? It’s not home anymore.” Not like it would be easy. As far as anyone associated with the house was concerned, the sons of Sparda and Eva died almost a hundred years ago.
“Especially now,” Vergil replied, clanking the katana sheath against the nameplate of their great grandfather.
Dante furrowed his brow and leaned back, awkwardly, as if trying to get a wider view of his brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vergil turned to him, swinging and clasping his hands behind his back, assuming a straight, soldier-like position. “The Historical Society have been given the deed to the entire property,” he replied. “It’s a tourist attraction.”
“What?!” Dante exclaimed. Oh, if only they weren’t in the presence of their mother as far as Dante was concerned, or else the words would be flying. “For how long?!”
A shrug passed over Vergil’s shoulders. “Five… maybe six years.”
The way Vergil seemed to care less about it infuriated Dante, because he knew-he absolutely knew that it really didn’t bother Vergil that the Historical Society had been basically prostituting their childhood home out to foreigners and schoolchildren. Vergil only brought it up because he knew it would bother Dante-Dante knew this was exactly why. Yes, it was nice to know, but…
“Whatever,” Dante snorted. Vergil had been watching him for his reaction, and Dante wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing him upset. He shuffled around and turned his eyes to the floor. A foot swung back and he tapped his toes against the ground to busy himself.
“Isn’t it ironic,” Vergil replied, voice droll, and yet a little chastising, “that the only place we have left of any familiarity is the final resting place of mortals?” His pacing began again, a leisurely traipse for the exit of the alcove. “And that it’s also the one place we will never be allowed to stay?”
Dante lifted his head and shot a glance at Vergil. What the Hell would make him say something like that? And yet, sadly, Dante had to admit he was right. Every piece of their past had withered either from nature, or age. To ruins, or to the hands of greed. Vergil probably didn’t care, but it pained Dante greatly.
Physical tokens of memories were precious to him, as the years rolled on, and the more he realized that their inherited longevity was not bound to give out any time soon. His mind still recalled most memories as clear as day, but what if it stopped being so easy? At least with something tangible… something he could touch and smell, it would be harder to forget, right?
“Well, it’s like they always say,” Dante replied somberly. He walked over to Eva’s nameplate and stripped off his glove, to place tender fingers over her engraved name. “You can never go home again.”
“Oh, Dante,” Vergil said with a chuckle. It was that terrible ‘You’re such a pitiful fool’ chuckle he’d often give just before one of their fights. Dante hated it, and Vergil knew it too. “Don’t you realize yet?”
“Realize what?” Dante asked, his voice sour. Not once did his eyes part with the nameplate, nor did his fingers.
Vergil paced out into the main hall of the mausoleum and rotated both shoulders to stretch them out, before glancing back into the alcove at his brother. “When you live forever, ‘home’ is simply a relative term.”
Dante tensed together, his hand forming a fist, although it never left the nameplate. The truth in those words stung. The sound of his brother’s footsteps echoed in the mausoleum as Vergil made for the exit. It would be brutally long moments before Dante would move, to try to conduct himself as he had every Christmas Eve for his mother. To tell her of the year’s happenings, and of the new home he’d made for himself, since the last time he talked. Always a new story, always a new home. Driven from one place to the next, the young man admitted. Maybe ‘home’ really was a relative term, for someone like him.
For Amanda, milkmoon. She wanted a DMC story with Vergil and Dante having some sort of serious talk. I think this is set quite obviously pre-DMC3. Based off of a lot of theories and crap.
It was a tradition, to do this, every year since their mother died. It was a tradition that once included Dante and his brother, but after so long, it was only Dante himself that would continue on, annually, faithfully. Winter would arrive, and snow would cover the lands surrounding the gothic mausoleum. Trees dark and bare for their seasonal hibernation only added to the dreary feeling of the cemetery, centuries old, surrounding the large tower.
Dante fastened his jacket snug around him after giving his black shirt a quick brush, ridding of fresh snow that had begun to sprinkle over him after he entered the large grounds. Across his back, Rebellion was strapped with his dual pistols, on the ready, as even in-no-especially in cemeteries were the dangers high for otherworldly attacks. Creatures that enjoyed feasting on the flesh of the dead and scaring the living plagued cemeteries. Mere annoyances to him, and no doubt either coming or going one or two would be stupid enough to try to take him head-on.
Fortunately, his journey up the icy and slushy dirt road that joined at the base of the mausoleum tower was uneventful. Which was very good, as he had no desire to fight on this day. At least not there, not where his mother and those before her in his human bloodline were laid to rest. Fighting seemed disrespectful there, even if that sentiment didn’t stop him from protecting himself.
Up to the wood doors he meandered, and through them he went. Inside, the dark hall was lit by bright electric lanterns five feet apart on each side, and lining the insides of burial alcoves. Dante remembered a time when the mausoleum didn’t have electricity for such amenities, and the shock when they first installed them. He’d opened the door, and blurted out a few choice words in surprise. Oops to him that there had been a family in there that looked rather irked to hear such words thrown about when they were religiously honoring their family in their private alcove. And it was pretty much why Dante chose only to come from that point on, late in the night. When he was sure no one would be around, save a groundskeeper occasionally.
Feet carelessly plodding and shuffling on the stone floor, bricked in patterns and blackened with age, Dante made his way through the mausoleum hall. At the far end of the hall, to the left, the alcove dedicated to those of his mortal family stood, dark and seemingly abandoned.
Oh well, at least for this fine Christmas Eve it wouldn’t be, like for every Christmas Eve. It was his mother’s favorite holiday, more than Christmas Day itself, he remembered, and thus where the tradition lay. Every Christmas Eve, he’d pay her a visit and talk for a few hours to the nameplate marking her tomb. Normally, he would have some sort of floral gift for her. Some token to leave behind, for her soul to have something on Christmas Day, but the flowers he’d purchased for her had been destroyed on his way to the cemetery when he was barraged by wraiths. He hoped she’d understand, after he explained it to her.
Dante rounded the corner of the alcove entry, opening his mouth to blurt out his greeting as he did every year, when a blotch of potent cerulean by her tomb made the words choke up in his throat. He stopped dead and his hand immediately grasped at Rebellion’s hilt.
“Vergil…”
Clad in blue, as he always was, stood Dante’s elder twin, Vergil. His head had been bowed, his hands clasped to his favorite katana in front of him. Eyes shut, and not bothering to open even when Dante said his name, Vergil replied, “Dante. So loud. Can’t you see I’m praying?”
Dante narrowed his eyes. “Praying? Heh, you’re not the type.” In a show of good faith, Dante’s hand dropped from Rebellion and he sauntered in towards his brother. “What are you doing?”
As Dante approached, Vergil opened his eyes and raised his head, but not to look at Dante. Instead, they fixed ahead on the nameplate belonging to their mother, Eva. “I had some free time this year, you see.”
“Yeah,” Dante replied with a snort, traipsing around behind him in a slight dance. Vergil glanced over one shoulder, and then the other to watch the younger twin as he did so; Dante continued, “I know how much being a megalomaniac takes up good valuable time you could be using to be a ‘fine, upstanding citizen’.”
“So sour, brother,” Vergil replied, still glancing at him sideways. “Must we bicker here, this night?”
Dante shuffled a little in his jacket and shrugged. “Dunno. I guess I’m just surprised, seeing as to how you pretty much said this wasn’t a priority anymore last time I mentioned it.”
“Hm.”
That was Vergil’s way of blowing off a subject that would only cause him to dig a futile hole for himself. Though Dante scowled at him each and every time he did it, it was also something that Dante rather envied. As combative as Dante was, he couldn’t leave such accusations to rest, even if they were true. Then again, Dante never screwed himself over, resulting in such accusations being hurled his way.
Vergil’s eyes had returned to the nameplate again when Dante started to speak. “This isn’t going to lead to some diabolical plot to open Hell, or something stupid like that, right?”
“I’m hurt.” Vergil shifted around to face his brother fully. His hands never left their place in front of his body, clutched to the katana. “Not everything I do leads up to a plot to control all this plane of existence, Dante.”
“Could’a fooled me,” Dante replied, folding his arms over his chest. “So, what, you’re actually only here to see her?”
“Believe it or not. I could care less.”
“I know.”
Vergil snorted and went to pacing. He didn’t stop, even as he reached out occasionally to tap the nameplates of their ancestors as he passed by. “Did you see what they did to our home, Dante?”
‘Home’. As in their childhood home? That’s what Dante believed, as it was the only place in which he and Vergil lived together. Not exactly born into poverty, Dante carried fond memories of getting lost within massive halls and the gardens out in the back. Their mother and their father always having to seek them out, or the occasional groundskeeper or maid would locate them and drag them to their parents for a swift scolding for wandering out so far (and usually followed by a humored chuckle, of course). Christmas Eves were the best there, too. While their family was a relatively reclusive breed, for many obvious reasons, some years Eva would successfully convince Sparda to allow them to have a Christmas ball with some of their most trusted family and friends. The Admiral (for the life of him Dante could never remember his name) was always the favored guest for Vergil and himself. Interesting stories of war and military companionship came from the Admiral, often preoccupying them the entire night through.
“I haven’t been home in years,” Dante replied. “No point, ya know? It’s not home anymore.” Not like it would be easy. As far as anyone associated with the house was concerned, the sons of Sparda and Eva died almost a hundred years ago.
“Especially now,” Vergil replied, clanking the katana sheath against the nameplate of their great grandfather.
Dante furrowed his brow and leaned back, awkwardly, as if trying to get a wider view of his brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vergil turned to him, swinging and clasping his hands behind his back, assuming a straight, soldier-like position. “The Historical Society have been given the deed to the entire property,” he replied. “It’s a tourist attraction.”
“What?!” Dante exclaimed. Oh, if only they weren’t in the presence of their mother as far as Dante was concerned, or else the words would be flying. “For how long?!”
A shrug passed over Vergil’s shoulders. “Five… maybe six years.”
The way Vergil seemed to care less about it infuriated Dante, because he knew-he absolutely knew that it really didn’t bother Vergil that the Historical Society had been basically prostituting their childhood home out to foreigners and schoolchildren. Vergil only brought it up because he knew it would bother Dante-Dante knew this was exactly why. Yes, it was nice to know, but…
“Whatever,” Dante snorted. Vergil had been watching him for his reaction, and Dante wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing him upset. He shuffled around and turned his eyes to the floor. A foot swung back and he tapped his toes against the ground to busy himself.
“Isn’t it ironic,” Vergil replied, voice droll, and yet a little chastising, “that the only place we have left of any familiarity is the final resting place of mortals?” His pacing began again, a leisurely traipse for the exit of the alcove. “And that it’s also the one place we will never be allowed to stay?”
Dante lifted his head and shot a glance at Vergil. What the Hell would make him say something like that? And yet, sadly, Dante had to admit he was right. Every piece of their past had withered either from nature, or age. To ruins, or to the hands of greed. Vergil probably didn’t care, but it pained Dante greatly.
Physical tokens of memories were precious to him, as the years rolled on, and the more he realized that their inherited longevity was not bound to give out any time soon. His mind still recalled most memories as clear as day, but what if it stopped being so easy? At least with something tangible… something he could touch and smell, it would be harder to forget, right?
“Well, it’s like they always say,” Dante replied somberly. He walked over to Eva’s nameplate and stripped off his glove, to place tender fingers over her engraved name. “You can never go home again.”
“Oh, Dante,” Vergil said with a chuckle. It was that terrible ‘You’re such a pitiful fool’ chuckle he’d often give just before one of their fights. Dante hated it, and Vergil knew it too. “Don’t you realize yet?”
“Realize what?” Dante asked, his voice sour. Not once did his eyes part with the nameplate, nor did his fingers.
Vergil paced out into the main hall of the mausoleum and rotated both shoulders to stretch them out, before glancing back into the alcove at his brother. “When you live forever, ‘home’ is simply a relative term.”
Dante tensed together, his hand forming a fist, although it never left the nameplate. The truth in those words stung. The sound of his brother’s footsteps echoed in the mausoleum as Vergil made for the exit. It would be brutally long moments before Dante would move, to try to conduct himself as he had every Christmas Eve for his mother. To tell her of the year’s happenings, and of the new home he’d made for himself, since the last time he talked. Always a new story, always a new home. Driven from one place to the next, the young man admitted. Maybe ‘home’ really was a relative term, for someone like him.