Post by Devil Sunday on Sept 15, 2006 8:45:49 GMT -5
Authors Notes: I need to contribute something small. I wrote this a year ago. This was inspired by the manga last year.
Trish walked around the graveyard in silence. There were littered dead leaves all over the place and the smell of death lingered. She adjusted her sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose and closed the cape around her shoulders. It wasn’t right that a grown woman should run about with just a small, tight top and equally tight black pants around dead people. Sure, they couldn’t see her, but what if they could? She believed in ghosts didn’t she? She saw so many of them in hell that her experience alone could send even the most heinous human crying in their nightmares. She snorted. What do these humans do care anyway? They never came to visit the dead and the dead long for the living. How ironic isn’t it?
She licked her red lips to prevent the chilly weather from making them dry. Her blue eyes scanned the bright horizon and it was a good thing too that her sunglasses remained with her. Mundus, her creator, told her that she must wear these things so that Dante would not recognize his mother in her. The very moment when she took them off sent him reeling and she knew how much his mother meant to him. She could have very well put another sword through his chest with her face and he’d still forgive her.
Such weakness Dante had for her, just because she possessed the face and body of his mother. It was a good thing too. She wouldn’t be here alive and well walking the empty graveyard, with just ghosts as her companions. What was she here for anyway? To retrieve something for Dante. Yes, that was the mission. To get something back. Trish kept walking forward, shoving the dead leaves aside until she stumbled upon a larger grave with dead roses scattered all over it.
“Looks like I found it.” She mumbled. The wind had picked up and blew her blond hair up. She stands in front of the grave and reads the heading: Vergil.
“Dearest Vergil. It was not your time yet to come with us, now was it? Maybe someday, your brother and I will come and rescue you from your hell. Or is that what you want?” she thought she was going mad. Talking to herself in the graveyard was not a good thing. She leans down and kisses the tomb, “May you rest in peace, Vergil.” Trish then stands back up and takes out the Sparda sword, “But for now, I need this.”
She slams the Sparda blade into the tombstone, breaking it in half, the granite parting to reveal a thick slab. Then finally, what she wanted. His memories.
She saw him then. Vergil’s ghost. Her blue eyes could deal with the darkness and the figure was indistinct, but she knew it was him. The shape of a child staggering from the pain of heart break and misery believing that he had been abandoned by all that loved him. His face, surreal and pale, looked at her and he whispered in his ghostly figure, “Mother?”
Trish couldn’t tell him no. Couldn’t tell him that she was just a creation to look exactly like Eva in every way possible and a tool to get the last of Sparda’s bloodline into hell. Instead, she did what came naturally, because she felt his tears. “Yes. You can rest now, Vergil. It’s time for you to go home.”
He wavered a bit, his light brows came together and his naked form listlessly walked over to the blonde figure, “Mother…..why have you forsaken me?”
She bit her lip, “I didn’t.” What was she thinking? Catering to a ghost? Then she realized she had Eva’s amulet, where Eva’s soul influenced her. Then Trish reached up and grabbed hold of the amulet and the boy’s wandering gaze fixed on that precious keepsake. He whispered again, this time with pain, “Mother….I thought you loved me.” Then an angry expression replaced his confused one. Trish knew that an angry little spectral out for revenge would bode ill, but she was prepared. God willing, she was prepared and she clutched the amulet, believing that Eva in her would help her in this.
The winds started to pick up and all the dead roses filled the air with a stale scent of perfume. Vergil as a child, even in his ghostly image, could present much harm. The leaves swirled in a deadly dance and in one cluster swerved to hit Trish in the face, knocking off her glasses. She jumped back and took out the sword, “No! Don’t! You musn’t do this, Vergil! I’m your mother!”
“I hate you! I hate you!” he screamed, his ghostly figure shimmied in and out and Trish placed the Sparda sword in front of her, defending herself from the onslaught of dead leaves and broken dreams.
The dreams of a broken boy.
The pulsating beat of the bloody Sparda blade throbbed in her hand and Trish was one with Eva. The Sparda sword responded, reflecting back the images to the ghostly figure and Trish closed her eyes from the sheer force of Vergil’s hatred.
When the wind had died down, she looked up to see he was gone.
She took a great big sigh and went back home. When she saw Dante he looked up, an eager expression on his face, “Did you get it?”
“Yes. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.”
“I bought some cold drinks.” He said, as if that would help. Trish smiled at him, shook her head at the way Dante is. Always awkward at things like this, “Sure. Thanks. And oh…”
“Yes?”
“He didn’t even say a word about you.”
Trish walked around the graveyard in silence. There were littered dead leaves all over the place and the smell of death lingered. She adjusted her sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose and closed the cape around her shoulders. It wasn’t right that a grown woman should run about with just a small, tight top and equally tight black pants around dead people. Sure, they couldn’t see her, but what if they could? She believed in ghosts didn’t she? She saw so many of them in hell that her experience alone could send even the most heinous human crying in their nightmares. She snorted. What do these humans do care anyway? They never came to visit the dead and the dead long for the living. How ironic isn’t it?
She licked her red lips to prevent the chilly weather from making them dry. Her blue eyes scanned the bright horizon and it was a good thing too that her sunglasses remained with her. Mundus, her creator, told her that she must wear these things so that Dante would not recognize his mother in her. The very moment when she took them off sent him reeling and she knew how much his mother meant to him. She could have very well put another sword through his chest with her face and he’d still forgive her.
Such weakness Dante had for her, just because she possessed the face and body of his mother. It was a good thing too. She wouldn’t be here alive and well walking the empty graveyard, with just ghosts as her companions. What was she here for anyway? To retrieve something for Dante. Yes, that was the mission. To get something back. Trish kept walking forward, shoving the dead leaves aside until she stumbled upon a larger grave with dead roses scattered all over it.
“Looks like I found it.” She mumbled. The wind had picked up and blew her blond hair up. She stands in front of the grave and reads the heading: Vergil.
“Dearest Vergil. It was not your time yet to come with us, now was it? Maybe someday, your brother and I will come and rescue you from your hell. Or is that what you want?” she thought she was going mad. Talking to herself in the graveyard was not a good thing. She leans down and kisses the tomb, “May you rest in peace, Vergil.” Trish then stands back up and takes out the Sparda sword, “But for now, I need this.”
She slams the Sparda blade into the tombstone, breaking it in half, the granite parting to reveal a thick slab. Then finally, what she wanted. His memories.
She saw him then. Vergil’s ghost. Her blue eyes could deal with the darkness and the figure was indistinct, but she knew it was him. The shape of a child staggering from the pain of heart break and misery believing that he had been abandoned by all that loved him. His face, surreal and pale, looked at her and he whispered in his ghostly figure, “Mother?”
Trish couldn’t tell him no. Couldn’t tell him that she was just a creation to look exactly like Eva in every way possible and a tool to get the last of Sparda’s bloodline into hell. Instead, she did what came naturally, because she felt his tears. “Yes. You can rest now, Vergil. It’s time for you to go home.”
He wavered a bit, his light brows came together and his naked form listlessly walked over to the blonde figure, “Mother…..why have you forsaken me?”
She bit her lip, “I didn’t.” What was she thinking? Catering to a ghost? Then she realized she had Eva’s amulet, where Eva’s soul influenced her. Then Trish reached up and grabbed hold of the amulet and the boy’s wandering gaze fixed on that precious keepsake. He whispered again, this time with pain, “Mother….I thought you loved me.” Then an angry expression replaced his confused one. Trish knew that an angry little spectral out for revenge would bode ill, but she was prepared. God willing, she was prepared and she clutched the amulet, believing that Eva in her would help her in this.
The winds started to pick up and all the dead roses filled the air with a stale scent of perfume. Vergil as a child, even in his ghostly image, could present much harm. The leaves swirled in a deadly dance and in one cluster swerved to hit Trish in the face, knocking off her glasses. She jumped back and took out the sword, “No! Don’t! You musn’t do this, Vergil! I’m your mother!”
“I hate you! I hate you!” he screamed, his ghostly figure shimmied in and out and Trish placed the Sparda sword in front of her, defending herself from the onslaught of dead leaves and broken dreams.
The dreams of a broken boy.
The pulsating beat of the bloody Sparda blade throbbed in her hand and Trish was one with Eva. The Sparda sword responded, reflecting back the images to the ghostly figure and Trish closed her eyes from the sheer force of Vergil’s hatred.
When the wind had died down, she looked up to see he was gone.
She took a great big sigh and went back home. When she saw Dante he looked up, an eager expression on his face, “Did you get it?”
“Yes. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.”
“I bought some cold drinks.” He said, as if that would help. Trish smiled at him, shook her head at the way Dante is. Always awkward at things like this, “Sure. Thanks. And oh…”
“Yes?”
“He didn’t even say a word about you.”