100 Theme Challenge

Theme: Eternity

Universe: DMC

Character(s): Vergil

Genre(s): Angst

Warnings: none

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Vergil gazed at his own dark reflection in the empty glass always gleaming as if it had just been cleaned. The windows never yielded anything more than his own reflection, yet, somehow, he preferred the deathly blackness beyond to seeing his own face. He felt compelled to shatter his image with the heavy book in his hand, but Vergil was unsure what would become of him if he were to make an opening for the darkness to seep in or if the glass was even real. For the first time in his entire life, he had no way of truly knowing if he was living, if his accursed prison existed in reality, or if it was all simply an illusion. Of all the times he had descended into Hell, where up could be down or left or right and black was never actually black, that realization was almost hysterically laughable. He might have given into the urge to cackle over it if he didn't fear proving his insanity to the walls that confined him.

Sighing, the halfbreed turned away from himself and made his way for the writing desk, rustling the deeply violaceous curtains as he passed. In truth, it was not a writing desk but a piano. However, when he stroked its ivory keys, every one produced a different sound than it should, and it was not because he lacked the skill to play it properly. He wished the explanation was that simple. Nevertheless, that rendered the piano useless until Vergil had discovered another use for it.

Opening the book to a random page, Vergil seated himself upon the red upholstered bench and brandished the quill that had appeared in his hand sometime after he decided that he needed one. It was already dripping heavy drops of sanguine onto the blank page, in no need of ink. Upon watching the red ink evaporate in clouds of smoke, Vergil recalled the first day he had opened that book. It wasn't always blank; its pages were once literally weighted with word after word. He never had a chance to read a single one, however, because the moment he opened it to the first page, every letter floated up to the ceiling. Vergil then flipped through every page, hoping to catch a single word. However, they all floated up to the ceiling, just as the first, where they were still gathered in a thickly black pile where he had stood before the bookcase. Occasionally, one would drip down onto the rug, but he never could catch it before it evaporated into nothing but thin air. Every book in the shelf did the same, but at the very least, they were all much lighter afterward.

It was only when he touched pen to paper that the half-demon realized his words would not stick to the page any better than the ones that had been printed there. He had chosen that book to be his journal, and the letters of his name that he had carved into its leather-bound cover with a butter knife still leaked blood upon his hands. He had done so before he discovered he no longer possessed the power to scrawl words onto paper. The thought managed to enrage him within mere moments, and the quill snapped like uncooked pasta in his hand, leaking some sort of grainy, black substance that could only be described as soot before the quill itself decomposed into powder. He slammed the book closed, and the powder that blew out nearly choked him. That didn't stop him, however, from chucking the book at the wall. It left a sizable hole in the wall as if it was made of paper. Then, lit candles from the nearby dining table, china he had never used, houseplants that never needed water and all manner of objects began flying toward the wall as if a black hole had been created. Vergil's arms swung about as he attempted to remain upright while the suction pulled him toward the hole. The ceramic pot of a small plant smashed upon his head before his body was battered by countless other objects. Eventually, a book hit his head hard enough that he was stricken with the sense to do something to stop it. He plucked a picture frame from the wall above and placed it over the hole.

As his illogical logic had anticipated, he was no longer being sucked into oblivion, and everything that had been drawn toward the hole simply sunk into the wall and disappeared. Not even he could impede the objects as he felt several simply pass through his body as if he seldom even existed, slithering like smooth earthworms between his organs. Steadying his breath, frosty eyes were glued to the corner as his mind attempted to make sense of what had just happened. Vergil wasn't sure if the fact that his mind did, indeed, rationalize it should relieve or concern him. He tried to erase all memory of the conundrum from his mind as he fell back upon the bench, hoping it wouldn't disappear from beneath him. He had already seen several items disappear from the room never to be seen again. He could touch, smell, taste and even hear them where they once existed. His brain was even convinced that he could still see them, but all he saw was empty space.

A disheartened sigh left the man's lips as his gloved fingers threaded through his hair. It was a sound he had become far more familiar with since he awoke in that chamber however long ago. His hands moved almost as if they had a mind all their own, and he picked the picture frame from the wall as if a black hole had never existed behind it. Perhaps, he forgot all about it because the wall was completely repaired when he removed the frame from it. Or, perhaps, he was far too focused on the photograph it contained to notice. It was a picture of Dante, himself and their mother that Vergil couldn't remember ever hanging upon the wall. His own face was so unfamiliar to him and not only because he was far younger in the photograph. He was smiling. His smile wasn't as wide as Dante's or as warm as his mother's, but it was a sincere smile—one that had contorted his face in far happier times he could no longer recall. He very vaguely remembered that Christmas, but the years following had nearly washed it completely from his mind. He did retain, however, that that was the last Christmas they all spent together before a pack of bloodthirsty devils murdered dear Eva in the dead of night.

Vergil would have shed a tear if he hadn't robbed himself of the ability to cry. It was upon that night that his ruthless hunger for power began. Against all her screaming and begging, Vergil had stayed behind to defend his mother with the meager swordsmanship he had gained through scattered sessions of practice. His failure was inevitable, and he stumbled out of the house they had all shared for as long as he could remember, covered with blood that wasn't only his own. His memory was too hazy for the halfbreed to remember exactly how he had ended up in the cemetery down the hill, but he was propped against a gravestone when voices cackled at him from the darkness. A ghastly face appeared below the treetops that cast the land beyond in thick shadows, its teeth sparkling pristinely white—so clean they almost begged to be sullied by his blood and flesh. The toothy maw mocked his failure, several others appearing to join it, before offering him a helpful little tip. Power, it said, was what he needed. He needed power or he could protect nothing, and to his immature mind that was plagued with constant uncertainty, nothing had ever made more sense. That was the final night he saw Dante for years, and he still hadn't been reunited with himself. Sometimes, he felt he was slowly coming back, but Vergil wasn't certain he deserved to be that person again.

Oh, Dante, thought he, eyes tightly shut and breaths labored, if only I could have one last chance. His brother had offered him that final chance to turn his life around, but he had chosen instead to fall into Hell. Not without leaving Dante with a scarred palm to remember him by, of course. There were some nights that Vergil sat awake and wondered if Dante still had that scar or if it had disappeared completely. That was most nights, for he no longer needed sleep. He never thought he would miss it so much despite that he never felt tired. What Vergil wouldn't give to sleep forever. Fate denied him even that simple luxury, however. If he was sure of nothing else, Vergil was certain he was damned to spend his eternity there.