He needed to defeat Dante. It's not exactly the same thing as cutting away all the pain and hurt and trauma, the way most people turn away from their pain, their grief, from whatever they're uncomfortable with. Yet it comes back to the fundamental idea of demons as strong and humans as weak, something that no doubt was worn into him in his time powerless as a prisoner to a demon. (Fuck that, Mizu disagrees, but she's used to being thought weak. It's not meant as an insult from Vergil, she knows, but she also knows that defeating him, defeating each of them, is the only way to convince that whole bloodline.) So Vergil lost to Dante. He lost to Mundus. He lost too many times, and he needed to win, and who better to represent that to him than Dante. It makes sense to Mizu, but she would bet that "it's the only way I could be stronger than your uncle," even if that's not truly what it was about, is not going to satisfy his son.
Mizu watches Vergil and meets his gaze, and she misses the lost child who was there before because she, the same as everyone else who at best ignored her, did not reach out the hand she wanted to receive, the hand she received from swordfather. Vergil may not have wanted it in this moment, but it's one irritating point of anger to lose banked for another day.
Then comes the change Vergil has spoken of before in less direct terms to these events, including some credit he's given to Nero that he even gave Mizu a chance. Vergil cut himself in two and became demon and human, and human he learned what he speaks of. Mizu wonders whether he looked the same as he does now or whether being purely human perhaps made him a more usual height. An idle light musing among all the serious revelations. Again, the fact remains that his harm to Nero to obtain the Yamato led to these positive changes that Nero may wish for. Ironic.
Her fingertips curl to hold his closer, to hold him closer when he finally reaches for her. She's grown so used to his touch, to intimacy not only of words but their bodies, so that the return to her natural state feels harsh and painful in comparison. It anchors Mizu as well as him, and her thoughts race to understand what he says.
Again, Mizu knows only what Vergil has told her of his latest state before the fox spirit found him. He was in the demon world, closed off from the human one, and forced away from Nero. They handled whatever he'd wrought, and he needed only to find his way home. So much as those wrongs could be righted, they have been. That information, along with the reason for this whole conversation, permits Mizu to piece together the likely possibility that Vergil means the situation with Nero and from that also Dante. His family, the people he cares about. The apology Nero wants that Vergil did not know about until Mizu told him. Whatever Dante needs. Whatever else those relationships take.
He could hardly look to a more doubtful partner than her, but Mizu at most could only be a small portion of what he means. They've connected, and however difficult it is for Vergil to tell Mizu about losing to Mundus, losing himself, and all he's done, none of it harmed Mizu, so it is far easier to tell her than to tell Nero or Dante. An easier step forward. Before. Now. In the future. As one of only two people Mizu cares about in Folkmore, a fact she cannot thanks to the last trial, Vergil has Mizu's support in whatever inadequate way she can provide it, for Mizu knows she's not someone skilled at this. By far the opposite.
Mizu rests her other hand atop his, a pitifully small gesture but one in line with what he's shown willingness to accept in the moment, and looks at Vergil with steadiness that feels absolutely false.
"You're not alone," Mizu says. It is both true and an ashy lie in her mouth. Mizu knows she'll leave him some day, that her words do not promise forever, not even as long as the fox spirit may permit them. She means them in that moment, she means them for however long she is in Folkmore. She means them, and half of her wishes to bolt from her own residence before Vergil tosses them back to her unwanted. Today, tomorrow, whenever he doesn't want or need her anymore. When he has Dante and Nero back emotionally. That's fine. Until then, until she leaves Folkmore or he doesn't need her, Mizu is here for him. So she stays put and squeezes his hand.
no subject
Mizu watches Vergil and meets his gaze, and she misses the lost child who was there before because she, the same as everyone else who at best ignored her, did not reach out the hand she wanted to receive, the hand she received from swordfather. Vergil may not have wanted it in this moment, but it's one irritating point of anger to lose banked for another day.
Then comes the change Vergil has spoken of before in less direct terms to these events, including some credit he's given to Nero that he even gave Mizu a chance. Vergil cut himself in two and became demon and human, and human he learned what he speaks of. Mizu wonders whether he looked the same as he does now or whether being purely human perhaps made him a more usual height. An idle light musing among all the serious revelations. Again, the fact remains that his harm to Nero to obtain the Yamato led to these positive changes that Nero may wish for. Ironic.
Her fingertips curl to hold his closer, to hold him closer when he finally reaches for her. She's grown so used to his touch, to intimacy not only of words but their bodies, so that the return to her natural state feels harsh and painful in comparison. It anchors Mizu as well as him, and her thoughts race to understand what he says.
Again, Mizu knows only what Vergil has told her of his latest state before the fox spirit found him. He was in the demon world, closed off from the human one, and forced away from Nero. They handled whatever he'd wrought, and he needed only to find his way home. So much as those wrongs could be righted, they have been. That information, along with the reason for this whole conversation, permits Mizu to piece together the likely possibility that Vergil means the situation with Nero and from that also Dante. His family, the people he cares about. The apology Nero wants that Vergil did not know about until Mizu told him. Whatever Dante needs. Whatever else those relationships take.
He could hardly look to a more doubtful partner than her, but Mizu at most could only be a small portion of what he means. They've connected, and however difficult it is for Vergil to tell Mizu about losing to Mundus, losing himself, and all he's done, none of it harmed Mizu, so it is far easier to tell her than to tell Nero or Dante. An easier step forward. Before. Now. In the future. As one of only two people Mizu cares about in Folkmore, a fact she cannot thanks to the last trial, Vergil has Mizu's support in whatever inadequate way she can provide it, for Mizu knows she's not someone skilled at this. By far the opposite.
Mizu rests her other hand atop his, a pitifully small gesture but one in line with what he's shown willingness to accept in the moment, and looks at Vergil with steadiness that feels absolutely false.
"You're not alone," Mizu says. It is both true and an ashy lie in her mouth. Mizu knows she'll leave him some day, that her words do not promise forever, not even as long as the fox spirit may permit them. She means them in that moment, she means them for however long she is in Folkmore. She means them, and half of her wishes to bolt from her own residence before Vergil tosses them back to her unwanted. Today, tomorrow, whenever he doesn't want or need her anymore. When he has Dante and Nero back emotionally. That's fine. Until then, until she leaves Folkmore or he doesn't need her, Mizu is here for him. So she stays put and squeezes his hand.