#Ebony and Ivory Jar of Notes

[jorjashillinglaw]

Time Travel Jar of Notes – KindNotes

KindNotes, a special present that encapsulates sentimental feelings in a gorgeously designed jar, will let you discover the power of meaningful connection. With 31 customized notes, each Time Travel Jar of Notes provides a sentimental adventure through time, offering solace, motivation, and love—one letter at a time. Our kind present is ideal for anyone who values heartfelt sentiments, whether it's for a birthday, anniversary, or simply because. The jar, which is hand-assembled with decorative envelopes, lends a charming touch to any area. KindNotes makes enduring memories with each message, making it perfect for daily affirmations, encouragement, and long-distance relationships. Give the gift of eternal feelings and let a particular someone discover the wonders of a Time Travel Jar of Notes, which is sure to be cherished for a lifetime.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 60: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A casket of oak covered with ivory and ebony marquetry in the shape of a curled up and sleeping cat.

A long, crystal bottle with a narrow neck. The sealed vessel contains distilled cordial of halo-flower harvested from the dreamworld of Aenir.

A large bundle of Kingsparrow feather tied together with twine. The rare plumage is of fine quality and would be worth ten gold to the right buyer.

A hand sized piece of Random Humanoid leather with a slave merchant's brand on it.

A shattered mask, once belonging to an ordained Sester. Though broken this mask still retains a trace of its original religious purpose. It hums with faint whispers when worn. They demand an offering.

A jeweler's ticket that says the bearer can present this receipt and retrieve their ring after it has been professionally cleaned in a nearby city. The writing states the work has not been paid for and the bearer will have to pay 5d4 silver upon pickup which should take no more than two days. For proper claiming purposes, the ticket has the first sentence of the following description written on it: Random Ring.

A headband made from gilt bronze.

A burnt and tattered scrap of fabric, once part of a regimental standard. Whenever it's grasped, a few words flow into the bearer’s mind as if long forgotten but suddenly remembered; “We didn’t let them capture the flag, captain. You would have been proud of us.”

A large crude drum with the word "War" scrawled in Giant.

A muck-covered glass jar filled with small, white, writhing worms that possess haggard human faces. If the jar is opened, thrown at something or otherwise destroyed, the worms rapidly cannibalize one another until only one remains. The last remaining worm will become large and bloated upon feasting on its brethren. It will attempt, in a shrill voice, to convince someone nearby to eat it.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A casket of oak covered with ivory and ebony marquetry in the shape of a curled up and sleeping cat.

A long, crystal bottle with a narrow neck. The sealed vessel contains distilled cordial of halo-flower harvested from the dreamworld of Aenir.

A large bundle of Kingsparrow feather tied together with twine. The rare plumage is of fine quality and would be worth ten gold to the right buyer.

A hand sized piece of Random Humanoid leather with a slave merchant's brand on it.

A shattered mask, once belonging to an ordained Sester. Though broken this mask still retains a trace of its original religious purpose. It hums with faint whispers when worn. They demand an offering.

A jeweler's ticket that says the bearer can present this receipt and retrieve their ring after it has been professionally cleaned in a nearby city. The writing states the work has not been paid for and the bearer will have to pay 5d4 silver upon pickup which should take no more than two days. For proper claiming purposes, the ticket has the first sentence of the following description written on it: Random Ring.

A headband made from gilt bronze.

A burnt and tattered scrap of fabric, once part of a regimental standard. Whenever it's grasped, a few words flow into the bearer’s mind as if long forgotten but suddenly remembered; “We didn’t let them capture the flag, captain. You would have been proud of us.”

A large crude drum with the word "War" scrawled in Giant.

A muck-covered glass jar filled with small, white, writhing worms that possess haggard human faces. If the jar is opened, thrown at something or otherwise destroyed, the worms rapidly cannibalize one another until only one remains. The last remaining worm will become large and bloated upon feasting on its brethren. It will attempt, in a shrill voice, to convince someone nearby to eat it.

A mind flayer doll which has a tiny astral cord attached.

A soft leather riding saddle over a light frame, designed for comfort. Every good saddle eventually conforms to horse and rider, like a favorite shoe or an old hat. The narrow skirt below the seat is stamped and scrolled. On the wood under the pommel, a name is branded. The stirrup irons show the wear of a thousand rides, and the blanket below is undoubtedly soft on the horse, colored and patterned for beauty as well as utility.

A multihued shard of unidentifiable crystal that seems to reflect a verdant forest rather than the expected surroundings, no matter its physical location.

A heavy fang the size of a man's hand that could only have belonged to a ferocious predatory beast. You feel at ease knowing there's one less of those monsters in the world.

A single blood red rose that never seems to wilt or need watering.

A leather bracelet adorned with shed claws and teeth.

A multi-colored glass globe approximately three inches in diameter. Further examination will reveal that the interior of the globe is filled with crisscrossing strands of glass. The object is very fragile, and must be either hung up or else carefully carried to avoid breakage.

A mage’s staff capped with a diamond-shaped formation of metal on each end. The shaft is made of a light, flexible wood.

An amateur taxidermy python, posed in a knotted-up position with a forced, unnatural smile on its face. Its wooden stand resembles a bumpy chunk of rock, with a branch for the snake to rest on and a handful of dusty, fake leaves glued on. The snake’s beady, fake eyes are unusually bright and reflective, even in near complete darkness.

An arcane rod made of obsidian with a red dragon etched in relief spiraling the length of the rod. The dragon appears to glow as if a fire burns within the rod, which is warm to the touch.

A set of 3d4 lovely silver dining forks wrapped carefully in a torn strip of dyed linen.

A fist sized stone that has naturally developed a perfect likeness of the divine symbol of the Random Humanoid God of Random Godly Domain within its striations. While it can’t be used as a holy symbol without being blessed and anointed, it might be worth something to a priest or devotee of the God.

A simple silver bell adorned with depictions of angels and birds.

A tangled ball of silver wire.

A tall, conical hat embroidered with silver and golden swirling threads.

A wide brimmed hat that always shadows the eyes, even when the bearer looks directly into light.

A censer attached to a length of chain that perpetually smells of frankincense and sage.

An ancient, carven figurine, plucked from the secret halls of the city beneath. It has a strangely familiar aspect.

A dusty glass bottle filled with Ovengut Tonic Water. The label on the bottle says “What doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. The old tales are true and imbibing this remedy will grant an iron constitution.”

A crystal sphere, half encased in volcanic rock.

A hound-master's whistle made from a piece of a deer antler, with a silver mouthpiece. Its single mid-range tone is strong and audible at a long distance.

A pocketwatch broken beyond repair. Somehow, the gears are so bungled that merely winding the watch emits a screeching, grinding drone.

A lute, sized for a child. Goat-gut strings, and made of waxed kauri wood.

A crocheted handbag, painstakingly woven with over a dozen images of lizards.

A tiny, gilded metal box, the size of a closed fist, locked tight. All efforts to open it have so far proven ineffectual. When shaken, it makes soft clinking sounds, as if tiny glass objects are bouncing off one another inside.

A big floppy hat made of silk with dozens of tiny semiprecious stones sewn around the brim.

A single iron nail taken from the gallows where the most infamous killer who ever lived was hanged.

A finger-sized barb from the stinger of a giant bee.

A smooth, rounded river rock with a rose scraped into its face.

A glass bottle containing a thick clear liquid with flakes of bright silver suspended in it. Pale wax coats and seals the flask’s cork. A sacred symbol has been embossed in this wax, and the same symbol has been painted on the glass. Knowledgeable PC’s are able to identify the contents as holy water, which burns fiends and undead like acid but never harms the innocent.

A heavy sheepskin hat suitable for wear in stormy climes.

A land grant, bearing the seal of a dead official, declaring Lord Farhad and his daughter Ara to be the rightful owners of Seven Lake Country. As far as you know, Farhad and Ara have been dead for years, and Seven Lake Country is way, way out into the wilderness; but still, if you can pass yourself off as a descendant, maybe you can find more profit than they did out on the frontier…

A gilt cage, sized for a songbird, with ornamented base depicting wild animals.

An amethyst brooch of complex interwoven silver and gold wire.

A sequined squid skin belt pouch.

A spool of fine wire copper wire that could be useful for setting trip-wires, rigging up pulleys, or conducting electricity.

A wooden spool wound with four yards of red satin ribbon.

A leather wallet stamped with the emblem of a prestigious library of the nearest metropolis. It contains a large stack of officially signed and stamped certificates of academic qualifications such as baccalaureates, diplomas and degrees, all filled out with the same almost-illegible name. These would be extremely useful in the hands of people who want to pretend that they have knowledge or status they don't really possess such as spies, charlatans, or college drop-outs.

A strange death whistle made of obsidian and inlaid with bronze, iron, copper, and silver. When played, it makes a loud screaming sound that drives fear and pain into the minds of those who hear it.

A Random Humanoid skull that cackles madly whenever a joke is told within ten feet of it.

A padded combat training dummy that mends any damage done to it at dusk each day.

A small, paper-wrapped package containing a dozen decorative wooden hair sticks.

A marble sized bead that is black, almost obsidian in its shine. Perfectly spherical, perfectly smooth. As you pick it up, you feel the immense weight of it (Much heavier than you expected) though you know it can’t actually weigh as much as that. It must be some sort of trick.

A metal and enamel mask in the shape of a raven’s face.

A large magnolia blossom made from fine bone china.

A well-made, silver chain bracelet with small silver heart charms hanging off each link. A single one of these charms is carved from a rose zircon, which gives off a small amount of heat.

A wicked looking but dull knife smelling of cinnamon and another, fouler scent.

A map displaying various constellations with “The stars are right!” Scrawled under them in red.

A tattered piece of sheet music. The notes can no longer be clearly read. No one knows for certain what story this piece was meant to tell.

A dragonchess set carved from whalebone.

A floral veil used in Vampire rituals. Its once vibrant redness has been sucked empty, leaving nothing only a pale white color to the blossoms.

A small sealed and preserved jar of Fowlbeast Liver Pâté. Bright and vividly colorful, it is eaten only by nobles who can afford.

A gorgeous stone figure fits in the palm of one’s hand and depicts a beautiful female drow with large spider legs.

A handheld sphere of Randomly Coloured crystal with a deep crack almost splitting it in two.

A finger length shard of pale gold stone that contains flecks of black that seem to change position upon subsequent viewings.

An irregular amber crystal, roughly a foot and a half long and covered in minutely cared runes written in draconic. At the heart of the crystal, a wyrmling’s heart occasionally beats causing the runes to glow.

A dreamcatcher made of a twig, sinew, and hemp string.

A tea kettle that heats itself when filled with clean water.

A small, unassuming tack hammer, with a delicate bronze head and a smooth wooden handle. It exudes a faint magical aura of an evil nature, but no amount of divining or scrying will reveal its precise magical powers.

A fireproof, ogre sized blanked of braided hide strips and silver hair.

A metal rod with a zombified head of some tentacled creature impaled on the end. The rod has odds symbols carved into it that seem to move and shift, if you stare at them too long.

An obscene brass figurine, depicting Gaodha, the Deepfather. It is a mass of tentacles and tendrils, acting as the muscles for a humanoid skeleton.

A carved wooden likeness of a beloved pet.

The Screaming Lord’s Flesh Drum: A large drum with human flesh wrapped tightly around it. With each hit upon the flesh drum a scream can be heard in the distance with every additional hit causing the screaming to get closer.

A fist-sized geode that beats like a living heart.

A signal horn made of the winding shell of an aquatic mollusk.

A cheaply made, printed pamphlet advocating political change.

A cylinder of unknown metal covered with engravings. When focused on it activates, playing recordings of chants for elder gods for a random period of time.

An origami lotus flower whose petals are closed, but open up and turn a shade of pink when exposed to sunlight.

A pristine green apple that never seems to rot. When bitten into, it tastes strangely like pumpkin pie.

A fuzzy fleece blanket that constantly remains at a pleasantly warm temperature.

A stone figurine of a dog that urinates on whoever picks it up.

A small wooden chest that rattles and shakes occasionally as if something is trapped inside, but there’s never anything in it.

A set of metal dice which are all covered in wickedly sharp spikes, making it difficult to pick up or roll the dice.

A silver tankard that has a multitude of holes in the sides. Liquids you pour into the tankard strangely do not leak out of the holes.

An eerily accurate voodoo doll of one of the PC's. When it is stabbed, it tickles the PC where the doll was stabbed.

A silver shot glass that makes every liquid poured into it taste disgusting.

A wicker effigy of a mindflayer that glows a dull red in the dark.

A bracelet made of tough leather with a symbol of a sundial on it. Looking at it causes the wearer to magically know what time it is.

A decorated teapot made of fine porcelain, with half a dozen spouts protruding from one side of the teapot.

A dodecahedron made of glass that when activated projects a night sky, complete with shooting stars and constellations.

A deck of playing cards in which each card has an arbitrarily large number of symbols on it as opposed to the typical 2-10 of each suit. It includes cards like the 28 of clubs, the 132 of spades, and the 69 of diamonds, which has the word “Nice” written in tiny letters at the bottom of the card.

A pair of glasses that blind the wearer, but the glasses telepathically describe what the wearer would see to him.

A crimson monkey skull carved entirely from blood garnet and weighs four pounds. An aura of feral sentience draws your gaze to it.

A voodoo doll that resembles a famous individual that died recently in the kingdom. The doll has several valuable stones tucked inside of it and appears to have dried blood on it.

A pouch of ruby red powder that smells potently of spices.

A three-channel ink fed fountain pen.

A chunk of topaz embedded in a piece of sticky, lint covered toffee.

A prosthetic eye carved from amber with a sliver of obsidian shaped like a cat's pupil embedded in the center.

A hand-drawn map of a local temple, with several secret passages marked on it. Next to one of them (Which appears to connect the temple with another nearby building) someone has written the words: “NEVER use this tunnel after dark.”

[highladydawn]

Trick or Treat Nessian > “i’m not scared.” “back up a little then, would you?”

The coin toss gave you treat! Here's 1k words of Haunted House Worker Nesta and Scaredy Cat Cassian. (Rated T) 🧛🖤

The coffin was comfortable at least—for a fake one. Nesta shifted against the cushiony padding, off-handedly wondering what dead people needed such comfort for anyways. Cracking open one of her eyes, she took in the crypt around her.

She had to admit, the haunted house had outdone itself this year. This new room especially was an instant favorite of their horror-seeking guests, though the Velaris Post attributed its success to the vampiress hinted to be waiting inside. The cabinets of jarred blood and flickering red lighting probably didn’t hurt, though.

Nesta was halfway through adjusting the voluminous ebony skirts of her dress when a shrill scream echoed down the nearby hallway. Just as she’d done a thousand times before, she settled back into her coffin and folded her arms over her chest, waxy and stiff. The speakers boomed out a bone rattling crash of thunder, eliciting a new yelp out of the guest just seconds away from her crypt. The corner of her lip curled up.

She knew that yell. Sure, it sounded a little different shouting in fear than it did when it was laced with pleasure, but the bass timbre of it was unmistakable. If she hadn’t been convinced just from the manly howl, the heavy footsteps pounding against the wood floor only made her certain.

Through slitted lids, Nesta watched Cassian shoot into the crypt like a werewolf was hot on his tail, hands covering his eyes against whatever had spooked him. There was a handprint of washable blood on his shirt as if one of the first floor zombies had already gotten to him and he was as pale as a sheet.

As if suddenly remembering where he was, Cassian’s hands dropped to his side and he eyed the room suspiciously. Nesta’s face ached at the effort to stay in character. If he was so easily spooked, why had he come alone? He still hadn’t noticed her, though—or at least, hadn’t noted that she wasn’t just some plastic dummy. Maybe she was too good at her job, after all.

What an idiot, she thought as he moved dangerously close to her coffin. Then, at just the right moment, her eyes snapped open. Cassian jolted, beholding the crimson contacts that turned her big eyes into blood moons. He didn’t have even a second before Nesta threw herself toward him, black nails clawing out for him. Cassian shrieked, practically diving behind an ivory pedestal. Nesta barely wanted to stick to her script, but was afraid she’d start to laugh if she didn’t.

“What an offering!” she crooned in a sultry, murderous tone. Cassian shivered, backing further away from her. “What shall I harvest first? Should I pluck your fingers like roses? Should I claw out those pretty hazel eyes?”

“How do you know I have hazel eyes?” Cass screeched. Nesta took her time rounding the room toward him.

“But I’m so hungry. Maybe just a quick little taste!”

She descended upon him then, herding him toward the door so he could finally be put out of his misery and reach the end of the haunted house. But instead of screaming like a little girl and sprinting out of the room like she expected him to, Cassian somehow mustered up his strength and charged forward.

“No no no no no no!” he cried, pushing his vampiress up against the stone altar in the center of the room.

At first, Nesta was too stunned to say anything, much less scold him for breaking the rules and shoving her. She was far too distracted by his broad chest pressed up against her lacy corset and the way she cradled her between the thick skirts of her dress. His hands were clutched onto her waist, holding her in place.

Cassian came too first, hands shooting off of her like he’d been burned.

“Shit! I’m so sor—” He blinked, finally getting a good look at her face in the artificial candle light. “Nesta?”

“Helena von BloodThirst actually,” she corrected, refusing to shove him away. Let him take in her seductive gore-stained lips and blush stained cleavage. “I’m flattered you found my performance so convincing. I’ve never seen you so terrified before.”

“I wasn’t scared!” he insisted.

“Uh huh,” Nesta deadpanned. “Back up a little then, would you?”

All at once, Cassian seemed to realize that he had cornered his vampire against her altar. One of his hands had braced itself on the flat surface, making Nesta have to arch her back as he loomed over her. But instead of putting a few feet of distance between them like he ought to, he hoisted her up by her waist and planted her firmly on the table. Nesta opened her mouth to protest, but he situated himself between her open legs before she could utter a word.

“Still want that taste?” he purred, low and crackled from misuse. He trailed a finger down her spine and Nesta shivered. Cassian smiled wickedly at her reaction.

Just to get him to shut up, Nesta tugged on his bloody t-shirt and dragged him forward. Cassian opened his mouth to taste the minty fake blood against her lips, but Nesta avoided him and instead buried her face into the hollow of his throat. She could practically see that smug smile sliding off his face as he expelled a breathy gasp. But he stopped breathing entirely when her lips closed around the soft skin, then bit down right in the spot she knew was enticingly sensitive. The hand against her back slammed against the table as his strength momentarily gave out. But the weakness only lasted a moment as his body moved on its own to drag her face up to his and capture her lips.

Nesta groaned, abandoning her role of vampire to allow herself to be devoured by Cassian. He chuckled when he tasted the minty blood on her lips, her teeth, running his tongue along it to take more. As her own tongue swept into his mouth, she caught a hint of that candied apple he had earlier, sweet and delicious. He murmured her name into the kiss, easing toward her own throat when a girlish yelp of terror echoed down the hallway.

Shoving Cassian away, Nesta took a deep breath. “Duty calls,” she murmured.

Cassian’s lips found her cheek anyways, but he replied, “When are you finished?”

“A little after midnight.”

Desire turned his eyes black.

“If I use my spare key to break into your place and wait for you until you get home, you wouldn’t throw me out? Would you?”

Nesta shoved him off, scurrying back into her coffin, before offering him a slanted smile.

“We’ll see, scaredy cat.”

[magioftheseas]

Fleeting Like Fluttering Moth Wings

For @vdjfshfzhdg

Summary: In the dead of the night, a witch meets a strange young man with white hair and bright, clear eyes.

Rating: G

Warnings: None really?

Notes: This is my gift exchange fic for the @danganhalloween-exchange so I hope it’s good! The request mentioned witches and cats, two things I’m really fond of, so I wrote Witch!Kamukura with a cat familiar. It’s got a bit of an odd feel because I was just sort of writing. But, I think it turned out pretty alright. Sorry it’s not super fluffy. xmx

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

There are moths fluttering about the lantern. A cat stretches, its sleek fur darker than the night. Outside is quiet as if the very world was asleep. Kamukura Izuru continued to sit and read, every so often brushing back his ebony hair with a few careful fingers. Even after clicking his tongue at the cat, Yasu still prowls around the lantern, batting at any unfortunate moth who traveled too close to the ground. They only flock to the lantern, not any light that Kamukura conjures, and thus there is nothing he can do but observe.

Yasu sits up on her hind legs, flailing at the moths, and Kamukura only stares, eyes dark and lips pulled into a deep, firm line. He is undeniably bored, but not enough to shut his book and stand. Despite this being a nightly routine, despite the banality of the action, Yasu hunts with the same tail-flickering enthusiasm. Sometimes, she even sings a siren’s call to attract the moths. But once she captured a few, she would stop. Silence would seep in, but Yasu would continue to hunt.

Kamukura continues to observe, and it is all the same. Every night, without fail. While Yasu would manage to capture a few moths, she never succeeded in capturing all of them. And yet, she would attempt just that, night after night. Until she yawned and that was Kamukura’s cue to stand and fetch her. She would still mew and murble in protest, but with the lateness of the day, Kamukura put her to bed all the same.

There is a soft breeze, one that caresses the bell hanging above the open jar. Yasu meows in response to the quiet ring and shakes side to side. Her tail flickers with alertness, her gaze darting off to the side as her ears fold back. Kamukura notes this and beckons her with his hand.

“Yasu, Yasu.” She glances back, green eyes wide. Very lazily, she goes to him, hopping onto his desk and lying on his open book. Dust flutters in the air. Yasu purrs as Kamukura strokes her. The moths continue dancing around the lantern, and Kamukura watches intently as the shadows cast begin to warp, as he hears the soft trots of footsteps.

“Hello?”

A slim figure steps into the entryway. A little hunched and uncertain, this person tugs anxiously at their hood as if hesitating on whether or not to pull it down. They wobble a bit as they approach, but when Yasu meows, they let out a soft laugh. Kamukura ducked his head politely.

“Welcome,” he drones. “It is quite late thus I am curious to hear your woes.”

“Ah, woes?” The stranger licks their lips. In the dim light, Kamukura noted the silvery hue of their hair. The pale moon of their face and the gray of their eyes. It was a soft, angular face with a wavering smile. “I really do apologize; I was actually just wandering around. I was attracted here by the light—and the cat.”

When Yasu makes another sound, the stranger smiles in undeniable fondness.

“I should be the one asking why you are still open at so late an hour,” they go on. They look around, eyes darting about curiously and widening ever so slightly. “I mean—this is quite the quaint little shop you have here. Um?”

“Kamukura Izuru,” he said, tickling Yasu’s tummy. “This is Yasumi. My familiar. This is a magic shop. I am a witch.”

“A witch...?”

The stranger rocks back on their heels, sucking in their breath, and then they finally pull their hood back to reveal the bouncing, wild curls of white.

“I’m Komaeda Nagito.” Komaeda presses a hand to his chest, smile broad. “If you’re a witch then maybe you can actually help me. That said.” With a laugh, he waves that same hand. “With how late it is, I really do feel like I’m imposing. How about I visit you tomorrow when the sun is up? I’m sure you must be quite tired and missing your bed right about now, Kamukura-kun.”

Kamukura blinks at him dully, tilting his head.

“I do not care for the hour,” he replied matter-of-factly. “As a witch, I have been around for centuries. I once spent years without sleep. It is only you mere mortals with your small, insignificant lifespans that need such dreary, periodic rest.”

“Oh, is that so!” Komaeda clapped his hands with open-mouthed surprise. “That’s fascinating! I never would’ve known! This is my first time meeting a witch, you see.”

“That much is clear.” Kamukura’s eyes narrowed sharply. “I suppose I should ask what you are doing, wandering around in the dark of night. If what troubles you is that pressing a matter, it strikes me as strange that you do not wish to address it as soon as possible.”

“It’s...more that I have trouble sleeping in general...” When he focuses, he can in fact see the deep shadows beneath Komaeda’s clouded gaze. Komaeda’s smile twists wryly, almost as if in embarrassment. “And whatever problems I do have—I do not want to be too audacious, you see.”

“No, I do not.”

“Aha, well. Maybe you've outgrown manners, then.”

“Just tell me what troubles you,” Kamukura snapped. “I tire of your dancing around the subject and your tentativeness. I wish to know in advance if whatever ails you is worthy of my interest or not.”

“Oh, I very much doubt it would be,” Komaeda replied cheerfully. “I’m a very unremarkable and dull-minded person.”

“Tell me.” Yasu yowls as if in agreement. “Now. Komaeda Nagito.”

Komaeda is still for a moment like a statue, the smile on his face tight and unmoving. After a while, his shoulders went slack.

“I would like to be made normal. Entirely, hopelessly, worthlessly, and unexceptionally normal.”

Kamukura quirked a brow at this.

“And I know I mostly am normal, in fact,” Komaeda goes on, that smile remaining the same. “But not entirely. And that—I just don’t think I can live with that anymore. If I am to continue this wretched half-baked existence, then... I would truthfully prefer a premature ending. So, Kamukura-kun, will you help me? If it so interests you? If you can?”

Yasu meows to fill in the silence that follows.

“At least,” Komaeda says, lacing his fingers together. “That’s what I feel like I should say. If this were a novel. What do you think, Kamukura-kun?”

“I think you should return to your residence,” was the blunt reply. “The lateness likely is an influence on your behavior.”

“I really was curious about how’d you respond!” Komaeda exclaimed in protest. “To be callously sent home is just too cruel, Kamukura-kun! You wouldn’t really turn a client down like that if this were real, right?”

Yasu decides to nibble and lick his fingers. At her feistiness, Kamukura squeezed her tail. It did little to deter her, but that was expected.

“A client would come with an honest request, not to waste time at this hour.”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” Komaeda giggles, tilting his head to the side. The curls hang down, there’s a low buzz in the air, and Yasu perks up. She makes a recognizable chirp, and Komaeda just goes on, “I guess I’m the one being rude, huh? Ahaha, of course that’s how it is.”

Kamukura does move to squish Yasu down, but she slips out easily and pounces. Maybe that was intentional. Maybe Kamukura had just wanted to see what would happen. Admittedly, the way Komaeda’s eyes went wide and how he only made a soft sound of surprise was mildly amusing. Yasu’s little claws grabbed onto his hair and Komaeda was quick to retain his balance and try and catch her. She mewled as she dug through the ivory strands and pulled out with a moth between her teeth. Komaeda does yelp as he has to detangle her claws, and a smile pulled at Kamukura’s lips.

“Careful, Komaeda Nagito,” he murmured, reaching out and squeezing her paws so that she relaxes. She purrs as she chews contently on the moth, and when she’s close enough, she nestles against Kamukura’s shoulder. “I apologize about her.”

“N-No, no, it’s fine,” Komaeda replied, flustered and combing his fingers through his hair. “She’s very cute.”

Kamukura hummed in agreement. One Komaeda’s cheek, there was a small scratch. Likely from Yasu.

Ah.

“Maybe I really should get going,” Komaeda is saying. Both his smile and fingers are twitching as he turns on his heel. “It is later, after all.”

“Wait.”

Komaeda freezes, shoulders stiffening for but a moment. If his breath caught, it was too quiet to be heard. Past him, Kamukura sees the moths dancing about the lantern. His gaze flickers back to the boy with milky white hair and cloudy gray eyes.

“Stay for a bit,” Kamukura says. “So that I can apologize properly.”

Komaeda blinks, and he hesitates.

“I insist,” Kamukura says, more pressingly. “Just close the door so that no more moths get inside.”

Yasu mews, and somehow that is what gets Komaeda to nod, offering a small, strained smile. He turns on his heel, chuckling under his breath.

“Very well.”

It only takes a shove to shut the door.

--

“Actually,” Komaeda confides as Kamukura pours the tea by hand. “I don’t know how I ended up here. I just did.”

“Sometimes that happens,” Kamukura responded, setting the cup down. He flicks his fingers to conjure up cookies and arranges them neatly on a small plate. “Normally, that does mean there is a matter eating away at your being. One that magic may provide a balm to.”

“Or it’s just my luck,” Komaeda jokes with a wheeze. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Fortune is not so different from fate, one can assume.”

Yasu stretches out, but she curls into a ball as she kneads at the air.

“The idea of everything being predetermined is terribly boring,” Komaeda huffs, taking a cookie. “I do think it’s just fickle luck and nothing more.”

“You say as if that is not terribly dull in its own right.”

Komaeda does muffle a giggle against his hand.

“You got me there. So clever, Kamukura-kun. As expected of a witch, hmm?”

Such clumsy diversion tactics. And yet, he keeps himself almost fiercely reserved. He reminds me of a certain someone. Although the two of them are akin to mist and embers. Different in many significant ways.

It is with careful motions that Komaeda sips his tea and nibbles at his cookie. His expression relaxes for a moment, eyelashes fluttering. There is a slump to his shoulders. His head lolls.

“I don’t want to ask anything of you,” he said so quietly the words were mere particles in the air. “I don’t deserve anything.”

Kamukura raises an eyebrow.

“What an asinine reason. You are a coward, then.”

“Have you ever been afraid before, Kamukura-kun?”

“It has been centuries since I have known fear. I suppose that makes me inhuman.”

Komaeda pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth. He swallows with a bit of trouble and coughs into a napkin. Yasu purrs, and Komaeda’s smile twitches as he reaches out to stroke her side.

“Will she live for centuries?”

“She will live for as long as she is able,” Kamukura said. “Be it centuries or a decade.”

“She’s clearly been spoiled and well-loved,” Komaeda went on. “I hope it remains that way in the years to come.”

“The world is broken,” that person once said, and there is a veil of coldness over what Kamukura had known to be clear blue eyes. “The best that can be done is to make sure those we care about are taken care of.”

Yasu sleeps without a care, and Kamukura notes the weight of years that dissipate around her. Komaeda runs his finger over his cup, and he smiles at the tea stalk still floating upright in the center.

“I envy you,” he finally says. “With how much time you have, a kind world is likelier to surround you.”

Kamukura blinks, and his eyes fall shut.

“If you so wish, you can continuously visit me in times to come.”

“What if I’m too cowardly to return?” Komaeda asks teasingly.

Kamukura thinks of the person who used to sit across from him. The man with tired yet clear eyes. Eyes that Komaeda shares even if the color is different.

“When you visit, have it be at an earlier hour,” he said. “Though I do not mind the night, humans need their rest.”

“Do you want me to visit, Kamukura-kun?”

Kamukura pursed his lips, pondering the question. He leaned forward, watching Komaeda flinch perceptively. With a careful brush of his thumb to Komaeda’s pale cheek, the scratch healed over and faded from sight. The skin warmed under his touch, and he pulled away.

“There is a matter that ails you,” he says and he searches that pale green gaze for the slightest flicker. “Perhaps it can be in the future when you are open enough to tell me.”

A smile twitched at Komaeda’s face. The flickering light of the candles cast a dark shadow as his head lowers. There is a moment of pause, of weight. Kamukura does think of quiet moments with that person, and Yasu continues to slumber peacefully.

“Maybe,” Komaeda finally affirms. “Maybe not. Perhaps in that same future, you can tell me more about yourself as well.”

He doesn’t know if he’s been seen through. Komaeda’s gaze is serene even with the darkened curve of his smile. It’s a complicated expression, one that conveys much while still keeping much else reserved. It is curious.

“Perhaps I will.”

Komaeda finishes up the tea and treats before he stands. He bows politely and pulls his hood back up.

“Take care of yourself. And, Yasumi, was it?” Komaeda laughs softly. “Take care of her, too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Kamukura replied. Yasu’s ear twitched, but Kamukura stroked her neck, encouraging her to sleep on. Nodding and smiling, Komaeda gave a wave before turning on his heel and heading out. Once the door is shut behind him, it is not long before Komaeda has disappeared into the dark of night.

Kamukura tuts softly.

To be taken in so suddenly and erratically... Maybe those centuries have worn on me in ways I’ve yet to realize. Or maybe...I just miss him. Those moods are unrelenting and ruthless, no matter how much time passes by. And I had so foolishly thought Yasu’s presence would alleviate the burden of his memory. But, of course, that is not how it turns out. I named her after him. Yasumi. From Yasuke. Matsuda Yasuke.

He does wonder, almost idly, about that Komaeda Nagito. A human that seemed burden by his own specters, though the nature of which was unclear.

Luck, he said. How strange. But—I would like to learn more. Even if I have to deal with cowardice. To be normal, he said. How frustrating.

There are still moths flickering around the lantern. With a snap of his fingers, the light went out and all that encased his magic shop was darkness. Darkness upon darkness. But, the light of morning was inevitable. He would prefer to think Komaeda would visit again under a sunlit sky, smile vapid but bright.

He had enough time.

For now, he watched Yasu sleep as he laid his head upon his folded arms and waited.

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 38

Author’s notes: Just gonna say now, this chapter has a lot of blood, violence, and a written death scene. If you cannot handle those things, maybe refrain from reading this one.

Chapter 38

(Vergil POV)

When the woman in red lowered her hood, Vergil felt his heart stutter and pause for a brief, horrifying moment of clarity.

To see you both standing there and mirroring each other’s faces, you frozen with wide eyes and a face growing paler and paler...Vergil felt his own thoughts come to a screeching halt. There was no way, that is impossible--There is no way that the woman he fornicated with all those years ago, Nero’s god damn mother, was you. This had to be a trick, right? A cruel joke played by the Outsider, a means to unnerve and unsettle him so he would lose this final trial. There was no other explanation, there was no other way.

But...deep down, he knew that he was wrong, that the denial his brain was trying to put forth was only a means to protect him from the truth. Because it was growing with each passing breath, that familiarity, that recognition. Like fog lifting from a town long plunged in thick mist, static clearing from an old television set. He knew you--he always had, even when he was V his mind subconsciously recognized your face.

No. No.

V was shaking inside of Vergil’s head, filling with that same denial and shock--unable to comprehend what they both were witnessing. There was no denying this version of you from the past was not like the one he had just went through those trials with--there was an air about her that felt new, naive, young. Hesitant. Staring at the younger Vergil with gentle eyes and a pause in her steps. Fresh as a daisy, a bright force that had seemingly entered his life on determination and kindness alone and...and...why was it so hard to remember? Why had he forgotten in the first place? It didn’t make sense, his brain was scrambling to find understanding when there was none, to find footing on ground that was tilting and swaying underneath him. The Outsider had been right--the reality of this was far more jarring than even he could be prepared for, bringing forth so many emotions he felt ready to go screaming into the Void just at that moment.

And your reaction was far worse.

Vergil was frozen, unable to move and help when you started trembling like an earthquake, mouth opening in a silent scream and eyes rolling back in your head in a swirl of inky blackness. Your body bowed back like you had snapped, knees crumpling in your free fall as you finally broke eye contact with the oblivious version of you. So many things flashed across your expression before you broke--shock, confusion, fear, horror...so much horror. Vergil felt too numb, too shocked himself to even try to move and catch you, eyes tilting slowly to the side and breaths wheezing out of his lungs as he watched you collapse in slow motion. He half expected you to hit the ground in a crumpled heap, mind unable to comprehend what it had seen and reacting in kind, but...as with most things, he was wrong.

The Outsider appeared as soon as you fell, catching your limp body with steadfast arms and kneeling down with you cradled against his chest. Vergil stared at him with wide eyes, the image of Fortuna pausing like a film the black-eyed bastard was playing for you both. That look on the God’s face was...shocking, to say the least, more emotion than Vergil had seen from him. He stared at you with pain, deep regret as he put a hand over your eyes and made your tremors subside in an instant. You went completely limp, eyes closed and pallor like a corpse in his arms. There was no doubt there in those black eyes of his, no shock or disbelief--he knew this would happen, didn’t he? All along, the black-eyed bastard was afraid of this outcome, trying to warn you when the time had come but unable to deny your wills and wants. 

And like fools, neither of you had listened.

Vergil was shaking as well, breath rasping out like razors in his lungs as he looked between you and her with horrified eyes, still unable to understand just how this all had happened in the first place, how it was possible. How? And why? Why was all this happening, why had the Outsider allowed all of this in the first place if he was an all-seeing God? It made no sense, the pieces of a puzzle laid out with nothing holding them together. Jagged, aching to be  combined and willing to slice at a few fingers along the way--like trying to reassemble a broken mirror.

The dark-gazed man seemed to sense what Vergil was thinking, half tilting his eyes in the Sparda’s direction and a slow breath leaving those cold-looking lips. Vergil thought he saw a flicker of hatred in his eyes, but it was hard to tell when staring into something that looked like the abyss.

“...I had feared she would break again,” The Outsider finally whispered, settling back on his knees and stroking a gentle hand through your hair. Like you were a child, one who had just been plunged into a nightmare beyond your comprehension, “She has grown so strong in these passing years, I had hoped...that maybe my efforts had erased any chance of this ever happening like before. But alas...where she is concerned, I can never truly see the specifics.”

Again? Like before?

Vergil felt like his throat was sealed shut, no words able to come out to even begin scraping the surface of what he was feeling. The numb feeling was spreading, his hands like ice and eyes feeling like they were on fire. 

The Outsider didn’t seem to mind his silence. Merely staring at you, those black eyes dark and unreadable as he held your now-unconscious face and gently stroked your cheek, “I should have known better. I could see all and everything, but I had never had anything close to her before--she is too similar to what I am, a blindspot in my vision that I couldn’t predict.”

He slowly rose to his feet, holding you with ease and staring now at the other version of you, the younger one from the past. Wearing a red dress, looking so soft and unsure of yourself and frozen like a statue, waiting to be brought to life again. Vergil felt like his legs had turned to lead, hearing the God speak but still not understanding what he meant, what was implied. A blindspot? He was an omniscient being, but did his sight get muddled when it came to those in direct relation to him? A weakness, one that couldn’t be foreseen considering a creature like didn’t seem to take anyone close that often.

But...did that really matter anymore?

The Outsider raised you up in his arms, a portal opening above his head back to the cold howling of the Void. A break in the illusion. Vergil’s first instinct was to run, to grab you and bolt from all of this in an attempt to save you both from the absolute agony this trial was to bring, but...His legs wouldn’t move. It was too much, he was weighed down by the reality and there would be no running this time.

He was forced to watch in mute horror as black, crystalline hands came down from the portal, gently wrapping around your body and lifting you up and out of sight. They held you like glass, ready to shatter apart at the slightest rough movement. The portal closed once you were gone, leaving Vergil achingly alone and panicking inside, dread filling every ounce of his being and making bile threaten its way into his throat.

No--No! V whimpered in his head, tone raw and breaking in desperation and fear, Please don’t take her away--please…! 

His first focus was you, as always. Even he was on par with Vergil, not understanding how this situation had come to pass but was fearing it as much as humanly possible. For once...he didn’t want to know either, connecting the dots much faster than the silver haired male. He couldn’t say it, he couldn’t think it--He couldn’t say that you were Nero’s mother, not yet. There was still too much missing, too much uncertainty.

Because if he admitted it...he would have to admit that something terrible must have happened to you.

“Still in denial, I see,” The Outsider observed once you were gone, like he could hear the very thought process going through Vergil’s battered mind. The god half turned, leveling a hard gaze on him that was colder than anything he had seen, as cold as the Void itself, “You should know better than anyone how actions have consequences, you who are driven by your own cowardice.”

Cowardice? No...no that’s not it, I’m not a coward. I…

The Outsider turned back to the past you, walking a slow circle around her and staring with a much softer expression. Vergil was still left on his knees, rooted to the spot and watching as the god placed a hand on her shoulder...your shoulder. 

“This was her first mission,” He spoke in a low murmur, one that still managed to be loud enough to reach Vergil’s ears. With a snap of his fingers, the image of Fortuna started to warp, shifting around the half-demon and your form until it was a back alley, one crawling with demons that resembled ragdolls, “Y/N was fresh out of the Void, still...uncertain. Unstable. I had done my best to build her up from how she was upon waking, but...I had hoped finding her strength and having some time in the sun would be far better than the Void.”

Watching and listening was all Vergil could do, eyes glued to your form as it peeked around a corner, observing as his younger self attacking the abhorrent creatures with the precise cuts of a blade. They fell, one by one, weak and flimsy in comparison to other foes he had gone up against. As the images played out, the memory would return to Vergil in that same instance, making him feel sick to his stomach as he remembered exactly what was going through his own head at the time. Why is this woman still following me? She lacks the tact and skill to ghost someone even remotely well, how pathetic. He had ignored it for the most part, but sensing her there watching as he fought was oddly aggravating. No...sensing you there--his mind was trying to disconnect your younger self from you as a whole, but…

He jolted when several demons descended from the rooftops, meaning to ambush his past self with a flurry of blades and attacks. Easily handed, of course, but you still reacted. Vergil watched as you gasped, sending tendrils out like whips and impaling the demons before could even reach the younger Sparda. Protecting him on instinct, eyes wide and shocked at your own ability as the demons disintegrated into thin air. He had blinked, gaze snapping up then back to you now that your form had stepped out of the shadows, looking vulnerable and uncertain. So unlike the one he knew now, the one who had shot across the beach in confidence and laid waste to dozens of demons. 

He remembered being intrigued, not feeling an energy like yours before. Not a human, that was for certain, but not demon either. Vergil had always admired strength, and the mystery that came with you had made him give pause, feeling a pull to you that had never gotten under his skin before. This was his first interaction with the lady in red, the older Vergil remembered now. You had told him your own interest in the Order of the Sword, about that determination to discover their motives and stop what they were doing before it disrupted the state of things beyond repair. And he...he had his own reasons for being there, and had no intentions of allying himself with anyone for the sake of anything. But…

Something about you made him hesitate. 

“F...forgive me for being presumptuous, but...maybe working together would be in our best interest?” You sounded so hesitant, so shaky--like you were talking to a lion ready to pounce and devour you. Even then, your brain could pick up on what kind of person he was...trying to warn you of his lack of empathy.

He had merely sheathed his Yamato, turning away with a click of his tongue and not looking you in the face. How young and stupid the younger Sparda had been, how full of himself. All Vergil had focused on then was the need for action, results, and you had not been any different at the time. He wanted to learn more about your power, where it came from and if it was exploitable for his own uses. And that meant keeping you close, even if he was reluctant to do so.

“You’re useless to me with such a lack of skill,” He had replied simply, tone flat and unimpressed. The surly man started forward once more, not waiting for you to keep up as he continued on simply, “Show me something worth keeping around, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Vergil felt sick to his stomach, V’s despair and disgust at his own actions merging in with his disjointed thoughts.

You didn’t even ask her name. Didn’t tell her yours. 

And yet, she still followed us.

She held that patience.

But those things had been learned in time too, slowly and precise. You were informed of his name that same day, and told him yours as well. Not that he usually called you Y/N by any stretch--always something between “woman” and “girl”. How could he have been so foolish, so blind to ignore the obvious connection between you both? It had felt so peculiar then, but...he didn’t question it.

The image froze again when you let out a slow breath, determination flashing in your gaze before you quickly jogged after the Sparda to catch up. The sight of you frozen there, face still alight with interest and that naive sense of curiosity despite his surly nature...it broke him a little more, making him unable to comprehend how his mind worked back then. Always too rude, always too focused. Eyes forward on power, never looking back to see the sun trailing after him with a smile on her face.

“I didn’t foresee you,” The Outsider’s low voice snapped him out of his thoughts, making Vergil turn to see him staring after you both in regret, “I was...surprised when she took an interest to you, when I felt how your energies interacted. Contrary to what people like you thought at the time, the universe does make its choices, and it decided she was yours, and you were hers.”

Soulmates--V whispered, not sounding shocked in the slightest. Like the God’s words confirmed what he knew all along. Once upon a time he would have scoffed at such a notion, called it foolish and absurd. But...he knew better now--We had been so drawn to each other, even back then. You knew that too, but didn’t want to face it.

Vergil wanted to deny it, but...he remembered his fascination with you, like a moth drawn to a flame. Or...like a man who never knew love or warmth for so long, finally shown a basic shred of human affection and craving it like air or water.

The Outsider walked around him on the ground, footfalls echoing ominously in the alleyway like they were actually there in Fortuna, “It was then that I realized my errors, my mistakes,” His tone took on a bitter edge, dripping with loathing as he stopped his pacing in front of Vergil again, “I couldn’t see her paths, her future. But I could see yours, all of the paths that branched out once you left Fortuna and were no longer shrouded by her blindspot--I saw you depart and erect the tower, saw you fight Mundus and lose pitifully, saw the Qliphoth tree. And I saw you come back to life, living without her at all.”

We...we left her.

We left? 

But...why?

The God suddenly turned again, the landscape shifting and weaving as he spoke, changing over and over again to match the story he told. All the while Vergil sat in the center of it, watching with a numb expression and eyes that were seemingly unable to blink. With each new image came the memory in kind, rebuilding the portrait of Fortuna in his life piece by piece. And with that...came more horror, dread, apprehension. Because he knew there was no happy ending to this tale, weaved by the Outsider’s pale lips and made into being again. Like icy shackles wrapping around his heart and soul, leaving him chained down in this personal hell as the reel of his mistakes played to the end.

“I tried to whisper to her, telling her to come home,” The Outsider continued, showing an image of you sitting in front of a shrine to listen as his own past self spoke, “But...as my child, I wanted her to have free will above all things. She made the choice to stay, not wanting to run from her first mission or you.”

She was so dedicated to us, so kind. Her heart ached as much as yours did, but she--

The image changed again, showing the moments he shared with you, one by one. Training in a cove hidden behind the cliffs of Fortuna, taking a moment to rest after days of walking around the city and searching for clues. Your head unconsciously resting on his shoulder. Your gentle hands every time they lingered on his shoulders, his arms, his chest. You had been warm, like the sun, a gentle treat he never deserved or cherished as he should have. How touch starved he had been, not realizing it until you came into his life and brought those little affections back. His pride had been so full, achingly desperate to keep his ideals on track, but...he was falling for you, little by little. Touch by touch, piece by piece. He had been so ignorant to it as well, trying to write it off as anything but the truth it was.

A mistake. He knew that.

“I knew you were going to hurt her, but could do nothing,” The Outsider continued on, tone low and angry as he watched you both interact, the adoration growing in your beautiful eyes along with your confidence in your abilities, “She would not listen to my warnings, blinded by her affections and hopes. You were helping her grow, to learn herself again and remembering how to live. She was so happy in those times, how could I hope to crush it?”

No...no, V was whispering, knowing full well what was to come, knowing this would end in your ruin, Please...please don’t do this…

They couldn’t look away. They could do nothing but sit and watch everything fall to pieces. Vergil wanted to grab his old self by the collar, to step in and snarl in his face to let go of the need for power, to change his mind. Take you away from Fortuna and accept the blessing as it was offered, save himself from the pain of humiliation and defeat. To save you. He didn’t want to see the end, didn’t want to see what happened to you and the damage done. It was like a gun to his chest, waiting to go off and rip apart all that was inside of him. All his cockiness, all his pride...left shattered on the floor, left forgotten in the face of all that he was seeing. He didn’t care anymore--he didn’t care and it was too late. The damage was done.

The Outsider could sense his growing turmoil, letting out a light scoff as the image changed again, “I was unable to predict both you and her, watching your future for any changes as she grew closer to you,” He leveled his gaze on the older version of Vergil, eyes dark and cold as he hissed, “No such luck. Even when you sealed her fate in place, taking the final piece of her that wasn’t yours to take.”

The image shifted to a room in Fortuna, one that he was growing to recognize all too well. Dark, lit dimly by the moonlight from a window over his bed. You had both stopped for the night at a small Inn on the coast, one ran by a woman who didn’t mind letting outsiders stay there provided they help keep the place protected from demons. It was easy enough to take care of, and it was the one night he had actually allowed himself to fall asleep. After weeks of walking, almost months of searching and fighting...weariness was an unfortunate side effect of his human half that wasn’t avoided forever. His eyes had closed, and after becoming so close to you...sharing a bed didn’t seem all that terrible at the time.

He saw himself jolt awake in his sleep, eyes wide and glassy from a nightmare and breaths heaving from his lungs. Weakness was so very hard to hide just waking up, especially from you. That night he had dreamt of his mother, of that day at the playground when demons attacked him. Beaten within an inch of his life, curled up in a ditch hours later clutching the Yamato to his chest. The demons left him for dead, but he was able to heal enough to drag himself out, limping home to find that...home wasn’t there at all. His mother was gone, Dante was gone, and he...he was alone. Damaged beyond relief, and knowing full well that his mother was dead.

He had awakened in a cold sweat, trembling and in a state of vulnerability he avoided sleep just to stay away from. It...it had only made sense that you had woken up too, that you had reached out to him with that warmth of yours. That...that…

Vergil saw himself kiss you for the first time, saw the way you sobbed in relief and gave everything to him, every ounce of affection you had in that body. In the storm of his own pain, you had been the sun, bringing the warmth and comfort he allowed himself to crave...just for that night. A lapse, he had told himself, biting down his own instinctive self-loathing and pride, Just for tonight. I need this. I...need her.

The image faded with the sight of him pulling you under the covers, no longer needed to be witnessed now that it was a memory fresh in his mind. And it hurt. It hurt. Remembering how it all been that night, the feeling of your hands, the soft sounds of you moaning in his ear, kissing him and staring at him with adoring eyes. His memories, not V’s. Those belonged the son of Sparda, from long ago and with such a force he felt it might snap him in two. His hands, his lips, his touch. No tattoos, no black hair--just Vergil Sparda, and you...one of his only moments of vulnerability and pain that resulted in his first night of passion he ever experienced. 

She was everything, V choked, voice raw and pained as he re-lived those memories too, She was everything and we were nothing.

“You grew afraid of how attached you were to her,” The Outsider’s voice whispered in his ear, low and bitter as he leaned down behind the forsaken man and changed the image again. Showing younger Vergil now walking alone in the early morning after making love to you, panic in his eyes and a scowl marring his lips. He had left you in the room to pace the empty, quiet streets. To clear his head, “In your searching, you found a book telling you about the Temen-Ni-Gru--the key to your father’s power. She made you hesitate, didn’t she? Made you want to stay behind and doubt your own ideals. And that frightened you beyond all belief, a coward through and through.”

No...no no no.

Vergil watched on with horror as his younger self slipped onto a ship out of Fortuna, one of the few at the time that would sail to the neighboring shore for supplies and goods. Cloak on, head down and a driven look in his eyes again. The sun was peeking over the horizon, and by the time you woke up...he would already be gone. You told him of your God and the Void, surely you’d be able to return or leave Fortuna as you saw fit, right?

He convinced himself of that, told himself as the boat set onto the waves that this was for the best. Affection was beyond him, it was better for you to find someone else. This feeling was a weakness to him, a distraction he couldn’t afford to have anymore. He swallowed the guilt, swallowed the emotion, and focused on his task as much as his foolish mind would allow.

But things never worked out that way, did they?

This was where his memories ran dry, this is where the harsh reality began. The Outsider snapped his fingers, showing you sitting up in bed, staring around the room with tired confusion and rubbing those beautiful eyes. The marks of his bites were still on your shoulders, body still relaxed from sleep and...and…

He heard commotion outside, loud and forceful like feet pounding up the stairs.

“Had you waited a day, had you talked to her,” The Outsider said low and furious, standing behind Vergil will his hand gripping his shoulder so tight it cracked bone, “You would have been able to protect her when they came, tipped off by a follower who lived next door and saw you both fighting demons. But you can’t protect anyone, can you?”

No no no, his thoughts were aligned with V, a pained chorus that rose in tempo as the image unfolded before him, This isn’t right, this shouldn’t be happening, it--

But it had happened. And he knew it was as true as the sun rising and setting every day.

He watched with wide eyes, hollow and pained as the door was broken in on your room, men of the Order pushing their way inside with weapons drawn. You were vulnerable, weak, unprepared and not knowing where he was. The training hadn’t been enough, your powers couldn’t manifest as well with how emotional you felt--he had become your rock, holding you steady and giving you the confidence to fight. Without him...you had succumbed, tendrils lashing out blindly at the hands grabbing you and immediately shut down by shackles placed on your wrists. Screams and cries left your lips, body thrashing as they dragged you down the stairs and wrapped you in a cloak. Vergil broke inside at the sound of his name on your lips, desperate and raw as you begged for help that wouldn’t come, waiting for him to save you. You cried out into the morning air as they dragged you into a carriage, door slamming shut and no one there to save you.

Because he was already gone, and he would never know.

NO! V’s voice was a scream in Vergil’s numb mind, loud and jarring as he saw the tears drip down your cheeks, NO! What have we done--WHAT HAVE WE DONE?!

The Outsider stood beside him and watched the carriage take you away, heading for the place where he knew the Order practiced the most of their activities. Vergil couldn’t even see his face, unable to tear his eyes away and feeling something warm drip down his cheeks, pattering onto his knees like falling rain. His throat felt like it was choking, no sound but wheezing gasps managing to wring themselves out. He had left you, he had left--abandoned you right when he was needed most, running away just as he did as a child. And like then, he had not been there when things fell to pieces, and someone suffered as a result.

He was a fool. 

He was a monster.

This was his punishment, and he deserved it.

“I could do nothing once they put the shackles on her,” The Outsider said tiredly, kneeling down and watching the tears patter silently from Vergil’s burning eyes, “Sparda’s power really doesn’t agree with mine--all their rituals and scheming created a wall between me and her, one that was snapped in place once they had her inside. I tried to summon forth a few of my followers to help her, but...it was far too late by then.”

The image changed once more, showing an image of you in what equated to a prison cell. There was a small bed, chains that kept you connected to a nearby wall, and...no windows in sight. Vergil could have ripped himself and the Order apart at your living conditions, at the state you were in. Pale and tired, burns on your wrists and ankles from the shackles and looking so very miserable. And worse...sitting there on the bed, curled protectively over your stomach, carrying within you his child in your womb. Nero. That one night of passion had gotten you pregnant, and he had been completely ignorant to it all. You looked like your mind was barely hanging together, that light he so adored in your eyes faded and the warmth gone away. Broken, defeated, and carrying a child to boot.

All because of his cowardice. His mistakes. The idea alone made him want to retch, made him want to rip the wall open and carry you to safety like you deserved. How many nights did you lie there, hoping and waiting for Vergil to save you, for him to get you out of that bad situation? Did you eventually give up hope, did you realize he had left you for his own foolish reasons? The guilt was stabbing him over and over in the gut, ripping apart his insides until he was burning and writhing from it. But...his body was still frozen, as if the Void itself was holding him in place. There would be no trying, not with the Outsider getting exactly what he wanted.

“How she felt there, sitting alone in a cell waiting for someone to save her,” The Outsider whispered in his ear, fingers digging into his skin until his collarbone cracked under the pressure, “But you never came, and never would. I tried where you failed, sending a few followers there to try and get her out. But...they were not successful, especially not with their powers affected by the rituals those people did.”

She sat there for months of pregnancy, being experimented on and tortured. While you erected a tower, and fought your brother--

What have we done--

What have we--

“The Order realized the pregnancy before she did, and were determined to bring the baby to term and see if they could analyze it for the source of Y/N’s power. They grew impatient, and decided to cut the child from her early--but she would never allow it.”

The image changed as the Outsider spoke, showing you lashing out in a last ditch burst of power, screaming with all the Void’s howling and shattering the shackles holding you back. Alarms blared as you ran through the halls of the Order, panting and shaking with black veins spreading out from your palms as you killed any who tried to touch you. The first window you happened across was your escape, aiming to launch out into the rain before any of the men could get their hands on you. All the while one arm cradled your stomach protectively, tears dripping down your cheeks and expression somewhere between fear and desperation. You were barely holding together, barely able to control yourself as you ran from the bullets fired at your back.

But you couldn’t avoid everything.

Two bullets hit your shoulders, a choked scream leaving your lips as you shattered the glass and fell toward the churning ocean below. The men of the Order shouted as they watched you plunge into the water like a rag doll, assuming you dead after where you had been hit by their shots and claiming none could survive the sea during a storm. But...they had been wrong, so wrong, doubting just how far a mother could go to save her child. The Outsider could interfere now you were free, channeling the ocean to bring you to shore but not bringing you back into the Void--why? Why didn’t he just return you there and then? Why deposit you coughing onto the beach miles away, shaking and crying as you held your stomach?

For that matter, where were his followers when you escaped, why had they not stuck around to aid you? There was no one in sight as you dragged yourself up on the sand, shaking so hard you could barely stand and coughing up rain water. You pulled yourself into a small, tucked away area underneath the cliff-side, shielded from the rain and bleeding from your chest down onto the tattered clothes you wore. The sight of you would never leave him, that he was sure of. Broken and battered, drenched in rain and looking like you had no fight left. 

The God answered Vergil’s question like he had asked it aloud, rain dripping down his hair and chin and regret in his black eyes, “My followers are not like her--they cannot travel between worlds from long periods of time. I could not bring her back because she did not want me too--she begged it of me, pleaded with me not to take her into the Void.”

He let out a slow breath, tilting his head to the side and staring at the water churning on the shore. Such a faraway look, one speaking of years and years of loneliness, “ It is no place for a baby to be born, so cold and empty and dark. She... didn’t want his first breath to be the Void’s air, didn’t want him to feel that chill,” He looked up at the storming sky, black eyes endless and cold as he added quietly, “But was this any better?”

Your wails and cries made the God turn again, staring back at you with sad eyes as you clutched at your stomach, writhing and thrashing on the sand. Vergil was drenched now too, the water washing away the tears from his eyes and leaving a chill in his limbs. But he couldn’t care less. Couldn’t feel anything but that aching agony in his chest. You had gone into labor on the beaches of Fortuna, alone and scared and injured already to boot. There was a fear in your eyes, absolute terror as you did your best alone, knowing nothing about how to bring a child in the world and working on instinct alone.

The storm raged on while you screamed, muffling the sound with the pattering rain and light fading fast with the ending day. You were hurt, and had exerted to add insult to injury--he remembered how you looked from V’s eyes, seeing the exhaustion on your face and the shaking of your hands. You had nothing left to give, but gave it anyway.

The image passed, showing Vergil when the sky was now dark and the rain had settled to a steady downpour. Hours must have passed with you alone on the beach, in that personal hell he had caused by leaving in a moment of cowardice. Your screams were replaced by the wailing of a baby, sharp and clear as it cut through the open air and alive despite all the odds stacked against you both. Nero’s first breath, his first cries...His son. Vergil had never heard it before, not until now. His own foolishness had robbed him of seeing the birth of his kin, the sound both a blessing and a curse to his ears.

The sight of you made his mind fracture more, screams of denial desperately trying to claw their way through his lips, but unable to.

There was blood, so much blood. More than he knew should be there. You were holding Nero in weak arms, having torn the majority of your shirt off to wrap him in it. But it was of no use, you were fading far faster than time would allow you to have with your son. You where pale as a sheet, eyes glassy and breaths coming short and fast as you held Nero to you, protecting him with the final ounce of strength you had.

No...no, not like this, please don’t let her die like this. His mind was pleading over and over, wishing he had stayed, wishing he had sensed something had happened and came to save you. But...even if word had arrived of your situation, would he have come? Would his past self have given up the tower, the power, for your sake? Hell...nine months had passed, he was probably being beaten, turned into Nelo Angelo at this point.

And worst of all...he deserved every second of that pain.

You slipping onto the ground slowly, cradling Nero against your fading warmth and laying on your side in a fetal position, holding him to your chest and wheezing. You couldn’t stand, couldn’t manage any more than that. Even moving to a new position looked like agony, your body shaking all over and trembling in your final moments of life.

Something had gone wrong, there had been no doctors to help you. The wounds from the order, coupled with the pregnancy taking a turn for the worst...

What have we done? What have we done? V was sobbing in his head, quiet now, just as broken as Vergil felt as he watched you lying there, alone and dying on the beach with no one to save you, What have we done? WHAT HAVE WE DONE…?!

We killed her.

We did this to her.

We never deserved her.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out, staring at Nero’s small body as he screamed with every ounce of energy he seemed to have. So small and precious, white hair drying with blood to his head and tucked to his mother’s chest. Tears fell from your already-spent eyes, hitching, breaking sobs choking from your lungs and bringing forth agony with them. You looked guilty, terrified, heart-broken...entirely shattered in both mind and body as you stared at this baby, who would soon be without any hope. You weren’t a fool, you knew there would be no healing from this, no miracles. And Vergil knew it too, knew the truth now in its entirety. His eyes were wide open, chest screaming in pain that would never compare to yours, tears dripping from his eyes and lungs clenching with the need to scream.

It would never compare. It would never compare to what you must have felt that day. 

He watched as you lifted a hand, cutting a line into your palm with a nail and whispering a shaking invocation so faint it couldn’t be heard above the rain. What the hell were you trying to do? He remembered that day after fighting the horseman, remembered you doing this same thing to gain some borrowed power to save him. The consequences, the agony...There was no energy left to give.

“She used the last of her life to plead to me,” The Outsider whispered, tone quiet and sorrowful as his image appeared before you, placing a hand on your head. Seeing the Outsider of the past looking just like the one standing next to him was odd, but of little consequence, “I’m not allowed to interfere on my own accord in these worlds outside of shrines and runes, it's why I send her in to do my bidding. She is neither a goddess nor human, so she can walk these worlds and blend in as she sees fit.”

The past Outsider disappeared from your eyes, leaving you with enough strength to drag yourself to your feet, legs shaking and blood dripping down to your calf. Why? Why were you so determined? Why not just return to the Void and heal, to take Nero there with you and raise him there? You could have returned alone for that matter, been healed by the Outsider and returned to take care of him as needed. But... Maybe because too much time would pass, maybe there was too much danger. Vergil didn’t understand, he couldn’t. There were so many stipulations to your powers and wants that he was falling behind.

“She never wanted Nero to feel that place,” The Outsider whispered in response, voice barely heard above the rain and fading howls of the Void, “And she was cracking at the time, soul on the verge of shatter and mind having nothing left to give.”

On the verge of shatter?

The Outsider flinched at the sight of you, one fist clenching so hard his black nails dug into his flesh as he hissed, “To be sent to the Void, one’s soul must be on the verge of shattering and have nowhere else to go. There the soul is left where it doesn’t have to be dealt with, breaking apart and forming the chorus that cries into the darkness. Y/N was a rare occurrence, she held on for quite some time until I found her.” 

Resilient, you had always been so strong. So determined.

Vergil’s heart was throbbing in his chest, watching as you summoned a cloak with the energy the God gave you, wrapping it around Nero to shield him entirely before dragging yourself step by step into the night. You stumbled and swayed, the energy not healing you in the slightest. Just...keeping you alive, giving you the strength to move. But...why?

“I built her back, gave her soul form again,” The Outsider continued, shifting the image so it showed you walking down an empty alleyway, not a soul in sight so late into the evening. Your eyes were glassy, staring but seeing nothing. And not a single person saw you, “ But...the events that happened in Fortuna put her back to that breaking point, she was so close to shattering there was nothing I could do. Her mind was not all there--she knew she could never be a good mother to Nero as she was, someone so surrounded by misfortune and pain, someone so prone to breaking apart.”

Of course you didn’t want to return--with your final breath you wanted to bring Nero where you knew he would be safe, and seal your own fate so you didn’t have to burden your son anymore. There would be no healing you with your own soul so damaged and broken, the power you were using to stay alive was unstable enough already. Vergil saw whale oil drip from your mouth, carefully avoided so it didn’t patter onto the baby you were barely keeping dry. One foot forward, then another. Leading up the back road to the Fortuna Orphanage, owned by Kyrie’s parents. An occasional tendril appeared from your form, out of control as it twitched and disintegrated with the rain. But you still didn’t stop, like a zombie shuffling along to the front door of the building. No lights were on inside, but it scarcely seemed to matter to you.

He watched you finally collapse once reaching the steps, making sure to keep Nero safely cradled to your chest as your knees gave out and hit the pavement. The trail of blood you left behind was being steadily washed away by rain, pattering onto the steps in rivets of fading red. Nero had started crying again, his wails seeming so loud in the dark of night, accompanied only by the steady pattering all around. As for you...a limit had been reached, the Outsider’s borrowed power running out entirely and leaving you in that weakened state. You set Nero on the dry, top step as carefully as you could before your body tilted to the side, landing hard on the ground in the rain and staring at him with far-away eyes.

You had done it, hadn’t you? Nero was in a safe place, one where he could live without being burdened by the knowledge of his parents. Of your tragedy, and his. To grow up never knowing what kind of cruel monster his father was, or how he failed the both of you.

We failed them. We failed them.

You let out a choked whimper of sound, body twitching as you reached out toward Nero’s tiny body next to yours. Your final seconds of life, those final breaths before the Void would finally claim you again. Back to the cold, the dark, the emptiness. All you had wanted was that time in the sun, didn’t you? To love and be loved, to catch up on the happiness life had already taken from you before. And he had scoffed in the face of it, had cut it down as surely as the Yamato could.

Everything we touch is ruined.

Everything we love gets hurt.

We are truly poison, aren’t we?

Vegril was jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of your voice, barely heard and weak as it scraped its way past your broken lips. He watched as your hand lifted to touch Nero’s cheek, your face a mask of regret and agony as you stared at the baby boy one last time. Like he was the world, and you had failed him.

“Forgive...me....please...”

No...no no no.

This wasn’t your fault--

There is nothing you could have done.

What have we done? What have we done--

Vergil was forced to watch in horror as you died on the orphanage steps, barely able to whisper out a goodbye to your child before the final breath left your lungs.

It was then the scream finally managed to break free of Vergil’s aching chest, movement allowed back to his frozen limbs. He bowed over, clutching his head as he unleashed all the pent up agony from his body, the denial, the regret, the hatred for himself and his past actions. It echoed through the night air of Fortuna like he was there, the rain dripping from his silver hair in steady streams and over his parted lips. What have we done? What did we do? Everything was touch gets destroyed, every choice we make ends in someone’s pain and heartache. Even after all the trying, all the work, everything...he could save nothing and no one--All the people who mattered, the ones he loved...In the end, his choices lead to their ruin, every single one of them.

Y/N, Eva, Dante, Nero...

His actions had failed each and every one of you.

This was his punishment, and he deserved it.

Deserved it and more.

When Vergil finally lifted his head, breaths heaving from his battered lungs and face twisted in anguish, he saw your body start to disappear. You disintegrated into black crystal, similar to how the Outsider did before and vanishing without a trace. No body to bury, leaving behind only minute traces of blood that the rain was steadily washing away.

Nero was left crying and alone, the sound alerting someone in the home and a light turning on in the front room. Kyrie’s parents, Vergil could formulate that realization well enough despite how broken he felt. The door opened a second later, revealing a woman in a night robe as she turned on the porch light and gasped in shock at the sight of a baby on her doorstep. One wrapped in cloth, slightly stained with blood and no one around in sight. His child, his son--what a horrible way to start his life, born to a suffering mother and left as she died to bring him into the world.

Kyrie’s mother didn’t hesitate, quickly picking up the baby and holding him to her chest protectively. What kind of monster would leave a baby out in the rain? She wondered aloud, voice soft and disbelieving as she stroked Nero’s red cheek. She could never know, never understand the sacrifice it took to get Nero there in the first place. The blood was practically gone, no trace of you left behind other than the very son he had helped make. Your story died there with you, and Nero would never get to know what his mother had been through to bring him into the world.

Forgive me Nero.

Forgive us for how we failed you.

You father has always been a fool.

It was the last of his child that Vergil would be allowed to see, the woman turning and quickly shutting the door as she called desperately for her husband to come and help her with the new child. The son of Sparda knew the two would raise Nero right, would take care of him despite his devil arm and would build him into an individual of strength and kindness. He would meet his future wife here, would find happiness--just as his mother wanted for him, just as she had hoped.

Vergil sat in the rain for a few moments in silence, staring sightless at the closed door with tears lost to the rain water.

Only then did the black-eyed God seem satisfied, snapping his fingers and turning the illusion into a cloud of black crystal shards. All at once the sensations disappeared, the rain, the scent of Fortuna and the taste of salt water on the air. Vergil found himself on his hands and knees on that same fucking piece of debris, staring down at his own trembling hands and hyperventilating after all that he had seen and learned. He could barely breathe, barely think--the truth was like an ocean resting on his back, leaving him bowing under the weight and unable to get up. What had he done? What the fuck had he done? The son of Sparda might as well have killed you himself, leaving you to bleed out on the beaches of Fortuna alone and aching for someone to save you.

He was a monster, deplorable. And he was certain he knew it all along, but was too prideful to admit it.

All this madness, and what did he have to show for it? He was alive, he had done so many terrible things and had gained nothing. Lost everything. What would his mother think if she saw him now, kneeling before a black-eyed God and coughing from the burn of bile in his throat? If she knew of the crimes he would commit, the lives he would ruin. The only woman who would ever love him had died a terrible death, a tragic one, all because he couldn’t let go of his past. Why didn’t he just stay, what would have happened if he had? To save you, then get you out of Fortuna and somewhere safe. Nero would have been born safely with a mother who loved him instead of being left on a damp doorstep at night. It was Vergil’s fault, all of it--Nero had every right in the world to hate his guts, to want him dead.

And so did you.

V had not stopped in his mourning, his screams and cries simmering down to low sobs that echoed in Vergil’s skull. Twice. They had hurt you and ripped you apart twice--he had more to be guilty for than he could have ever imagined. V was not a sentient being when all those events transpired, but they might as well have been blood on his hands too in the eyes of the poet. Every lie he told you, every bit of affection he took knowing he would someday be gone...it hurt more than ever before, tearing them both apart inside. It was no wonder V had loved you with every part of his frail body--it was that part of Vergil that had ached so heavily for your affection, the part that you had touched the most with that light you carried inside. V was drawn to you because of the love Vergil had felt at that time, the one he had tried to bury and forget, but...it only made sense it would be buried right alongside his humanity.

V didn’t have those memories, but god his half of Vergil’s soul had known you.

We hurt her--we hurt her so terribly. We took everything she had to give and then hurt her more--

The Outsider remained silent as Vergil heaved, vomiting bile considering there was absolutely nothing left to cough up. There was a cold glower in his eyes at the sight of the half-demon’s suffering, one without pity or remorse. This was exactly what the God had hoped for after all, to see Vergil suffer for his crimes and make him feel something even remotely close to all the pain he had caused you. For a moment, Vergil was afraid--you were nowhere in sight among the inky blackness of the Void’s glow, the realization hitting him that the trials had not been that at all. So what would become of you now that the Outsider had his way? Would you suffer more for his cowardice? What would you think of him now that you knew the truth?

It was the black-eyed God who answered his question, approaching with slow steps and kneeling down in front of Vergil’s prone form. He grabbed a fistfull of Vergil’s hair, yanking his head up so those silvery-blue eyes were forced to stare at the God’s enigmatic face. What kind of image did Vergil paint now? Shaken, face twisted in pain and horror and saliva still dotting the corners of his mouth--pathetic, that was for certain. Vergil doubted he had ever been so weak in his life, so foolish, so absolutely deplorable. 

“I’m so glad to see you have finally learned your place,” The Outsider rejoiced, a small smirk tilting his lips as he beheld Vergil’s agony, “And for the record, the only one who will walk away remembering what you did is you, son of Sparda.”

What?

The Outsider clicked his tongue, releasing Vergil’s hair so he was forced to collapse back onto the ground with a wheeze. The God stood, looming ominously as he studied Vergil’s form like he was merely dirt under his shoe, “Y/N can never remember who she was then, or what was done--the heartbreak is too much, the trauma would snap her in half. It is the one thing she can never handle, the one truth she can never be allowed to know or else lose her soul’s stability again. As Nero’s friend, as someone who cares about him...do you truly believe Y/N could handle the guilt of knowing all his suffering was because of her mistakes?”

The God was right, of course he was. Just seeing the look in your eyes when the memories had tried to resurface, when you saw yourself standing there...Vergil never wanted you to hurt like that again. But that didn’t answer the question of what was to happen now, especially to you. Would the Outsider let you return home to the others, ignorant to all that had happened? Would he erase your memory of it and plunge Vergil into the Void for his crimes? He deserved it--writhing for an eternity in the darkness until he would shatter and join the chorus of howling would be a fate worthy of all his crimes.

But...he still ached.

He was still selfish. 

He wanted you even after all that was done, but would never deserve you again.

“Please…” Vergil rasped, voice hoarse and broken as he tried to pull himself upright. To take a gander at the God, imploring him to listen even a little to what the son of Sparda wanted. You deserved happiness, you deserved anything from this other than pain. And he was willing to sacrifice for it, “Remove V from me, let Y/N have him back and live happily...please. It’s all I have to give.”

V had given you all the love and affection you deserved, the part of him that could truly give himself to you without holding back. Vergil had lost his right to be yours the day he left you in Fortuna, ignorant to your fate. His human half had tried, had been everything you wanted and needed while still being your soulmate in technical aspects--Vergil should have known all along, the part of him that should have been your soulmate had always been the poet. It took splitting himself apart to realize it, but...he knew now. This was the only way to pay for his crimes, to suffer the way he deserved to.

You can’t--V whispered, sounding just as broken and miserable as he--I am just as guilty. I am you and you are me, one cannot exist without the other.

Not anymore.

“You are making demands now?” The Outsider seemed unimpressed by Vergil’s lamenting, turning on his heel and slowly walking in a slow circle around the miserable man. His footfalls were silent, the chill he carried with him like frostbite in the air as he replied, “All that I have done, every trial and mission I have put Y/N through has been to help her. For every pain she felt, that tolerance grew, slowly strengthening her soul over time so I would never run the risk of almost losing her again. She has suffered enough that all minor pains pale in comparison, it has made my child strong and resilient in the face of tragedy. Even in the tree, even after all the pain she felt at losing V...my efforts made their difference, she did not start to crack once, and built herself back without my help.”

So this was the God’s angle, wasn’t it? This was his goal all along. Vergil had wondered from all of V’s memories why the god seemed so aloof with you when his guidance was needed most, why he seemed determined to put you in scenarios that only caused you pain. He had twisted an idea in his head that all of the cruelty was needed to make you strong, so your soul could stand on its own even in the face of unbelievable pain. Even if it meant hating the man you considered a father, even if it meant you would grow bitter and cold. Vergil had no doubts that almost losing you that second time had scared the God, especially considering he saw you as his child. And he vowed to never let you come that close to shattering again.

That didn’t make it right. It didn’t excuse all the times he purposely put you through trauma just to build up your tolerance.

The Outsider let out a snort, sensing Vergil’s thoughts with disdain in those cold eyes, “Are you here to judge me for what I have done, the steps I have taken to save my child’s soul? No--” He grabbed Vergil by the collar, holding him up with ease and staring at his face with a twisted sense of glee, “You are here to suffer for what you did to her--you almost took something very precious from me, something this place had never allowed before. Do you have any idea how long it took to fix her mind, to subdue those memories so not even traces remained? All the other traumas...if they became too much I would dilute them, remove the images but leave the traces of emotion for her to process as she saw fit. But what you did...that I could never leave behind.”

Vergil couldn’t even argue, lips parted for wheezing gasps but nothing else. He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t even begin to think of how hard it must have been for you to come back from what was done. To have a child you never got to know, to raise, and then have all the memory taken away so it didn’t break your fragile mind. There was so much love inside your soul to give, so much happiness you could have shared with Nero if Vegril hadn’t messed things up so badly. But...he robbed you of that for his own selfish gain, then forgot it all to add insult to injury. How he had ached, feeling the sting of defeat in hell while Mundus stripped him of his will and dignity. Nothing could be worse than this, he had convinced himself. All the while you were suffering something far worse, and he was ignorant to it all.

“I played a part in your memories too,” The Outsider hissed, turning and slowly walking toward the edge of the precipice with Vergil dangling from his grasp, “After all, I couldn’t have you remembering her when she came back to this world. I didn’t know what she would change upon coming here, but everything played out beautifully--V returned to Urizen as he was supposed to, the tree destroyed. And you started falling to pieces.”

He planned all of it. From the moment you arrived to the moment he took his first breath as Vergil again. All of this was meant to end in the half-demon’s torment.

Vergil closed his eyes, breath dragging itself out of his lungs as he whispered hoarsely, “And you would leave her unhappy in the process? Is this what she wants?”

If this was truly your desire, to see him suffer for all his crimes...he would take it without complaint. Vergil had never been the type to bow his head to anyone, but for you...he would take the pain of punishment.

“Contrary to your opinion, Y/N’s happiness is more important to me than anything,” The Outsider responded quietly, fingers gripping Vergil’s collar so tightly the cold was seeping through to his skin, “I will remove V from your form, and erase his memories of the tragedy you caused in Fortuna--making him a full, complete soul is easy enough. As for you...letting you suffer in the Void will be far too easy.”

...What? Vergil felt his breath catch, teeth grinding hard enough that his jaw ached. What else could there possibly do to make this worse for him other than that?

The God narrowed his black, endless eyes as he continued on, “Through the Void, all can be made reality. I will take V from you, and fill your soul back with that same humanity he once was--a clean slate with all the same memories, all the same emotions and feelings but now with V’s consciousness gone.”

“...Why?” Vergil’s voice came out barely as a whisper, filled with apprehension and confusion as he gripped the Outsider’s arms holding him up. This wasn’t right, none of this make sense--why would he leave him alive and whole after all of that, what the hell was the point? Wouldn’t it make sense to just take Urizen and throw him into the Void so he would slowly cease to exist? Instead the God seemed intent on leaving Vergil just as he was, but making it so that V could exist separately without the Sparda losing his humanity. 

What does this serve to him?

What does this black-eyed bastard gain?

The Outsider smiled, seeming to sense the confusion in Vergil’s thoughts and taking great amusement in it. All his years of plotting, of watching Vergil live out his mistakes and seeing him shrug them off without taking any responsibility for them...this had to be an absolute joy.

“Y/N will gain back the man she loves,” He replied simply, tilting his head to the side and leveling a cold glare on Vergil’s face, “And you will bear the burden of these truths for the rest of your life. You will live with the knowledge that she was meant to be yours, but never be allowed to have her again for as long as you live. How will it feel to see her love a man that is no longer you anymore, so see her kiss and hold him with all the love you never deserved while you know exactly what suffering you caused?”

Vergil felt his heart start hammering against his ribs, faster and faster as the reality started setting in again. His emotions for you ran so deep now, so heavy and drowning him in an unbelievable sensation of longing. To be forced to swallow all that he felt, to watch you love V with everything he had desired and craved and to no longer have that connection to you anymore...That was truly what he deserved, wasn’t it? To feel that level of misery for the rest of his life, to live knowing just how much he screwed up and never be allowed to have you again. You had been his soulmate, the only one who could love him and see past all the walls he put up without judgment. And he...he had lost you, lost his one true chance at happiness.

You can’t…! V whispered in his head, frantic and pained as he pushed pressure against Vergil’s skull, Do you truly think she would want this? To lose her soulmate and only gain the human half of him? Should she settle for that? Please--

This...this would be for the best, wouldn’t it? What was the point of getting all of him when V was exactly what you needed? Someone who could love you, cherish you, who could love you without restraint? Vergil as a whole would always be tied down by his own trauma, by his own cowardice and cruelty. As long as Urizen existed inside of him, he could never be what was good for you, what was needed. What you felt for him before, back in Fortuna...it didn’t matter anymore, not after he crushed it all under his unyielding heels. That love had never been deserved, but what you had with V had been good, pure, untainted by Urizen’s filthy essence and Vergil’s cruelty. You deserved to have that again, and he...he deserved to crumble. 

No, please--

“I see you are in agreement with me,” The Outsider sounded pleased, a slow smirk lifting the edges of his cold-looking lips, “When Y/N wakes up again, she will not remember the final trial. And by then, V will be returned and you will lie to her--you will say that you passed the trials and this was what you asked of me. You will tell her all your feelings for her left with V, and that everything is as it should be. There should be no confusion once I sever the remaining traces of connection her soul has to yours, and you will never tell her what you have seen here today.”

You can’t, you shouldn’t--

This is not how things should end--

Vergil closed his eyes again, head tilting back and a numbness settling over his frame once the Outsider’s chill started to seep in. Right to the bone, like being submerged in ice water. His temples throbbed while V struggled, not wanting this outcome, not wanting to lose his memory of what happened. But Vergil...he was resigned to his fate, ready to take the burden on himself no matter how terribly he would suffer for it. All of the mistakes, all of the foolish pride had brought him to this point, to be robbed of happiness was a just punishment. He had swallowed emotions before, he could do it again. Even if he grew numb and tired, even if it ached until day he died...there were still amends to be made, and no more running away.

“Vergil Sparda, this is your punishment for hurting my child.”

Stop.

Please, Vergil.

Please--

But he didn’t have to say anything.

There was a moment of silence with no change, no actions made by the black eyed god and filled only with the howling of the Void. What was going on? Something made the Outsider pause. Vergil didn’t know what had halted him, but the God hesitated, a gasp leaving his lips and energy halting in its grip on Vergil’s very soul. Had you awoken early? Had he changed his mind? Both were disproved when the Outsider let out a shuddering breath, an unfamiliar male voice cutting through the howling of the Void behind him with a stern gruffness that surprised them both.

“That is enough, Outsider.”

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[mirrahs-finest]

Cadence

Dust as thick as snow wafted through the thin sunbeam that pierced between the heavy green curtains. Everywhere else was black. Bare flesh, no trace of deerskin, darted in and out of the light as he searched for a braided cord. He found it, and pulled.

Blinding sunlight flooded the room through large, double hung windows in an instant as the curtains yielded. The afternoon glow washed across a long wall of packed bookshelves, dark-wood chests, and what looked to be a large, glossy black coffin with knobs adjoined to its side. The latter dominated the middle of the room.

The knight turned his head back over his shoulder towards the lady in white, awaiting a response. He looked pensive, for a statue. His hair lit up with a golden glow, cast by the morning rays, but it did not dull the edges and lines that carved his stiff visage. She surveyed the forgotten place from the threshold of the door, looking on in silence at the ancient tools.

She approached the bookshelf directly across the doorway and ran her palms along the brown tips of paintbrushes. Dozens upon dozens lined the shelf in glass jars, each divided--what felt to her fingers--by stiffness of the bristles as well as by size. 

The hairs softly hissed as she brushed her thumbs across them. Some were stained by color, others were worn down to the metal binding, but all of them carried a history of a thousand pictures in one form or another.

Marie pulled her hand away and let her eyes wander to each of the other odds and ends that littered shelves of the room. She found long tubes of oil paints--someone before had clearly favored red-- a whole host of inks and corresponding quills, and more than a few dark, smoky metal tins. 

She could not help herself, her hands were immediately blackened as she picked up the final of the items to inspect. Aslatiel pursed his lips. 

It was full to the brim with black charcoal. She picked a piece out, and it felt strange in the pads of her fingertips. They fit naturally, and her hand knew just how to grip it, but it still felt foreign to her. It was a glove she had long thought lost, found again. How long had it been since the first time she had felt this texture, she wondered? 

The woman looked up at the knight. Finally, he released his grasp on the curtain’s drawstring. His brow and lips relaxed, somewhat, and he dragged his eyes from her greens to over her shoulder. Her attention followed. 

To the back of the room, far from the oppressive gaze of the window’s morning sun, rested the easel. Fine white canvases rested alongside its right leg, hardly touched by damp air or harsh sunlight. She set aside the little metal box of dusty black, coated in her fingerprints, and walked over to it, drawn, slipping passed the coffin for now.

When she inspected the large canvas that was already hung in the easel’s grasp, she found nothing but a blank slate. She was not sure what she was expecting; he had already mentioned how long it had been since he last entered this place, and his forte was most certainly not in oil paints. Though, there must be some half truth somewhere, for what reason would a blank canvas be propped up, then?

He came closer so as to not have to yell across the rather large room. 

“Well?”

There was only the one--albeit large--window, but the light cream walls aided it in illuminating the whole room. The knight took a few more steps, coming to rest by the coffin so as to not get between Marie and any of the artifacts.

“You have a fine museum,” she replied after a brief pause, dragging a finger through the dust on the easel like a ship through the seas. 

She examined, again  the glossy walls and exceptional tools, all things she had not expected to ever own herself, at least not here. 

“Why did you take so long to show me this?”

She did not sound appreciative. Marie could not tell what his goal was; was this meant to be some kind of gift for her, meant to appease his own guilty heart? Or merely an exposition of amassed treasures--an old dragon looking for validation of his trove. Collections are meaningless without anyone to experience them.

“Truly, I had forgotten it even existed. My mind was occupied with other things,” he answered, without pause or hesitation. She had been with him for some of those frozen nights; only Aslatiel of Mirrah could make his being revolve solely around such a dark thing. He looked around the room as if, he too, were inspecting it for the first time.

“Perhaps it never stuck to me because I am simply not the sort of person to make use of any of this. My focuses and skills were elsewhere,” he continued. He seemed relaxed in that white linen shirt, his former apprehensions vanished.

She eyed the polished black piece of furniture that continued to make its weight known to the room.

“I thought you said you played?” she asked, catching his contradiction.

He paused his inspection of the room, and directed his azure back to her, his form framed by the window. The knight did not say anything, he merely looked confused. 

“The piano,” she indicated, “Did you not tell me that you once played music?”

Aslatiel followed her gesture to the ebony he rested his elbows on. He took hold of one of the two nobs and lifted upwards, gently, revealing 88 black and ivory teeth that smiled up at him.

He looked back at her, but she did not yield. Worse; she seemed to be anticipating. His gaze fell back upon the teeth.

“...So I did,” he conceded. Slowly, the vichyssoise that was his memory churned and bubbled, letting the event rise to the surface. There was also a handsome demon, floating across like flotsam, but he did not dredge for it.

The knight sat down upon the cushioned seat beneath the maw, waiting for it to make the first move. When it didn’t, the man rolled up the flowing sleeves of his linen shirt, then made the attack.

A single string, low and lonely, rumbled as a hammer beneath the wood struck down upon it. It danced, reacting to the energy with an eager tone.

The knight closed the shutter that had protected the keys from dust all that time, satisfied.

The woman looked down upon him from the easel, canvas in hand, clearly not as pleased. 

Disapproval rolled along his brow and lips for a moment, before he took a deep breath and spoke.

“Any requests?” he asked as he lifted the shutter once more.

He would turn it against her. Surely, she had heard a thousand tunes in Volgen, and many more on her travels. But could she name a single waltz, symphony, or even sonata? Perhaps some, but none Mirran. 

He was a spiteful thing. Her own brow furrowed as she realized the rules of the game of which he was setting. She continued her motions of setting a new, smaller, canvas upon the rack while she thought.

“I would much prefer to hear something from you, Aslatiel. Surely, someone such as yourself would have made a piece or two?”

She watched as his visage went blank, and took the opportunity to browse through the selection of oil paints a second time while he readied himself. 

Her challenge quickly became insurmountable. 

“I’ve never composed before,” he loosed like a sigh. “I had always enjoyed just playing whatever I found in libraries.”

He was imagining the collections he once had free rein over. Dozens, if not hundreds, of the finest composers all at his fingertips. It was they who were the masters of their craft, and it was from them he had always drawn.

“I never had a need to write, myself.” 

Her search had slowed, unaware how quickly she had cornered him. The brushes called out to her, but she was waiting.

Just as she was about to speak up, another note cut the silence.

Five more joined it as it sounded off again. They did not match, at least not all of them. One or two did not fit so neatly in the perfect chorus, but again he called them anyway. 

Marie resumed looking through the brushes, selected three, then returned to her easel, uneasy, but content enough to listen. She could practically hear the rust falling from his worn hands and the strong forearms they were bound to, and yet he was not creating anything unpleasant. They were only chords, after all, little bundles and collections with no meaning without direction.

As she spread her choices of paint and dabbed the harrowed head of her largest brush into the white pigment, he gave the notes their orders. 

Slowly, they flowed over one another, still drawn from the discordant collection, but they were earnest if nothing else. Occasionally, they stumbled and faltered, but he did not hasten to correct it. Instead, he just let them go. She was not convinced they were mistakes. 

They trickled nearly one at a time through the air rich with sunlight, but come they did. Fingers rolled upwards; he had enough of the low notes, he wanted something brighter. The discordant chorus began its ascent, this time with melody and rhythm. It was something slow, but full. Aslatiel never did things partway.

Soon enough, he had remembered the peddles, which gave the steadily growing stream its weight and longevity. Some notes persisted as he went on to others; a stream was forming.

Aslatiel, himself, looked engrossed. She was almost certain he would not even notice if she flicked some of the green paint on her brush upon his face. He stared on at his fingers as they danced across the keys with the same look one may read a harrowing story with. She poked lightly at leaves.

A river had formed. It bent round wild corners and fell upon jagged rocks, but never slowed. Instead the notes hastened. 88 little hammers battering away at just as many strings, and Aslatiel made sure at least the majority of them were dancing at any given time. Marie could feel its deepest wells in the base of her chest, following along with the pace of her heartbeat.

Gradually, the one or two little notes that had rebelled against the rest lost their voice. They fell in with the rise and fall of the current, swept away by slow, but powerful, torrents. 

The knight knew every key’s tone by heart. He recalled how many times he had requested his own instrument at home be re-tuned, insisting upon not a single note going without their voice. Eventually, he had taken up the job himself, dissatisfied with any other’s work. Once, these voices mattered to him more than anything else. And yet, he had never allowed them to speak on their own accord. 

His fulfillment shown brightly on his face. There was so much color to be found in these black and white keys. 

The woman wondered what story could possibly be playing in his mind. The wind up soldier could not have been daydreaming of wars long gone; there was no snow or ice in this melody, nor a drop of red to be found beneath the trills. The story was one of clouds, and grass, and tall trees that shaded well but let enough golden sunlight through to remind one that it was only the afternoon, and there was still the entire day left to play. The corners of her mouth pulled gently upwards as she pulled the brush across the canvas.

The river ebbed, slowly icing over with the end of the imagined symphony. So came a stream, then the brook. It occurred to him that without paper, he may never be able to play that exact piece the same way ever again, if at all. The brook came to a trickle, until all that remained were two little voices, in harmony with only each other.

Somehow, this realization did not bother him in the slightest. Slowly, he lifted his fingers from the board and began to stand.

“Hey!” she called, her tone awash with displeasure. She looked almost offended.

He froze and locked eyes with her mid-rise, hesitant to move even a single muscle.

“I was not finished,” she said, brush hovering inches from the canvas. Slowly, the knight sat back down at the piano’s seat.

Marie added two touches of blue with the smallest brush she had.

[free-mormons-blog]

Rediscovery of the Apocrypha and the Book of Mormon -- Temple and Cosmos Beyond this Ignorant Present -- HUGH NIBLEY 1992

Rediscovery of the Apocrypha and the Book of Mormon

The Open Scriptures

The world today has forgotten that the most shocking and offensive thing about the Book of Mormon was what? For years and years, nobody could find any objectionable teachings in it. So what were they so upset about? It was this: It presented a completely unfamiliar set of scripture and revelation—a completely new idea of scripture. Nobody had ever thought of the scriptures being open like that. They said, “Now look, we have the Bible, and this Bible was a concrete, monolithic block written by the hand of God, and there is nothing else.” Then came the Book of Mormon, not only butting into the picture, but giving a whole new conception of what scripture was, how it had been composed, and how it had been made, how things built up; it tells us a lot about writing, about recording, about handing down traditions, about how the people thought of the book. If we go into all the early criticism of Mormonism, this is the thing people resented. They couldn’t understand anything like it. But this is exactly what we run into in the newly discovered apocryphal texts.

We have in the Book of Mormon a unique treatise on how men receive revelation from above; we find there a great deal on the subject of revelation. The Book of Mormon is much preoccupied with the physical transmission of records, as well as with visitations of angels. We are told that there exist records that reveal all things from the foundation of the world unto the end thereof—there are records that contain all basic knowledge (2 Nephi 27:7, 10-11). The mysteries of God are to be had on ancient plates and ancient records. There is a basic body of knowledge around which history pivots, and this is recorded knowledge, sometimes hidden away, and sometimes available—in libraries here and corpuses there. That is, the books have been “kicking around,” often concealed, but kept and transmitted; they possess a tremendous amount of information if men could only get hold of them. And now some of those books are here upon the earth. Again, this was a new concept, and it comes up a great deal in the Book of Mormon.

These documents are an indispensable aid to the knowledge of things as they are. What the Book of Mormon does! I’ve mentioned the third dimension. The other churches live in a two-dimensional world. But our gospel adds a third dimension, so to speak. We think of the other world as being a reality, and so we actually live in another dimension. That’s a nice thing, theoretically, but what we have got to show is more than theory. We have the Book of Mormon; it cuts a furrow through everything that’s been done before. It plows right through all our old concepts, upsetting things! It breaks the circle, the age-old argument of the scripture and the apocrypha. The world says that the documents of the Bible, properly selected and evaluated, are the word of God. But they select the documents! So we go around in a circle, declaring these to be the word of God, insomuch as they’re properly selected and evaluated. But who selects and evaluates? Oh, we do! We make our own word of God. That is what it amounts to. And that’s all we can do—just run around in a circle. The Book of Mormon breaks right into that—coming in from the outside, having nothing to do with any of the formal concepts of scripture. It’s a completely jarring note, and so it’s a remarkable document.

The apocryphal writings, especially those recently discovered, pay the same careful attention to bookkeeping that the authors of the Book of Mormon do. They represent a tradition handed down at all times, the idea that a particular volume or volumes are hidden, and thus transmitted. It is an old story, and we run into it frequently. The Egyptians are especially full of the idea; the Dead Sea Scrolls are completely caught up in it.

The Egyptians, from the earliest to the latest times, frequently refer to a mysterious box that contains a record of the race. It has been hidden, and if they could only get to it, they would have something. An Egyptian noble of the old kingdom boasts that he has seen the box, the ephod of sia (“wisdom”), and he knows what is in it. Many a noble Egyptian, many a pharaoh, and many a king spent all his days reading the tablets and writings in the House of Life, above all seeking for the book. The House of Life was a very important institution in Egypt, a magnificent building, a library; and it contained mostly genealogical records.1 That’s what the great Gardiner, just before he died, found out. The Egyptians used to spend their days in the House of Life, looking for something they felt was lost—especially the book. Somewhere in these treasures was the book, the book written by the hand of Thoth himself, Dhwty, or whatever name we want to give him. It would contain all knowledge—certain secrets, secrets of life.

A New Kingdom writing: “It is in the midst of the Sea of Coptos, in a box of iron, in a box of bronze, which is in a box of kita wood, which is in a box of ivory and ebony, which is in a box of silver, which is in a box of gold, in which is the book”—if we could only get into it! This account says the story can only be read once we’ve found the book by the inspiration of Ammon.

The Babylonians were, if anything, even more taken with the Book of Life than the Egyptians, and indeed (we should read something from the Gilgamesh epic here), the legends in both countries reflected real practices throughout the Near East of recent years. Piggott tells us that “the whole business archives of a single family have sometimes been recovered from the ruins of a single house.”2 Throughout the Near East—Asia Minor, Mesopotamia, or Egypt—it is not uncommon to discover the business archives and histories in private libraries. We realize that most of the great libraries of antiquity were private libraries, kept in people’s houses. This came as a surprise too; they are not even temple libraries.

Again, we find a good Book of Mormon custom, according to which Laban had the archives, and it was there he kept the plates. Why? Because it was a private record; he was directly descended from Joseph, and the family kept the genealogy there, in their house of life. Lehi had to get the records from Laban, and we can see why Laban was in no mood to part with them!

The idea that a king, a near contemporary of Lehi, should cause transcriptions and translations to be made of a royal speech and sent to various parts of his dominion, so a copy of it should turn up in the ruins of a Jewish community far up the Nile in Elephantine (among Jewish refugees from Lehi’s Jerusalem), would not have occurred to anyone before 1906, unless one happened to have read about such things in the Book of Mormon. Yet another, even better example has recently turned up in Egypt, in the form of the royal speech. The king at his coronation gave a speech, and since the speech could not be heard by everyone, he had brochures made of it and circulated, as Benjamin did in the Book of Mormon.

Among the Jewish apocrypha, Baruch is particularly concerned with a guiding book. Baruch read this book in the hearing of the king’s son, and in the hearing of all the people that came to hear it in Babylon; then they had a copy made and sent to Jerusalem. Baruch was the secretary of Jeremiah, the friend of Lehi, and so all these customs were familiar—we see why the Book of Mormon people would take them with them. And “this is the Book of the Commandments,” says Baruch; “the Book of the Commandments of God. . . . All they that hold it fast are appointed to life; But such as leave it shall die. Turn thee, O Jacob, and take hold of it: Walk towards her shining in the presence of the light thereof.”3 This is the idea of taking hold of things, the motif of grabbing the iron rod. Baruch comments on the custom of hiding the book, a theme often mentioned in the apocrypha: the holy book has to be hidden. All the treasures of Israel, he says, must be hid up unto the Lord, “so that strangers may not get possession of them. For the time comes when Jerusalem also will be delivered for a time, until it is said that it is again restored forever. And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed [the records] up.”4

In 2 Baruch we read an interesting thing. All the treasures of Israel, he says, must be hid up unto the Lord so that strangers may not get possession of them. And in Helaman, where people are rebuked for hiding their private treasures, we read, “They shall hide up treasures unto [the Lord]” (Helaman 13:19). It’s a commandment. We usually think of this as denouncing people for hiding up treasures. It’s Samuel the Lamanite who says their treasures are going to become slippery because they did not hide them up to the Lord when they fled from their enemies; when we do flee from the enemy we must hide up our treasure to the Lord (cf. Helaman 13:31, 20).

Later Baruch tells us how “they hid all the vessels of the sanctuary, lest the enemy should get possession of them.”5 Though this writing was published only since Cumorah, a more recent find gives it solid historical dimensions—the famous Copper Scroll, found in Cave Four at Qumran. The significance of this, an important record written on copper alloy sheets and hidden up, is that it was in fact written and prepared with the express purpose of its being hidden up. That’s why it was written, for it contains a record of all the other treasures hidden up to the Lord.

Here we have a concrete and indisputable example of an ancient Israelite practice: “For I will, saith the Lord, that they shall hide up their treasures unto me; and cursed be they who hide not up their treasures unto me” (Helaman 13:19). If we hide them unto the Lord, that’s a good thing; he wants us to hide treasures to him, in regular old Jewish fashion. Again, Baruch, the secretary of Jeremiah, writes that when Jerusalem was destroyed (referring to the destruction of Jerusalem at the time of Lehi), the Lord wanted the treasures to be buried up unto him. It’s a rule, and now we know from the Copper Scroll it was actually done.6 And this is the way it was done. And then Baruch says, “And none shall redeem it. . . . And the day shall come that they shall hide up their treasures, because they have set their hearts upon their riches. . . . When they shall flee before their enemies; because they will not hide them up unto me” (Helaman 13:19-20). When we flee before our enemies, we hide our treasure up unto the Lord; it’s a commandment.

Let me say a word about reformed Egyptian here. It was demotic, learned by Lehi in the Old World. Spiegelberg defines demotic as the cursive form of writing developed between the eight and fourth centuries B.C., an abbreviation of the hieratic.7 So we start out with the hieroglyphic; then came the hieratic, which was, in turn, a short form of hieroglyphic. As a shorthand of a shorthand, demotic was the best shorthand ever invented. It was ideal for saving space, putting a great deal of writing into a small amount of space. It became the cominant type of writing in Egypt about Lehi’s time. About 600 B.C., everyone turned to it; it became the way of doing things, and the script really was reformed. Here’s one way the name Ammon is written in Egyptian. Next it was written more rapidly in hieratic, but by the time of the demotic representation, the name Ammon is simply this. You can recognize the hieratic, but the demotic form is reformed Egyptian. We can see what economy they would enjoy in writing documents that way. It’s strange that people made so much fun about Joseph Smith and his “reformed Egyptian”; what other name could he possibly give it? It was Champollion who first gave it the name of demotic. In 1828 he published his first work on the subject, about the same time the Book of Mormon appeared. Nobody had ever given any name to this before, and what better name could we give it than reformed Egyptian? Hebrew writing, on the other hand, has always been singularly clumsy from this point of view. It’s quite correct to call the last of these forms reformed Egyptian, reformed beyond recognition by anyone but an expert.

In the old apocrypha, both Jewish and Christian, we find certain favorite images and expressions. This is mostly what I will talk about now, because there are some very nice ones. I have talked about doctrines, the same doctrines emphasized in the Book of Mormon, but now I will talk about images, because they’re more concrete. Again, if we arrange these types and images in order of frequency, they are as distinctive as fingerprints. First consider the images, which are peculiar and characteristic; they also reflect the peculiar cultural background of the people. I could talk about the geographical, physical, and cultural background, but instead I will speak about the images as they appear in both the Book of Mormon and the apocryphal writings. Their literary occurrence is a different thing, a comparison that hasn’t been done before. What we didn’t fully appreciate was their literary and scriptural importance, and that’s not surprising, since it was the Dead Sea Scrolls that first brought those to light, and the scrolls were first discovered in the very same year that I wrote my series of “Lehi in the Desert,” though nobody even knew about any Dead Sea Scrolls then.

Desert Imagery

Desert imagery has been shown to be vivid in the writings of the Jewish sectary. For example, a wealth of expressions refers to travel in the desert—the desert road that is so dangerous to leave. “That I may walk in the path of the low valley, that I may be strict in the plain road!” (2 Nephi 4:32). This prayer of Nephi, the desert traveler, sounds like stilted English until we take it in a literal sense. “The mists of darkness,” says Lehi, explaining this image, “are the temptations of the devil. . . . [He] leadeth them away into broad roads, that they perish and are lost” (1 Nephi 12:17). In our civilization, the broadest roads are the safest; in the desert, they are the most confusing and dangerous. “Walk in the strait path,” says good old Nephi—in true desert style—”which leads to life, and continue in the path until the end of the day of probation” (2 Nephi 33:9). It is not the geographical, but the apocryphal reference that interests us now. In the late Egyptian period (the Egyptian of Lehi’s day), according to Grapow, it became a very common teaching that a man should never depart from the right road, but be righteous, not associate his heart with the wicked, nor walk in the path of unrighteousness. This had actually become a literary convention in Lehi’s day; and in his culture, it is very closely connected with the Israelitish use of it.

That’s not accidental at all. It is an early appearance of the Doctrine of Two Ways: the road of safety and the road of danger; the road of life and the road of death. Couroyer shows a definite connection between the Egyptian and the Israelite teachings on the way of life.8 The Wisdom of Ben Sira, from the early second century B.C., says, “the paths are plain for the blameless, even so they offer stumbling blocks to the presumptuous.”9 Compare this with Nephi’s plain road: “Oh Lord, . . . wilt thou make my path straight before me! Wilt thou not place a stumbling block in my way, . . . and hedge not up my way, but the ways of mine enemy” (2 Nephi 4:33)—the same image, praying that his enemies may get the stumbling block, and that he may have the plain road.10

Ben Sira accords the desert traveler “the image of the man most dependent upon God.”11 So he refers to the traveler again and again, and to life as a journey through the desert, where man is most dependent upon God; and this is the lesson of 1 Nephi. The Wisdom of Solomon says, “We went astray from the way of truth, . . . [and] we journeyed through trackless deserts. But the way of the Lord we knew not.”12 This expression is of the very same type the Book of Mormon uses. This is what Lehi dreams about, what terrifies him—getting lost. “The eternal being,” says the Manual of Discipline, “is the rock which supports my right hand, the road to my feet.”13 Notable here is the common practice of mixing metaphors, especially in enthusiastic passages. The metaphors are closely parallel, and sometimes they appear in rather tasteless profusion. Helaman 3:29-30 is a classic instance, so thoroughly typical that anyone reading much of the Dead Sea Scrolls would notice how much alike they sound. “Yea, we see that whosoever will may lay hold . . .” (Helaman 3:29). Helaman has just spoken about support for his hand and laying hold of the way of truth—”he is the rock that supports my hand, the road to my feet.” These expressions are like fingerprints; they crop up in abundance:

Whosever will may lay hold upon the word of God, which is quick and powerful, which shall divide asunder [it’s now a two-edged sword] all the cunning and the snares and wiles of the devil [now we’ve got the image of a trap], and lead the man of Christ in a straight and narrow course [now we get the road] across that everlasting gulf of misery which is prepared to engulf the wicked [it is the road across the gulf]—And land their souls [now they’re crossing some water], yea, their immortal souls, . . . in the kingdom of heaven [even more imagery], to sit down with Abraham, and Isaac, and with Jacob, and with all our holy fathers, to go no more out. (Helaman 3:29)

Such a mixture of familiar metaphors is fairly characteristic of this type of literature.

Another favorite desert image is the great castle in the desert, which, as Nephi tells us, represents “the pride of the world; and it fell, and the fall thereof was exceeding great” (1 Nephi 11:36). Consider the castle of Agormi, from the time of Nectanebos the Second (from the time of Lehi); it was indeed a great and lofty building, with date trees growing at the foot of it and a big fruit tree in the courtyard—reminiscent of Lehi’s description. The archetype of the great building that falls and slays its wicked owner is the house of Cain; we can trace this to the work called the al-Iklil, the crown. The castle of Ghumdan is described by al-Hamdani as the “great and spacious buildings” which “stood as it were in the air, high above the earth,” with the finely dressed people.14  It falls, representing the destruction of the wicked, the vanity of the world—and it’s overwhelming. The Jewish legend goes back to the house of Cain, the first house to be built of stone. It was a very splendid house, and the way Cain died was that the house fell on him and killed him. The book of Jubilees reports that Cain was killed when his stone house fell on him: “For with a stone he had killed Abel, and by a stone was he killed in righteous judgment.”15 We have cited the Arabic versions of the tradition of the great house, but this text shows that it’s also among the oldest of Hebrew traditions. The book of Jubilees itself is relatively old. Cain built the first great house of vanity, and it fell upon him and killed him.

The Plan

When I recently collected, sorted, and classified many doctrinal elements in the early apocrypha, the most conspicuous was the plan laid from the foundation of the world. The idea has been suppressed by the editors and translators of the Bible, but it breaks out repreatedly in the apocrypha, and it is nowhere more succinctly and emphatically stated than in the Book of Mormon: “The way is prepared for all men from the foundation of the world” (1 Nephi 10:18). It provided every man with a choice throughout his life, by placing not one but two ways before him. “It must needs be that there was an opposition,” as Nephi says, “even the forbidden fruit in opposition to the tree of life [there was a tree of life and a tree of death; there was fruit to eat, and a fruit forbidden], the one being sweet and the other bitter. Wherefore, the Lord God gave unto man that he should act for himself” (2 Nephi 2:15-16). Accordingly, “if ye have sought to do wickedly in the days of your probation, then ye are found unclean” (1 Nephi 10:21). “And the days of the children of men were prolonged, according to the will of God” (2 Nephi 2:21).

Sometimes the way is called the plan, sometimes the will of God, sometimes both. That’s what the “will of God” means—what he gave in the beginning, what was agreed on then. “The days of the children . . . were prolonged, according to the will of God, that they might repent while in the flesh; wherefore their state became a state of probation” (2 Nephi 2:21). “Because . . . they are redeemed from the fall they have become free forever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves and not to be acted upon” (2 Nephi 2:26). “O how great the plan of our God” (2 Nephi 9:13), exclaims Nephi, using the word “plan.” The plan was laid in the premortal existence through worlds already provided; the righteous shall inherit the kingdom of God, which was “prepared . . . from the foundation of the world” (1 Nephi 10:18). The plan laid at the foundation of the world was met by a counterplan of the devil—”O that cunning plan of the evil one!” (2 Nephi 9:28).

Centuries after Nephi, Alma summarized the doctrine: “There was a space granted unto man in which he might repent; therefore this life became a probationary state” (Alma 12:24). “If it had not been for the plan of redemption, which was laid from the foundation of the world, there could have been no resurrection of the dead” (Alma 12:25); and all things trace back to this plan of redemption. “Therefore, [God] sent angels to converse with [men], . . . and made known unto them the plan of redemption, which has been prepared from the foundation of the world; . . . [so they could become] as Gods, knowing good from evil, placing themselves in a state to act” (Alma 12:29-31). Notice, “to act for themselves and not to be acted upon” (2 Nephi 2:26). The fact that reference to the plan occurs forty-seven times in the Book of Mormon shows the extreme prominence of the idea.

The concept receives the same emphasis and expression in the newly found apocrypha as in the Book of Mormon, though it’s minimized by the editors of the Bible. Let me add a few points. “Let us prepare our soul,” says Baruch, “that we may possess and not be taken possession of.”16 Ours is the active, not the passive part; man is “to act, . . . and not to be acted upon.” We are to take possession, and not to be taken possession of. The notion of opposition is the same, the antithesis that Alma and Nephi, Book of Mormon writers, use.

Speaking of mankind in general, the Wisdom of Solomon remarks, “by judging them by little and little,” the plan extends mankind’s means; it extends the day of probation: “Thou gavest them a place of repentance, though thou knewest their nature.”17 His judging them little by little prolongs the day of their repentance (cf. 2 Nephi 2:21). Of the righteous, the Wisdom of Solomon says, “God tested them, and found them worthy of himself. As gold in the furnace he proved them; . . . in the time of their visitation they shall shine forth.”18

This passage appeared almost verbatim on the first page of the first Dead Sea Scroll discovered (the Serekh scroll). The Zadokite Fragment, the oldest of the Dead Sea Scrolls, says that “the righteous person who fails to follow the command is one that has failed his testing in the furnace” (the citing of the place being a test).19One of the most striking statements of Lehi’s principle is that there “must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things; . . . all things must needs be a compound in one” (2 Nephi 2:11). Sometimes these expressions in the Book of Mormon make us look twice; could they have used language so sophisticated to express the idea so perfectly?

The newly found Gospel of Philip starts out in the best vein of the apostolic Fathers, denouncing those members of the church who desert the doctrine of the resurrection of the flesh. The work is strictly orthodox, and very strongly anti-gnostic, although some people try to explain it away by saying it is gnostic. The same idea occurs exactly: “In this world, the right and the left, the light and the dark, the good and the evil are twins, and they cannot be separated.” They are compounded in one; they belong right together. “And this is according to the Lord’s plan,” that there should be one.20 The Lord intends it that way.

The Book of Mormon begins with a report of a vision, which Lehi has of affairs in heaven. He goes out in the desert, where he sees a light. He goes home and throws himself on his bed. There he has a vision. He’s carried away into the court in heaven, where he attends a great meeting and sees the great assembly, the great council, held at the foundation of the world, where the gospel plan was explained.

When the people in the assembly were very downcast, like Job, or the Hodayot singer in the Milhamah (War) Scroll, after the army was beaten, they are all taken back and reminded of the council in heaven, and told, so to speak, “Now don’t be worried—this is all going according to plan.” This is exactly what happens to Lehi. He sees the council at the foundation of the world, the Lord’s way of explaining to him the gospel plan. Everything actually begins with that council. A very large portion, the majority, in fact, of early Christian and Jewish apocrypha belonged to a type of literature designated as the testaments (testamentary literature), which I have treated elsewhere.21 The genre is typical of the great patriarchs—there are testaments of Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, the Twelve Patriarchs, and Job. Some of these, such as the testaments of Isaac and Job, have been discovered fairly recently. There are all sorts of testaments, all basically telling the same thing. There are testaments because the man is talking to one or two of his children or to one of his new disciples. He names them in order, then gives them instructions; often the author tells that he’s been to heaven and seen a vision—God on his throne, being acclaimed.

This is the way Lehi starts out in 2 Nephi 1-4. Lehi gives advice to his sons—Nephi, Laman, Lemuel, Sam, Jacob, and Joseph; the sons of Ishmael; and even Zoram and his descendants, giving each one a prophecy, a promise, a warning, a little history of the past. In each instance he refers to the story of the heavenly vision, because it has changed his view of everything. This is the main characteristic of the testamentary literature.

“It is only natural,” explains a modern commentator, “that the last words of a dying patriarch [the testamentary literature in general] contain the predictions of the future as well as reminiscences of the past, and exhortations for the present.” Each of Lehi’s speeches is the same. To each of his sons in the wilderness, he tells the past trials, tribulations, temptations, and sins of their ancestors; he tells of his present danger, gives a warning, tells what the situation is, why he named each as he did, and then prophesies the future. So the Book of Mormon is strictly in the authentic tradition.

One striking image that meets us in this account of Lehi’s heavenly vision is that of a meeting breaking up. Lehi sees God on his throne, the people are singing the hymn; but then the hymn stops, the meeting breaks up, and everyone goes about his business (1 Nephi 1). One of the newly discovered apocrypha, the so-called Creation Apocryphon, also describes such a situation. And what was decided on in the heavenly council is now being carried out by Gods, angels, and men. This concept of heaven is alien to conventional Judaism and Christianity, in which the chief characteristic of the heavenly order, conforming to the teachings of Athanasius, is absolutely motionless stability. Heaven is complete fulfillment, static permanence, a meeting in the presence of God where the opening hymn is sung forever and ever and ever. Christians can’t think of anything else to do, just go on singing that hymn. This is why the Christian heaven is such a bore. When Athanasius was asked, “What do we do?” he replied, “If we read in the Bible that people sing hymns, I guess that’s all we ever do!”22 What he didn’t know was that these scenes are merely a flashback to the great conference in the premortal existence.

The meeting that Lehi sees breaks up; it’s apparently the meeting where the great plan was approved. It could have been the later one, when Christ’s mission was confirmed and more local arrangements made, but it looks like the first one, where all present shouted for joy, because they were all singing to and acclaiming the One on the throne. Other prophets have seen the same vision, as a means to explain to them why we have to go through with what we do here on the earth.

When the meeting breaks up, twelve particular persons descend to the earth. And yet another: Nephi saw one descend out of the midst of heaven (cf. 1 Nephi 12:6); “he also saw twelve others following him, and their brightness did exceed that of the stars in the firmament. And they came down and went forth upon the face of the earth” (1 Nephi 1:10-11). It is the image of the descending stars to which I draw attention, for the correct and conventional way of designating holy persons who descend to earth to carry out assignments among men is to call them stars, or the stars that shine above the stars.

There are some interesting references to that. In the Coffin Texts, the Pharaoh coming to earth is referred to as the unique star, as he comes forth through the gates of heaven to circulate among men. The gatekeeper hails him as the unique, the only, the unequalled star; the indestructible stars—the other stars—turn aside for him.23 Of course the seven moving heavenly bodies, the planets, are the origin of the idea of the seven wise men, who circulate constantly among the children of men. The seven wise men must lay the foundations of Uruk, the oldest city in the world, for all sacred foundations have to be established with direct reference to the stars. In an Egyptian building, palace, or temple, the foundation had to be laid by the Pharaoh, and it had to be laid at night. He would go out at night with his chief astronomer, and they would take very careful observations. The Pharaoh would drive the pegs. It had to be done at night, because reference had to be made to the stars. We are told that the hero, Enkidu (a friend of Gilgamesh), in this very archaic, prehistoric epic of the Babylonians, is equal to the star of heaven who came down to him. In the beginning, according to the Enuma Elish, the creator created the stations and established the stars in their places, especially the star Nibiru, who represents the Savior with them, shining forth to all who see in him their beginning and their end.24 Nibiru alone abides in his place. When the God descends to earth from the holy mountain in the Ras Shamra Texts, from the Palace of Baal, he is preceded by Qodesh, the Holy One, carrying a torch to light the way.25 Even Amrur, coming down like a star from the heights, from the heights of Saphon to move among men, bears a torch like the star. In the same work the hero is called the Man of Hermi, with the specification that the offering of Hermi is the offering of the stars.26 According to the Mandaeans (theirs was the cult of Venus), the morning star, Lucifer, brings great sin into the world. There is a negative star, a bad star, as well as the good. According to the Mayas, Venus is the morning star, the bringer of all evil, a very dreaded thing. Enoch reports that he “saw many stars descend and cast themselves down from heaven to that first star” which had come down. Later, God summoned the first star, who led away all the other stars and cast him into an abyss.27 But the idea of coming and going is represented by circulating stars, and this first comes out in Lehi’s vision, in which he sees the meeting break up in heaven. Then some individuals descend like stars. One comes down, and twelve others like him, he being brighter than any of the others. The Lord says in a work called the Secrets of Enoch, “I appointed for him four special stars, and called his name Adam, and I showed him the two ways.”28

After apostasy, the time will come to restore things. In the very important, old Jewish Testament of Levi, he prophesies to his sons, “Then shall the Lord raise up a new priest. And to him all the words of the Lord shall be revealed. . . . His star shall rise in heaven as of a king. The heavens shall be opened. . . . And in his priesthood the Gentiles shall be multiplied in knowledge upon the earth.”29 One thinks immediately of the star of Bethlehem, of course, and few Christians would deny it some element of reality, if only on the charts of the magi. It was in the form of a star, according to an early apocryphon, that Michael led the magi to Christ.30Judah, in the Testament of Judah, tells the same sort of thing. After long ages of darkness and captivity, “after these things shall a star arise to you from Jacob, in peace, and a man shall arise [from my seed] like the Sun of Righteousness, . . . and the heavens shall be opened unto him.”31 The righteous, according to 4 Ezra, “are destined to be made like the light of the stars, henceforth incorruptible.” Their faces “shall shine above the stars,” while the faces of the wicked are “blacker than the darkness.”32 Again we have the faces shining above stars—as in Lehi’s vision. “The stars shined in their watches, and were glad,” says the book of Baruch, which again reminds us of the designation of the watchers as stars. When he called, they said, “We are here” (the stars all called out together). They shined with gladness unto him that made them.33 We are reminded of the morning stars shouting for joy at the creation. In the War Scroll of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the deliverer, the leader of the sects of that time, a prophet who led them in the desert, was called the Star from Jacob—reference to the older writing, in which a star is said to arise from Jacob. Sometimes he’s referred to just as “the Star,” the name for the leader of the community.34

In the Zadokite Fragment, the Star is the searcher of the law, a real person who came to Damascus, as it is written.35 The Star is specifically an inspired lawgiver to the order. The mystery of Christ’s birth was made known to the Aeons, says Ignatius, speaking in what some would call the purest gnostic theme, by a star—a completely new star. All the other stars and the sun and the moon made a chorus to the star, while it cast its radiance over all.36 Clement, in his Recognitions, describes the pirating of Christian ideas by the Zoroastrians, and he resents it: “They call their prophet the ‘living star,’ whereas that name is what we really give to Christ, calling him the friend of God, and saying that He too was taken up to heaven in a chariot.”37

The star image had nothing to do with the worship of stars. When Lehi goes home, convinced he has had a vision in which he saw the stars coming down, he prophesies. He feels good about it; everything is strictly in order with his soul. The visions just cited—from Baruch, Enoch, and others—were also writings from Lehi’s culture.

Heavenly Treasures

Another image of great importance in the Book of Mormon is the treasure. The Book of Mormon has much to say about earthly and heavenly treasures, in the same sense in which the newly found apocrypha do. Of course the image is also found in the New Testament. The Book of Mormon prophets explain many references to heavenly treasures in the Bible. Helaman is fondest of treasures. “And even at this time, instead of laying up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where nothing doth corrupt, . . . ye are heaping up for yourselves wrath against the day of judgment” (Helaman 8:25). This is the correct concept of what is meant by a treasure; it is a very common idea in the early apocrypha. We find in the many treasure passages that the treasure is the wisdom and knowledge we left behind us when we came down to this earth. In the premortal existence, we left our treasure in God’s treasury, in his keeping. There it is, and by our good works here we can add to it; more will be waiting for us when we go back. So let us not try to pile up wealth and possessions on earth. They’re not going to do us any good; we can’t take them back there. Let us lay up our treasures there—add to our treasure store. We really do have one there, because we had one before we came. We left it behind, and we’re going back to it. It’s a very vivid concept, and basic to it is the doctrine of the preexistence.38 There’s a great treasury in heaven which contains all good things; it is to share in this treasury that all seek. But in the Jewish apocrypha, in the Wisdom of Ben Sira, God orders, by his word, the lights in the heavenly height, and by the utterance of his mouth he opens the treasury, where the righteous have a store of good works preserved.39 These are good works preserved, already done. And they’re being preserved; everything we add to our credit is being preserved in God’s treasury.

“At that time,” says 2 Baruch, “the treasuries will be opened in which is preserved the number of the souls of the righteous.”40 Second Enoch puts another unpopular interpretation on the heavenly treasury. It is the treasure house of the various elements.41 We’re told, in a recently discovered writing, the Syriac writing called The Pearl, how the prince is completely outfitted by his heavenly parents to come down to this earth. He’s warned and given final instructions; then with a heavy heart they send him forth. They know he’s going to be tested, but it’s quite a happy event nevertheless. He’s left his treasure behind, and also his special garment, which he will resume when he comes back if he’s worthy. So he goes down and lives in the wicked world in Egypt, becomes defiled, forgets his treasure, and has to have a special messenger sent to remind him that he has a treasure, and that he’s going to lose it if he doesn’t behave himself. So he reforms his ways and works hard, trying to gain the pearl again so he can bring it back, to put it into the treasury, where his garment is waiting for him.42

This idea of a waiting garment occurs many times—about a hundred times—in the newly discovered texts. The righteous are completely outfitted by the treasurers with the garments and jewels from the royal treasury, and those God returns. “God has hidden the kingdom as a treasure,” says Peter in the Clementine Recognitions, “burying it under mountains, where it can only be reached by zealous work. The righteous attain to it, enjoy the treasure, and want to give it to others.”43 In another text, the Lord commands at the creation, “Bring out all the knowledge, bring the books from my storehouse, bring the necessary equipment from my laboratory and my treasury, and bring a reed of quick writing, and give it to Enoch and let’s get to work here.”44 These things are in storage. The Zadokite Fragment explains that God laid open his hidden things before them, as well as knowledge of the times and the seasons which is kept in the treasury.45

According to the Serekh Scroll, or the Manual of Discipline, God in the beginning opened his treasury and poured out his knowledge. That knowledge is being kept there. He poured out his knowledge before the first angels.46 (This is the time when the world was created in the presence of the first angels.) The writer of the Thanksgiving Hymn rejoices constantly in being able to receive from the treasury of God’s secret knowledge. This is what 2 Jeu calls “the great mystery of the treasury of light,” which can be approached only by those who have passed through all the eons and all the places of the invisible God.47 We return to obtain it, bringing a lot of experience.

“The treasury of the heavenly king is open,” says the Acts of Thomas; “and everyone who is worthy takes and finds rest, and when he has found rest he becomes a king.”48 The Gospel of Thomas counsels us to “search for the treasure which fails not,” and tells us that the kingdom is like a treasure hidden in a field; someone bought the field, found it there, and began lending money to everyone. So also we want to share the treasure.49 In the Psalms of Thomas the evil one and his robbers attack and plunder the great treasure ship, and carry off the booty to other worlds, using it to adorn and furbish their own planets. God has vivid things in this treasury, and he sends out various issues from it; one of these is raided by a band of the evil ones, who carry off the stuff. And when they get it they use it to make their own worlds and fit them out. Anything they happen to have on their planet has been stolen from people going and coming. It’s something for a science fiction writer, a vivid picture drawn in the Psalms of Thomas. It goes on: Hearing that this stuff has been plundered, has been taken away, and is being falsely used by people who aren’t qualified to use it, the Lord calls his treasurer, namely Reason (this is a gnostic work, which rationalizes the doctrine), and finally gets back the treasure—the treasure of life, which the thieves have hidden under a black mountain. Then, having summoned all the heavenly host, the father establishes a treasure house of life containing living images that do not perish. Moreover, in the presence of the first angel, he opens his treasure chest and takes from it the elements from which he is to organize another world.50 So there are great supplies, in large supply houses.

Apocalyptic Imagery

Another image is interesting because it comes out in the Book of Mormon, the first source we have that talks about it. Apocalyptic imagery is not missing from the Book of Mormon, though it’s not nearly as prominent as one would expect if the book had actually been composed in the world of Joseph Smith, because this was the one kind of doctrine that did have popular reception—the apocalyptic destruction. End-of-the-world sects were very common in Joseph Smith’s time; the forerunners of the Seventh-Day Adventists were expecting the end of the world in 1843 or 1844, as were many people. The Book of Mormon avoids this image. The fire and smoke of hell, and other apocalyptic images, are clearly stated to be types, rather than realities, as is the monster death and hell. This practice agrees with the old apocrypha. Typical is the phrase of Alma: “I was in the darkest abyss; but now I behold the marvelous light of God” (Mosiah 27:29). “He has freed us from the darkness to prepare himself a holy people,” says Barnabas.51 To the image of the diggers of the pit who themselves fall into it, there are many parallels. Nephi mentions it twice (cf. 1 Nephi 14:3; 22:14). Ben Sira says, “He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it; and he that setteth a snare shall be taken therein.”52

The solemn and impassioned outbursts of prophets and patriarchs, appealing to their sons and followers in this testamentary literature, come from this same mold. Where does the following passage come from? “And now, my children, . . . how terrible and awful it is to come before the face of the heaven. . . . Who can endure that endless pain?” This sounds like Alma talking to his sons, or like Nephi; or compare it with Alma 36:21. It’s actually from the Secrets of Enoch,53 discovered in 1828, shortly after Joseph Smith received the plates of Mormon, though in 1820 a text had already been made available in England, an Ethiopian text, from the sixteenth century (it would be interesting to know if it made it to New York state). Compare Alma 36:21 with this statement by Enoch: “And now my children, how awful it is to come before the face of the ruler of heaven. Who can endure that endless pain?” This is a translation by R. H. Charles. The Book of Mormon says, “Yea, I say unto you, my son [not my children], that there could be nothing so exquisite and so bitter as were my pains” (Alma 36:21). “The very thought of coming into the presence of my God did rack my soul with inexpressible horror” (Alma 36:14). My sons, how terrible, how awful, it is to come before the face of the Ruler; that was what “racked his soul with horror.” And who can endure that endless pain, as he puts it, “so exquisite and so bitter were my pains”—the same ideas, presented in the same ways.

In one verse, Alma 19:6, the word light occurs six times, in every one of the familiar senses in which it meets us in the Nag Hammadi texts and in the Dead Sea Scrolls:

Now, this was what Ammon desired, for he knew that King Lamoni was under the power of God; he knew that the dark veil of unbelief was being cast away from his mind, and the light which did light up his mind, which was the light of the glory of God, which was a marvelous light of his goodness—yea, this light had infused such joy into his soul, the cloud of darkness having been dispelled, and that the light of everlasting life was lit up in his soul, yea, he knew that this had overcome his natural frame, and he was carried away in God. (Alma 19:6)

Mohlin’s book on the Dead Sea Scrolls, Die Söhne des Lichtes, deals extensively with the images of light and darkness;54 the images are so constant that the Dead Sea Scrolls people are today called the “Sons of Light.” The title to the second of the great scrolls is in fact The War of the Sons of Light with the Sons of Darkness. It is exactly the same light and darkness of which Alma speaks, in the same sense, when talking about King Lamoni, who was overcome in this struggle.

The Right and Left Hand of God

The ritual significance of the right and left hand of God receives far more emphasis in the apocrypha than in the Bible. It’s a very old theme. Siegfried Morenz has recently written a study on the right and left hand, and on the judgment of the dead.55 Right and left always refer to a position near the throne of God, in the sense that Mosiah uses it in a solemn ritual text (Mosiah 5:9-10). Whoever accepts the name and covenant will be on the right hand of God, and whoever rejects it will be on the left hand. It is a common image.

The White Garment

The image of the white garment is interesting, and Erwin Goodenough has made a study of it. It appears in the earliest Jewish art, among the earliest Jewish expressions he could find anywhere.56 Alma is obsessed with the image of the white garment: “There can no man be saved except his garments are washed white” (Alma 5:21); “therefore they were called after this holy order, and were sanctified, and their garments were washed white through the blood of the Lamb” (Alma 13:11). “Now they, . . . having their garments made white, being pure and spotless before God, could not look upon sin” (Alma 13:12). “May the Lord bless you, and keep your garments spotless,” Alma says to his sons, “that ye may at last be brought to sit down with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and the holy prophets [the “big three”], . . . having your garments spotless even as their garments are spotless, in the kingdom of heaven, to go no more out” (Alma 7:25).

Such expressions forcibly call to mind the recent work of Professor Goodenough, in which he shows that the white garment had a special significance for the early Jews. God himself may be represented in the earliest Jewish art as one of three men clothed in white. The three men have a very special significance. Sometimes they are Moses, with Hur and Joshua; sometimes they are Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—but always three men clothed in white, and sometimes the Godhead itself. We may sit down with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, having our garments spotless as their garments are spotless. This image wasn’t even known to exist until 1958, but every time Goodenough goes back into the earliest Jewish pictorial representations he can find, there are the three men in white, or a single figure, the prophet in white. The symbol of the chosen prophet, an emissary from God, is always the white robe, which is reserved for heavenly beings. Nephi says that the righteous shall be “clothed with purity, yea, even with the robe of righteousness” (2 Nephi 9:14).

The Strait Way; the Filthy and Pure Waters

When Lehi had a vision of a fountain, he failed to notice, according to his son who had the same vision, that the water of the fountain was filthy water; it swept people away to their destruction, because they weren’t faithful. “The fountain of filthy water, . . . and the depths thereof are the depths of hell” (1 Nephi 12:16).  Though a queer and unpleasant image, we meet it a number of times in the newly discovered apocrypha. Remembering that this flood of filthy water swept many away to destruction, as 1 Nephi 8:32 says, we turn to the Odes of Solomon, discovered in 1906: “Great rivers are the power of the Lord: and they carry head-long those who despise Him and entangle their paths: and they sweep away their fords, and catch their bodies and destroy their lives.”57 This is exactly the picture of the wild desert sail or sayl, sweeping away the unwary, as the Book of Mormon describes, the thing that Lehi dreaded. In another of the same Odes of Solomon there is an impassioned invitation, such as Lehi gave his family, to “Fill ye waters for yourselves from the living fountain of the Lord. . . . Come all ye thirsty, and take the draught; and rest by the fountain of the Lord.”58 This is like Lehi’s beckoning to his family in the vision: Lehi saw that Sariah, Nephi, and Sam rested by the fountain and drank of the water, but he couldn’t get his other sons to do this, though he invited them to do the same thing. “Blessed are they who have drunk therefrom and have found rest thereby,” the same ode continues.59 The poet plays freely with the same ideas. The wild desert torrent, which is the power of God sweeping the wicked to destruction, in a mass of wreckage, is described in the Odes.60 In a Thanksgiving Hymn of the Dead Sea Scrolls, we read of the same wild torrent, but this time it’s the way of the princes of this world.61 They go forth suddenly, with a great rush and a fuss, sweeping all things away, only to dry up just as suddenly, while the spring of life flows pure and even forever. “It is the sweet spring that never faileth,” says the Acts of Thomas, “and the clear fountain that is never polluted.”62 Never filthy, never polluted. In other words, they see the filthy fountain, and the pure fountain; the family of Lehi drank from the pure fountain, as he wanted them to. The others were swept away in the filthy fountain. Notice how the metaphors mix all the time, though the basic ideas remain. The filthy water sweeps them away, or it is the dirty water we don’t want to drink. On the other hand, both the Zadokite Fragment and the Habakkuk Commentary speak of the false teachers of Israel as “drenching the people with waters of falsehood”—evil water, filthy waters, which cause the people to go astray in a wilderness without a way.63 This is because of the pride of the world, which causes them to turn aside from the low way, the path of righteousness.

But aren’t we lifting all this from the Book of Mormon? No, this is from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Notable are the connections between the water which they refuse and the desert road—all in the same sentence. Nephi says, “May I be true in the low way,” not only in the plain way, but in the low path, the path of righteousness. The foul waters and the straying in the desert are part of the same verse and sentence in the Zadokite Fragment, as they are also in 1 Nephi 8:32: “Many were drowned; . . . and many were lost from his view, wandering in strange roads.”64 The fountains and the road are not only related images, but they also occur in the same peculiar combination in these earliest Jewish apocrypha and the Book of Mormon. The apocryphal Baruch says, “Thou hast forsaken the fountain of wisdom” and wandered away from the “way of God.”65 Forsake the fountain and wander away on the false road—the same combination.

Looking beyond the Mark

One of the most powerful verses in the Book of Mormon says, “Jews . . . despised the words of plainness, and killed the prophets, and sought for things they could not understand. Wherefore, because of their blindness, which blindness came by looking beyond the mark, they must needs fall” (Jacob 4:14). This “looking beyond the mark” now occurs with surprising frequency. The Jews usually moved the mark, or went beyond the bounds, or crossed the mark; that is the difference (cf. Deuteronomy 19:14; 27:17; Proverbs 22:28; 23:10). But in the Zadokite Fragment, they’re the false teachers of Israel, the very types of Jews of whom Jacob is speaking: You have removed “the landmark which our forefathers had set up in their inheritance.” All those who entered the covenant have broken out of the boundary of the law of God, and have stepped over the line and gone beyond the mark.66 This was the sin of the false teachers of the Jews.

Jacob talks about the wise ones, the intellectuals, the Jews who wanted to be so smart, and for that reason they overlooked the simple things and went beyond the mark. This is exactly the charge the Zadokite Fragment brings against the false teachers who had been teaching the Jews at this time, the very same smart-alecks, in the very same sort of way. Interestingly, the writer uses that point.

The reason the people receive error, according to the so-called Gospel of Truth, is that they insist on looking for a God who is so far beyond the mark.67 This passage from the early Christian library in Egypt uses the same expression. Bright minds insist on looking for a God who is far beyond the mark, far beyond any place we can measure. When they expect that kind of God, they’re not going to find him.

Most conspicuous among false teachers in the Dead Sea Scrolls is the “Man of the Lie,” a theme that goes back to a very early time, the time of Jeremiah. The account is of Belchir, a false prophet, from the Ascension of Isaiah. “He was found,” says this writing, “in the days of Hezekiah, speaking words of lawlessness in Jerusalem.” He accused Isaiah the prophet and those who were with him, saying, “Isaiah himself has said [notice how clever he is in his arguments, arguing exactly as the opponents of the the prophets argue in the Book of Mormon]: ‘I see more than Moses the prophet,’ but Moses said, ‘No man can see God and live.’ And Isaiah hath said: ‘I have seen God and behold I live.’ . . .  Isaiah and those who are with him prophesy against Jerusalem and against the cities of Judah that they shall be laid waste.”68 This is the typical Book of Mormon false prophet who goes around using clever arguments, flattering words, and contradictions to tie people up. Belchir led most of the people astray, and he definitely got the edge on Isaiah.

Flight into the Wilderness

The idea of quarantine, the lone prophet, is interesting. The way they observe the law of Moses is unique. The flight into the desert is very important. The Book of Mormon begins with the flight of Lehi; and the righteous keep fleeing forever after. In this they consciously compare themselves to the movement of Israel in the desert. Lehi fled into the wilderness from his brethren, he said, so he could observe to keep the judgments, statutes, and commandments of the Lord in all things according to the law of Moses—this almost directly parallels the opening first two lines of the Dead Sea Scrolls. And the redundance of expression is very characteristic. What’s the difference between a statute, a commandment, a judgment, and a law? They’re all basically the same. The redundance is necessary—though it would be very tasteless in our way of writing. But the Dead Sea Scrolls writers never say just one thing, always three, as if there were some charm connected with it.

“Keep[ing] the law . . . [thus],” says Jacob, “it is sanctified unto us for righteousness, even as it was accounted unto Abraham in the wilderness” (Jacob 4:5). The Nephites compare themselves to Abraham in the wilderness: “Wherefore, we search the prophets, and we have many revelations and the spirit of prophecy” (Jacob 4:6). They had the spirit of prophecy, as an inspired, charismatic group, searching the prophets and having their own revelations. It was with us, says Jacob, even as it was “in the provocation in the days of temptation while the children of Israel were in the wilderness” (Jacob 1:7).

Now he compares the Nephites to the children of Israel in the wilderness at the time of Moses. Every phase of Israel’s wandering in the wilderness is compared in 1 Nephi to that of his own people, including their rebellion, “and notwithstanding they being led, the Lord their God, their Redeemer, going before them, . . . they hardened their hearts, . . . and reviled against Moses,” says Nephi (1 Nephi 17:30).

The Tree of Life

The tree of life is very common image, but I won’t go into it at length. The idea of its being white is not common. The perfect whiteness of the tree is an odd twist.  Nephi says, “the whiteness [of the tree] thereof did exceed the whiteness of the driven snow” (1 Nephi 11:8); and “the fruit thereof was white, to exceed all the whiteness that I had ever seen” (Nephi 8:11). White is not an appetizing quality in trees or fruit; I would not like to eat perfectly white fruit, and we do not think of perfectly white trees as particularly charming, unless they’re covered with blossoms. Yet the whiteness of trees and the fruit is a strong image. In the Creation Apocryphon, the tree of life is described as a cypress that has fruit that is perfectly white. Incidentally, in the newly discovered Genesis Apocryphon, Abraham compares himself in a dream to the cedar tree. Nephi makes much of those lost souls who refused to eat the fruit of the tree, which reminds us of a newly discovered logion of Jesus: “You do not know who I am, you who have become as the Jews who love the tree but hate its fruit.” It’s the story of the olive tree.

Zenos/Zenez

The prophet Zenos, who lived long ago in Palestine, gives us a particularly valuable clue; more common than the image of the water or the tree alone are those pictures in which they appear together—the tree growing by the water of life. Again, it’s a natural combination. So I’ll turn to a specialized instance: the story of the olive tree, a particularly valuable clue, since the Book of Mormon author, Jacob, gives his source. It is the prophet Zenos, who lived long ago in Palestine, not in the new world. He is introduced in the Book of Mormon a number of times as representative of the long line of messianic prophets who suffered persecution for his messianic teachings. He was no minor prophet; he’s cited in the Book of Mormon more than any other prophet but Isaiah. His name, along with the names of other prophets—Zenock, Ezias, Neum—has disappeared without a trace. The Book of Mormon explains why they disappeared: Their messianic doctrine was highly offensive to the leaders of the Jews. Is the existence of such a line plausible? It’s not only plausible, today it’s demonstrable. In the Dead Sea Scrolls, forgotten prophets of major stature now emerge. Speaking of one of these, Father Daniélou writes,

Between the great prophets of the Old Testament and John the Baptist, he emerges as a new link in the preparation for the Advent of Christ: “He is,” as Michaud writes, “one of the great figures of Israel’s prophetic tradition.” “It is amazing,” he says, “that he remained so unknown for so long. Now that he is known, the question arises as to what we are to do about this knowledge. It is a question that is posed to the Jews. . . . Furthermore, the question is put to the Christians: . . . Why does not this message, then, form part of the inspired scripture?”69

The Book of Mormon gives the answer clearly. We are actually given a brief biography of Zenos, and a very precious one, in Alma 33. We get his life’s history; his written records were in the possession of the Nephites, who brought them across the water. Alma reminds them, 550 years later, “Don’t you remember to have read . . . ?” So Zenos was popular; people were expected to have read him. “Do ye remember to have read what Zenos, the prophet of old, has said concerning prayer or worship? . . . Thou art merciful, O God, for thou hast heard my prayer, even when I was in the wilderness” (Alma 33:3-4)—it starts right out like a Thanksgiving Hymn from the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the man who wrote these hymns talks just like Zenos. In fact, it sounds much like Zenos; both write the same type of hymns in the same way, and both also tell us about the olive trees. Furthermore, in 1893, some other fragments of an old Hebrew prophet Zenez were discovered—sometimes Zenez, sometimes Kenaz. They were published in Cambridge and edited by Montague Rhodes himself.

From the Book of Mormon, we know the following about Zenos. He wrote: “Yea, thou wast merciful when I prayed concerning those who were my enemies.” He had enemies, who were making trouble for him. “And thou didst turn them to me” (Alma 33:4). But they turned to him again; he won them back. These are the troubles we usually encounter. Then what happened? “Yea, O God, and thou wast merciful unto me when I did cry unto thee in my field” (Alma 33:5). He also worked in the fields. “When I did cry unto thee in my prayer, and thou didst hear me. And again, O God, when I did turn to my house thou didst hear me in my prayer” (Alma 33:5-6). Then he continues, “Yea, O God, thou hast been merciful unto me, and heard my cries in the midst of thy congregations” (Alma 33:9).  “Congregations” occurs only thrice in the Old Testament, in particular in the Psalms (Psalms 89:5).70 Yet “the midst of the congregations” occurs repeatedly in the Dead Sea Scrolls, and these are the communities out in the desert. So he lives in the wilderness, is rejected, people take him back again, praise him, and then he is accepted. His voice is heard in the midst of the congregations—that is, he is taken in by some of the desert communities. But he has a rough time: “Yea, and thou hast also heard me when I have been cast out and have been despised by mine enemies; yea, thou didst hear my cries, and wast angry with mine enemies [the tables were turned against them], and thou didst visit them in thine anger with speedy destruction” (Alma 33:10). Something calamitous happened to them. “And thou didst hear me because of mine afflictions and my sincerity; and it is because of thy Son that thou hast been thus merciful unto me, therefore I will cry unto thee in all mine afflictions, for in thee is my joy; for thou has turned thy judgments away from me, because of thy Son” (Alma 33:11).

Alma continues: “Do ye believe those scriptures which have been written by them of old?” (Alma 33:12). He’s reading from the scriptures, the writings of Zenos. Then he goes on to tell them about Zenock, who was put to death. We learn from Alma 33:3 that even the Zoramites know about Zenos. According to Alma, they actually had read Zenos’s words, from which it is clear that his writings were among those contained in records brought from Jerusalem by Lehi and his family. This being so, it becomes clearer yet how intimate Lehi’s people were with that outcast desert branch of Judaism, of which this man is so representative, to which they constantly refer, and with which they constantly associate themselves.

Hymn 14 of the wonderful Thanksgiving Hymns of the Dead Sea Scrolls is the writer’s own biography; in Hymn 14, the writer talks about the trees, particularly the olive tree, though the references are scattered. Hymn 8 starts out, “I thank thee O my Lord,” exactly as Alma does in quoting Zenos. It continues, “those who have led thy people away, those false prophets who by their flattering words. . . .”71 The false prophets in the Book of Mormon—the Sherems, the Nehors, the Zeezroms, and the Korihors—also always use “flattering words.”

I have mentioned above the writing of Belchir, a false prophet who made a lot of trouble for Isaiah, who gained the ear of the king, and who was responsible for having Isaiah thrown out. Such false prophets were an institution in Israel; people fled to the desert mostly because of threats that drove them out. There was much tension between the two, and this is part of the tradition carried across the water by these people; specifically, Laman and Lemuel favored the other faction in Israel. They liked to go along with such people and accused Lehi and Nephi of being the visionary type of prophet they didn’t like; they preferred the other school of prophets. This old feud carried right over to the new world, as did the same type of prophecy: “Those false prophets who have seduced thy people by their flattering words, and have by their tricks and their falsehood wrested the scripture. And I was despised by them”; “they held me in no esteem whatever; they caused me to be cast out”; “they drove me out of their country and out of their communities like a bird from his nest. All my companions, all those who were my followers and friends were turned against me,” just as Lehi says his people turned against him right at the beginning (1 Nephi 1:20); then as the scrolls say, they turned back to him again: “They turned against me, they considered me of no more use. While they, those false interpreters, those liars, they formed against me a clever plan, plots of Belial, and by twisting the law, which thou hast engraved in my heart, they by their flattering words led thy people astray. And they have forbidden those who were thirsting from going and drinking of the water of life and of knowledge.”72 (The Book of Mormon imagery of the early period always comes back, when those memories were yet so vivid.) The false prophets forbade the people from partaking of the waters of life: They have locked them out from it. “They have kept the thirsty from drinking, even when they had thirst. They made them drink vinegar [not filthy water, but vinegar], and we have seen their distress.” They have been caught in their nets, tricked in their dismay, “and O, and they, those who are hypocrites, those whose projects were those of Belial, those who conceived evil and sought for my undoing, being double-hearted; those who were not firm in the way of truth, their work has produced a bitter fruit.” This is the bitter fruit of the olives, which he also liked to talk about.

And their obstinate hearts are now seeking after idols, for thou hast caused them to stumble [compare the stumbling block of Nephi], caused them to stumble in their sins, and they have fallen on their face, they have not been able to oppose me, they have not been able to achieve their aims. For they did not hearken to thy voice, they did not lend an ear to thy word, for they have said of the vision and the revelation, “there is no more vision, there is no more revelation,” and this way they led this people astray from the ways of thy heart, and then that they may be taken in their own plots and lead many away from thy covenants. But thou, O Lord, will affirm thy judgments and will reveal the trickery, the wickedness of all men, and they will not find themselves successful.73

He goes on to talk about how they will be overthrown:

As for me, because I have leaned on thee, I will arise, I will be victorious again. I will arise again and will return to those people, will preach to them again; I will go again to those who despised me, who turned their hand against me because they had been led astray by false teachers, false traditions [compare the Book of Mormon missionary stories] and had me as a thing of nought. For thou didst appear to me in a vision, just at dawn, and my face was not covered with shame, and all those who had sought after me have now come back again and joined into thy alliance, and are now listening to my word. And those are now walking in a way which is dear to thy heart. They have raised themselves on my side, they have again joined the assembly of the saints. Thou hast made triumph their cause, through truth and through justice, and thou hast given no concern for those miserable ones who have gone astray.74

This is the way the scroll reads—the same story as Zenos, who is driven out like a bird from its nest and turns back victorious (notice the sudden overthrow of his enemies). And then the scrolls talk about the trees, describing Israel as God’s plantation, in which he plants trees in various parts of the world; the fruit shouldn’t be bitter:

Thou hast planted precious trees, cypresses and elms, mixed with all sorts for thy glory. [These are trees of life.] Throughout secret places, in unknown places [again, they were planted in secret places in Zenos’s story in Jacob; Jacob was just quoting Zenos] these are planted for an eternal planting, and they shall take root in the various places where they have been set up, in many places, and they shall send out their roots toward the waters, even toward the waters of life. . . . And those that don’t send out their roots won’t have the waters of life. . . . And, from these trees which partake of the water, they shall raise up their branches because of their planting, they shall grow and they shall flourish. . . . And thou, O God, thou hast shut in thy vineyard [notice he’s calling the orchards vineyards] in the mystery of those who are valiant in thy service, who come to work in the vineyard, and the spirits of the saints that work for thee. . . . And with ancient and withered trees they do not drink the water, even the water of holiness, therefore they wither up and are lost.75

It’s the same imagery of the withered trees that don’t partake of the water, trees being cultivated by God, but some will bear good fruit and others will not; and the trees get old and die and are weak. This would have been written many hundreds of years after Zenez, and handed down in this form to these people who preserved it. These hymns are very valuable because they are beautiful. Whether Alma would have a better text, I don’t know, but we certainly have the same type of men, doing the same type of thing, writing the same type of scripture.

We should note here that aside from literary parallels, Jacob’s treatment of olive culture in the Book of Mormon shows a remarkable grasp of the business.  Jacob 5 is a long, long discourse, one that always stops the little kids who start reading the Book of Mormon. Everything goes lovely until they get to Jacob and the olive tree. Then they grind to a halt; it’s like walking through sand. That’s as far as I ever got for years—I’d start out with high resolve, but as soon as I got to the olive part, I’d bog down. Joseph Fielding Smith says it’s the best part of the Book of Mormon, the most powerful part.76 And there is a lot to it.

Olive Culture

Jacob knows much about olive culture! Olive trees do have to be pruned and cultivated diligently, they were commonly planted in vineyard areas in the old world. In fact, the word carmel, in one early text, means either olive orchard or vineyard; and these two words are used interchangeably in Jacob’s account. The tops do perish first, the good stalk is greatly cherished, and if you get a good olive tree, it’s rarer than fine gold; many things must be done to preserve it. Some have been preserved for as long as thirty-five hundred years! Trees that old are still alive today—the stalk is so rare, so important. The common way to strengthen the old trees was, indeed, and it still is in Greece, to graft in the shoots of the wild olive, the oleaster, when the tree starts to get weak. Olive shoots from valuable old trees were often transplanted to keep the stalk alive, as the Lord does here. The best trees do grow, surprisingly, on the poorest and the rockiest grounds, whereas very rich soil produces inferior fruit. Nevertheless, the plant must be very diligently fertilized, dug about, and especially dunged—since ancient times this has been the fertilizing practice in olive orchards.

Again, this is the very expression of the Book of Mormon. The grafting of shoots does lead to a cluttered variety of fruit, and is considered a risky business. Our tree is encumbered with all sorts of fruit because we did too much grafting, he says. The top branches, if they are allowed to grow, as they are in Spain and France, to provide shade trees along the roads, make a picturesque tree, but they completely sap the strength of the trees, as they are said to do in the Book of Mormon. The tall branches take away the strength of the tree and get too high. The thing most to be guarded against in the fruit, of course, is bitterness. And so all these things are casually included in Jacob’s story of the olive culture. This is just a lesson in agriculture, but who would know anything about olive culture in upstate New York in 1829? Today we find it all quite accurate; it follows the ancient method, not the way it’s done today, necessarily, but of course olive culture is very ancient. All this is very authentic.

Redeemer of Israel; Likening the Scriptures

Reference to the Redeemer is very significant—the Lord their God, the Redeemer, going before them. Studies are now being done on the patriarchal tradition in Moses and the great emphasis on the go’el, the doctrine of the Redeemer—a new thing in Old Testament study. It was the Redeemer who led them. And this applies to us all. For example, the Habakkuk Commentary compares the things described in Habakkuk with other battles that Israel has had to fight. Who were the Kittim, for example? Were they the Romans? The Greeks? The Babylonians? The Assyrians? The Persians? The Philistines? Various scholars say it was one, others say it was another; suddenly there was a big fight, and it occurred to them that the comparison applied to all these peoples. They were comparing all the scriptures to themselves, to their own fight. Israel had done it before. So today, scholars are no longer thrashing that out as they used to. Isaac Rabinowitz was the one who started it going. We were at school together in a Hebrew class from Professor Popper; it was he who first suggested that the Kittim were the Romans, and speculated on various other things. There was in the 1950s very active discussion. All that has been put to bed now, because of this principle Lehi teaches us: We “did liken all scriptures unto us, that it might be for our profit and learning” (1 Nephi 19:23). When the Zadokite Fragment deplores the apostasy of Israel in its own time,77 it reminds us this is the very thing that Jeremiah said to Baruch (Jeremiah 36:1-32), and which Elisha, long before, had said to his servant Gehazi: “All of them have forsaken the well of living water” (cf. 2 Kings 4-5). It’s the same combination of ideas—”all of them have forsaken”—referred to in the Zadokite Fragment. The Jews had forsaken it, just as Jeremiah said to Baruch in the time of Lehi, just as Elisha has said to his servant Gehazi long before that (2 Kings 5:26). They compare the scriptures to themselves.

The Rekhabites, as early as the time of Lehi, observed this principle; they called themselves the “ones who had kept the covenants of their fathers.” One peculiarity of the apocrypha is their description of the righteous as the poor. This is very striking in the Milhamah (War) Scroll. The people arrange themselves for battle and go forth in their might. It’s a very elaborate arrangement of things, skillfully ordered, with strict ritual accompaniments. Yet after all this has been done, they know they don’t have a chance. If they win at all, it will be in the same way that David beat Goliath—because the Lord helped them.

And they are the poor; the host of Israel are always described as being the poor, the down-trodden, those cast out from the world, as against the world, which are the mighty and the powerful. The issue is always drawn between the rich and the poor. However correct this may be, it’s strictly in the tradition of the Book of Mormon, where the poor are mentioned no fewer than thirty times. H. J. Schoeps says the proper designation for these people in the Dead Sea Scrolls should be ebyônîm, the poor. They always talked of themselves as being the poor, as against the rest of the world, and the rest of Israel.

The organization of the church is rather elaborate. The keeping of the books and reading of the records is also striking. The people are always reading out of the scriptures; as Nephi said, “I did rehearse unto them the words of Isaiah, who spake concerning the restoration of . . . the house of Israel” (1 Nephi 15:20); “wherefore they may be likened unto you, because ye are of the house of Israel” (2 Nephi 6:5). Then he says a remarkable thing: “I have read these things that ye might know concerning the covenants, . . . that he has covenanted with . . . the Jews, . . . from generation to generation, until the time comes that they shall be restored to the true church and fold of God” (2 Nephi 9:1-2).

The Manual of Discipline likewise begins by instructing the people that these things shall be read to them from generation to generation until the restoration of Israel—the very same thing. Alma had to get permission from king Mosiah to found churches; “therefore they did assemble themselves together in different bodies, being called churches; every church having their priests and their teachers. . . . And they were called the people of God” (Mosiah 25:21, 24)—which is what the Jewish sectaries called themselves, the Bene El.

Then Limhi wanted to found a community along these lines, but he couldn’t because he lacked the authority: “Therefore they did not at that time form themselves into a church, waiting upon the Spirit of the Lord” (Mosiah 21:34). The tradition goes right back to Jerusalem, when Zoram thought that Nephi “spake of the brethren of the church” (1 Nephi 4:26).

Ritual War

Another characteristic of the Book of Mormon is the ritual nature of war. In Alma 44:5, we have what can be called a “Rule of Battle for the Sons of Light.” War is highly ritualized in the Book of Mormon. It is one thing that used to excite derision from Book of Mormon critics. What could be more silly, they used to ask, than a general who would give away his plan of battle to the enemy, or allow him to choose the time and the terrain? Yet this is very particular and strictly in order. In a study by Gardiner, he himself refers to “Piankhi’s Instructions to His Army.” That is a peculiar name, a pure Egyptian name, and one odd enough that no one could have possibly invented it in the Book of Mormon. Piankhi was a general before the time of Lehi, was very famous, became king of Egypt, and the name became quite popular afterwards. Piankhi-meri-amen has a very “Book of Mormon” sound. But of course the name occurs in the Book of Mormon (Helaman 1:3). It was this name, I strongly suspect, that first put Professor Albright on the track of the Book of Mormon. He recognized that it couldn’t possibly have been faked or forged. Here’s Piankhi, and there are the instructions. “Piankhi commands his generals to give the enemy choice of time and place for fight.”78 This is the way it was usually done, arranging battles ahead of time, just as the Book of Mormon people used to.

Kings and Covenants

I’ve already written somewhat about patternism and royal cult in the Book of Mormon and in the Near East.79 Some points have recently arisen since then which deserve notice. In 1959, a study was published called “Der Vertrag zwishcen König und Volk in Israel” (“The Contract between the King and the People in Israel”).80This is exactly what we find in Mosiah 5, of course, a formal contract entered by the king and the people. According to the Talmud, when Josiah invoked all the priests and prophets and the people of Jerusalem and read its contents to them from a platform erected in the court of the temple (the way Benjamin does), the people enthusiastically entered into a new covenant, “to walk after the Lord, and keep his commandments and his testimonies and his statutes” (2 Kings 23:3; cf. 2 Chronicles 34:31). Notice the three—commandments, testimonies, and statutes. The king reads the covenant to them; they enter into the contract, the covenant, exactly as we find it in the book of Mosiah in the Book of Mormon.

The tower is also interesting. The best description of that is in Nathan the Babylonian, who is a tenth-century writer who witnessed it with his own eyes, in the ninth-century coronation of the Exilarch, the Hebrew king in exile.81 The most striking thing is Benjamin’s oration. A very Book of Mormon character was King Horemhab of Egypt, a philanthropic, idealistic, religious man who had a dream and founded a dynasty. But in Israel these were not merely individual but formalized qualities. J. K. Bernhardt has recently shown that the sacral kingship in Israel, the priesthood of Melchizedek transferred to David, goes back indeed to the common great year festival—as I have said it does, but with a difference. In Israel it got a peculiar twist. There is, he notes, a marked tendency to democratization which receives its most striking expression in an oration the king is expected to give on the occasion of his coronation. Bernhardt says,

The characteristic feature of the Israelitic concept of kingship is the formal refusal of the office of king with explanatory arguments. The custom of a royal polemic on the subject of kingship is among the oldest utterances about monarchy in the Old Testament. The king formally refuses the office and accepts it on other grounds.82

Benjamin formally refuses in a set oration to accept the kingly office in its standard Near Eastern form. He says you accept the office, but you do it to the Father, not for me; he has never asked the people to bring the treasures to him as you do to a king; he has never asked for offerings, has never imposed taxes; has never asked them to bow down to him. They acclaim him; he’s been elected. He gives himself and the setting a human and a much broader twist and democratic turn. At the end of his speech, Benjamin has the people formally enter into a covenant, with the statement: “This day he hath spiritually begotten you; . . . therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).

In the newly found sayings of Moses from the Dead Sea Scrolls, we are taken back to the occasion on which the state of Israel was founded by Moses. Moses announces it with a formal statement: “This day you have become the people of God.” Then follows a list of all the good things God has given them—the vineyards and the olive trees, which they did not plant, of which they can eat and be filled, for God had given them victory over their enemies.83 Need I discuss Benjamin’s oration? Victory, plenty, and sharing with one’s neighbor are the themes. Benjamin formally renounces kingship; as Bernhardt puts it, “the characteristic feature is the formal refusal of the office of king with explanatory arguments.”84

Benjamin does—he refuses it in the old sense and gives his explanatory arguments, his speech on government. He gives them a royal polemic on the subject of kingship, which is among the oldest practices of the Israelite nation. It’s not a recent thing; it always went with kingship. But most of the royal rights have been lost—they’re not in the Bible, they’re not in the prophetic writings, except in the Psalms, which deal a lot with the coronation. This stuff is now meeting us exactly as it is in the Book of Mormon.

Even in Egypt something similar happens. Here is a typical description of an Egyptian coronation: as Moret has revived it, the king introduces his son and announces his name, declaring him to be his successor on the throne. All present then acclaim him in a single voice, at the invitation of the king, who then gives an oration. “This speech of the king is received with an acclamation, which proclaims the name of the new king. Then all smell the earth at his feet, prostrating themselves at the royal command.”84 Notice that Benjamin accepts the prostration, only on the condition that it is for the heavenly king. “I know you’ve fallen down. That’s the thing you should always do on this occasion, but remember, you’re falling down for God, your heavenly king, and not for me.” “For the absent ones, a copy of a circular,” as Moret puts it, “is sent around the land, telling of the coronation.” This was all strictly understood by the Egyptians to correspond to the assembly in heaven. After the acclamation, the king receives a crown from God, is purified and clothed in the holy garment, and takes his place in the double divine pavilion (heb-sed) with a priest on either side of him, who represent Seth and Horus; they usually wear masks, and there he’s crowned on his throne, always with the three.85 And this is exactly the way the Jews do it in the writings of Nathan the Babylonian. The ceremony ends with the dancing maidens, followed by the coronation, and a thunderous acclamation.

Conclusions

In 1816, the apocrypha were outlawed by the American Bible Society (which had great influence). They were regarded as devilish works, not to be used at all. So they came to have no prestige, were not read, were not known at all. They were not published in this country; little was known about them. The apocrypha sank to their lowest level in 1945, when H. H. Rowley, the last surviving person to study the apocrypha, said, “We’ll just close the door now and forget about these. Nobody’s reading them anymore. It is so.” And then, bingo, next year the whole thing broke loose again, and everyone was embarrassed, because no one knew anything about apocrypha. The new discoveries caught them completely off guard.

A study should be made of exactly what books were available to Joseph Smith in his time. Wilford Poulson has compiled a bibliography of works available in libraries in Palmyra in Joseph Smith’s time; from it, we can see what books Joseph Smith could have read, but it is very doubtful that he read many, because he was very busy. He was very hard pressed by poverty; what could he have had at his disposal? Very little. Allowing the maximum, if he’d spent all his free time studying, and had people going around the countryside bringing these books to him, he still wouldn’t have had much to go on. Yet again and again we see in the Book of Mormon the world of ideas and images now unveiled by the rediscovery of the apocrypha.

Notes

1.

 Bob Brier,

Ancient Egyptian Magic

(New York: Quill, 1981), 41-45.

2. Stuart Piggott, The Dawn of Civilization (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1961), 188.

3.  1 Baruch 4:1-3, in APOT 1:591.

4.  2 Baruch 6:7-10, in ibid., 2:484.

5.  2 Baruch 80:2-3, in ibid., 2:522.

6.  John M. Allegro, The Treasure of the Copper Scroll (Garden City: Doubleday, 1960), 61-62.

7. William Spiegelberg, Demotische Grammatik (Heidelberg: Winter, 1925), 1.

8.  B. Couroyer, “Le chemin de vie en Égypte et en Israël,” Revue biblique 56 (1949): 412-32.

9.  Wisdom of Ben Sira 32:15, in Patrick W. Skehan, tr., The Wisdom of Ben Sira (New York: Doubleday, 1987), 34.

10. Wisdom of Ben Sira 32:15, in ibid.

11. Wisdom of Ben Sira 42:17-26, in ibid., 486.

12. Wisdom of Ben Sira 5:6-7, in APOT 1:542.

13. Millar Burrows, tr., The Dead Sea Scrolls (New York: Viking, 1955), 387.

14. Al-Hamdani, Al-Iklil VIII (Baghdad: Syrian Catholic Press, 1931), 15-16; cf. Hugh W. Nibley, An Approach to the Book of Mormon (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1976) 211-12; reprinted in CWHN 6:257-58.

15.  Jubilees 4:31, in APOT 2:19.

16.  2 Baruch 85:9, in ibid., 2:525.

17.  Wisdom of Solomon 12:10, in ibid., 1:554.

18. Wisdom of Solomon 3:5-7, in ibid., 1:539.

19.  Zadokite Fragment 9:31, in APOT 2:820.

20.  Gospel of Philip 101:10, in R. McL. Wilson, tr., The Gospel of Philip (New York: Harper and Row, 1962), 29.

21.  Hugh W. Nibley, Since Cumorah, 2nd ed., CWHN 7 (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book and F.A.R.M.S., 1988), 37-38.

22.  Cf. Athanasius, Oratio Contra Gentes (Oration against the Heathen) 2-3, 22, 27-30, 38, in PG 25:5-9, 44-45, 52-61, 76-77; also see Athanasius, Oratio de Incarnatione Verbi (Oration on the Incarnation of the Word) 6-7, 15-19, 42-43, 45, in PG 25:105-9, 121-29, 169-73, 176-77.

23. Coffin Texts, spells 722, 724, and 443.

24.  Enuma Elish V, 1, 6.

25.  Ras Shamra Texts from the Palace of Baal 4:16-17, in J. C. L. Gibson, tr., Canaanite Myths and Legends (Edinburgh: Clark, 1977), 59.

26. Ibid.

27.  1 Enoch 86:1, 3; 88:1, 3, in APOT 2:250-51.

28.  Secrets of Enoch 30:14-15, in ibid., 2:449.

29.  Testament of Levi 18:1-3, 6, 9, in ibid., 2:314-15.

30.  The Gospel of the Hebrews, fragment 1; cf. Edgar Hennecke and William Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1963), 1:137, 163.

31.  Testament of Judah 24:1-2, in Hennecke and Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 2:323-24.

32.  4 Ezra 7:97, 125, in ibid., 2:589, 591.

33.  1 Baruch 3:34, in ibid., 1:590.

34.  Cf. Millar Burrows, More Light on the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York: Viking, 1958), 224, 335.

35.  Zadokite Fragment 9:8, in APOT 2:816.

36. Ignatius, Epistola ad Ephesios (Epistle to the Ephesians), in PG 5:659-60.

37.  Clementine Recognitions IV, 28, in PG 1:1327; cf. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, trs., Ante-Nicene Fathers, 10 vols. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1981), 8:141.

38.  This theme is treated at length in Hugh W. Nibley, “Treasures in the Heavens: Some Early Christian Insights into the Organizing of Worlds,” DJMT 8/3-4 (1974), 76-98; reprinted in CWHN 1:171-214.

39.  Wisdom of Ben Sira 39:17, in APOT 1:457.

40.  2 Baruch 30:2, in ibid., 2:498.

41.  2 Enoch, ch. 5-21.

42.  Hugh W. Nibley, Message of the Joseph Smith Papyri: An Egyptian Endowment (Salt Lake City: Deseret, 1975), 267-72.

43.  Clementine Recognitions III, 53, 58, in PG 1:1305-7; see Roberts and Donaldson, Ante Nicene Fathers, 8:128-29.

44.  2 Enoch 22:11; in OTP 1:140-41.

45.  Zadokite Fragment 2:3-8, in APOT 2:807.

46.  1QS 3:13-4:26.

47.  2 Jeu 42, in Carl Schmidt, The Books of Jeu and the Untitled Text in the Bruce Codex, tr. Violet MacDermot (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 99-100.

48.  Acts of Thomas 136, in ANT, 424.

49.  Gospel of Thomas 50:109, in NHLE, 129.

50.  Psalms of Thomas 3; cf. C. R. C. Allberry, ed., A Manichaean Psalm-Book, 2 vols. (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1938), 2:207-9.

51. Barnabas, Epistola Catholica (Catholic Epistle) 17-21, in PG 776-81.

52.  Wisdom of Ben Sira 27:26, in APOT 1:408.

53.  Secrets of Enoch 39:8, in ibid., 2:454.

54. Georg Mohlin, Die Söhne des Lichtes (Vienna: Herold, 1954), 21-23, 31, 33, 43, 98, 129, 151, 160, 169, 178, 182, 185.

55. Siegfried Morenz, “Rechts und Links in Totengericht,” Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 82 (1958): 62-71; reprinted in Siegfried Morenz, Religion und Geschichte des alten Ägypten: Gesammelte Aufsätze (Cologne: Böhlav, 1975), 281-94.

56. Erwin Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, 13 vols. (New York: Pantheon, 1964), 9:165-74; 10:95-97.

57.  Odes of Solomon 39:1-3, in J. Rendel Harris, ed., The Odes and Psalms of Solomon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1909), 134.

58. Odes of Solomon 30:1-2, in ibid., 128.

59.  Odes of Solomon 30:7, in ibid., 128.

60. Odes of Solomon 39:1-3 in ibid., 134.

61.  Thanksgiving Hymn 2; cf. Geza Vermes, The Dead Sea Scrolls in English (New York: Penguin, 1975), 155-56.

62.  Acts of Thomas 39; cf. ANT, 384.

63.  Zadokite Fragment 1:10-17, in APOT 2:801-2; Habakkuk Commentaries 1-2.

64.  Zadokite Fragment 1:10-17, in APOT 2:801-2.

65.  1 Baruch 3:12, in ibid., 1:588.

66.  Zadokite Fragment 1:11, in ibid., 2:801.

67.  Gospel of Truth 17:10-20, in NHLE, 38; cf. Gospel of Truth 22:20-34, in ibid., 40.

68.  The Martyrdom of Isaiah 3:6-11, in APOT 2:161-62.

69.  Jean Daniélou, The Dead Sea Scrolls and Primitive Christianity, tr. Salvator Attanasio (Baltimore: Helicon, 1958), 83-84.

70.  [The Topical Guide lists the word “congregation” as appearing eight times in the Old Testament.]

71. Cf. Hymn 8, in Theodor H. Gaster, The Dead Sea Scriptures in English Translation, 3rd ed. (Garden City, NY: Anchor/Doubleday, 1976), 157.

72.  Hymn 8, in ibid., 157-58.

73. Hymn 8, in ibid., 157-59.

74. Hymn 8, in ibid., 159.

75.  Cf. Hymn 14, in ibid., 175-76.

76.  Cf. Joseph Fielding Smith, Answers to Gospel Questions, 5 vols. (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book: 1957), 1:150-53.

77.  Zadokite Fragment 1:9-17, in APOT 2:800-802.

78.  Alan H. Gardiner, “Piankhi’s Instructions to His Army,” Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 21 (1935): 219-23.

79. Nibley, Approach to the Book of Mormon, x, 243; in CWHN 6:v, 295.

80. Georg Fohrer, “Der Vertrag zwischen König und Volk in Israel,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 71 (1959): 1-22.

81. Nathan Ha Babli (Nathan the Babylonian), “The Installation of an Exilarch,” ch. 10, in Benzion Halper, Post-Biblical Hebrew Literature (Philadelphia: Jewish Public Society of America, 1943), 64-68. Adolf Neubauer, Medieval Jewish Chronicles and Chronological Notes (Anecdota Oxoniensia IV and VI), 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1887-1895), 2:77-88.

82. Karl-Heinz Bernhardt, Das Problem der altorientalischen Königsideologie im alten Testament (Leiden: Brill, 1961).

83.  The Oration of Moses, in Gaster, Dead Sea Scriptures in English Translation, 374.

84.  Bernhardt, Das Problem der altorientalischen Königsideologie.

85. Alexander Moret, “Du caractère religieux de la royauté pharaonique,” Annales du Museé Guimet 15 (1902): 82.

86.  Ibid., 84.

[jorjashillinglaw]

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[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 36: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A set of technical diagrams to create a weapon of unspeakable power. The diagrams are hundreds of years old and show how to make a trebuchet.

A stunning broach, embedded with a misty quartz crystal.

A flat, otherwise unremarkable pearlescent-white overcoat button about an inch across. It is heavier than it should have any right to be. It practically vibrates with barely contained magical force.

The severed claw of some monstrous scaled creature, preserved and formed into a camping stool.

A human skull, yellowed with age, with the jawbone wired in place with fine copper wire. The skull has been etched with very fine runes, visible only in bright light, that identify it with the name of "Jerimr". When the skull's name is spoken aloud by someone holding it in their left hand, it will rise into the air and assume a position over his left shoulder, hovering unsupported.

An opaque, black eyepatch that the bearer can see through perfectly.

Bag of Useless Junk. A tattered burlap sack that jingles as if it were full of broken glass, rusty nails and wooden scraps even when empty. The bag actually generates its own trash and three times per day, the bearer can reach into the sack and withdraw a Random Worthless Trinket. 

An ornate bullseye lantern adorned with gold filigree and sun patterns.

A carved rosewood relief depicting half-men, half-rhinos whipping peasants into an oven.

An illustration of a silver tabby cat with these words on what seems to be a flyer: “Lost kitty. Responds to the name ‘Mankiller.’ Please return to Alda’s Alchemy Shoppe if found. Reward provided—higher if alive. Do not feed or raise from the dead. He bites; wounds will be treated. You kill him, you will be cursed and haunted by something that is utterly unholy and has a somewhat questionable sense of humour.”

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A set of technical diagrams to create a weapon of unspeakable power. The diagrams are hundreds of years old and show how to make a trebuchet.

A stunning broach, embedded with a misty quartz crystal.

A flat, otherwise unremarkable pearlescent-white overcoat button about an inch across. It is heavier than it should have any right to be. It practically vibrates with barely contained magical force.

The severed claw of some monstrous scaled creature, preserved and formed into a camping stool.

A human skull, yellowed with age, with the jawbone wired in place with fine copper wire. The skull has been etched with very fine runes, visible only in bright light, that identify it with the name of "Jerimr". When the skull's name is spoken aloud by someone holding it in their left hand, it will rise into the air and assume a position over his left shoulder, hovering unsupported.

An opaque, black eyepatch that the bearer can see through perfectly.

Bag of Useless Junk. A tattered burlap sack that jingles as if it were full of broken glass, rusty nails and wooden scraps even when empty. The bag actually generates its own trash and three times per day, the bearer can reach into the sack and withdraw a Random Worthless Trinket.

An ornate bullseye lantern adorned with gold filigree and sun patterns.

A carved rosewood relief depicting half-men, half-rhinos whipping peasants into an oven.

An illustration of a silver tabby cat with these words on what seems to be a flyer: “Lost kitty. Responds to the name ‘Mankiller.’ Please return to Alda’s Alchemy Shoppe if found. Reward provided—higher if alive. Do not feed or raise from the dead. He bites; wounds will be treated. You kill him, you will be cursed and haunted by something that is utterly unholy and has a somewhat questionable sense of humour.”

A hand mirror with a butterfly relief on it's non-mirror side while it's reflective surface appears to be a pool of moonlight.

A jointed ceramic finger on a leather thong. A nub of bent and broken metal, whereupon the thong is tied, sticks from the stump like an end of bone ripped from its joint in a whole hand. The finger's two joints may be manipulated with some difficulty, articulated over some rusty armature of metallic bone.

A long arrowhead with only one barb, like a fishhook. The shank is helically grooved, as if meant to screw onto a shaft. No rust, nor any sign of age or wear at all shows on the brilliant, blued alloy from which the point is crafted.

A tiny skull themed toy castle with a hinged “jawbridge” and a handful of tin soldiers.

A velvet cloth that erases most scratches, scuffs, and ink when passed over them.

A large, weathered bit of cloth covered in inter-woven spider's silk. It has been folded many times over and bears an ever-changing nonsensical mass of blurred lines, shapes, and symbols.

An ancient animal skin drum yellowed and worn with age. It naturally hums softly to the rhythm of nature's heartbeat.

An ebony carved walking cane with tiger head; the head has a hidden jaw with space within to hold a small object such as a potion vial or scroll. The interior hinge is fashioned from a preserved human finger.

A large incense burner depicting an apocalyptic scene; A palace and surrounding town is levelled by an earthquake and fire. Dancing tiger-headed demons laugh and dance and whip the dying locals

A wooden teapot with brass and wood inlays with a handle made from a vitrified monkey hand.

A gold piece that has been bitten in half.

An exquisitely crafted red ceramic cup, incised with black figures depicting lions, wolves, and fruiting plants.

A small glossy stone on which is drawn a complex runic sigil.

A wide-brimmed leather hat that has a tall crown with a crease down the middle. A trio of small, gold rings pierces the hat's brim along one side.

A crystal orb, awash with a swirl of colours at its centre, bearing a crack along one side. The colours within are constantly leaking out, in a thin mist.

A cello made of maple inlaid with hornbill ivory and tuning keys of cold iron.

A jar made of cut crystal that is sealed with a stopper of iron. Its filled with amber fluid, and a floating clot of tissue that undulates and pulses.

A squat stone goblet made of dark green stone with black intrusions, polished to a silky veneer and carved with capering, vomiting frogs and nonsense rhymes in abyssal. Any liquid poured into this goblet instantly becomes a rancid, foul smelling greenish slime.  

A hickory cane with a polished rose gold head in the shape of a grinning head.

A dark crystal orb with the patterns of the night sky revolving within it; a small sun and moon appearing and submerging over time.

A bead, about the size of a large man's thumbnail, carved from brilliant orange opal with sparkling yellow flaws inside. It looks like a stylized flame or sunburst on casual examination.  

The skull of a dire tiger, painted in infernal runes and mounted upside-down on a pedestal of black basalt carved in the shape of an erinyes who holds the basin up. The skull's eye sockets are filled with blood coloured star-sapphires.

A crescent-shaped wooden handharp, about the size of a human hand, with metal strings.

An iron pocketwatch with the chain extruding from an eagle's mouth mounted into the top of the watch. The clasp at the end of the chain is a talon.

A strange looking stone made of a material that looks like basalt, only with small insets of strange red, almost gleaming, material. It is slightly warm to the touch, and if one examines it very carefully or is very tactile to the touch, it seems to be almost pulsating.

A rattle that looks like a shrunken humanoid skull. Eyeball-like marbles rattle within it.

A lace-trimmed white silk handkerchief embroidered with the initials ‘FLS’ and stained in one corner with fresh blood.

A handful of polished dice carved from bleached human knucklebones. One of the dice is obviously heavier than the rest.

A calligraphic playbill for “The Physicians’ Apprentice” with yesterday’s date and covered with half a dozen half-illegible signatures.

An envelope, yellow and weathered, but still sealed with wax pressed by a local legate’s signet.

A neck guard made from hardened leather reinforced with a band of metal etched with the sunburst holy symbol of the God of Light. Knowledgeable PCs will know that collars such as these are worn mainly by vampire hunters and the extremely paranoid. The guard protects the bearer against vampire bites and attacks directed against the throat when worn.

A set of half a dozen tiny figurines carved into simple animal shapes. When placed on a reasonably flat surface or held in the palm of your hand, they gradually begin to animate and interact with one another.

A small tin box with a hinged lid, half-filled with finely ground, pure white, sea salt.

A goblet carved from blackened bone and ivory with black adamantium fittings. It is the size of a large brazier, its basin in the shape of a toothed demon face, its base a nest of serpents.

A perfectly round ball of translucent crystal as black as the night sky. Floating in the darkness of the ball are twinkling motes of white light, and seven steady coloured lights. Looking into this darkened orb is like looking out a window onto the night sky.

A pair of goggles made of leather that have an unwholesome oily sheen and fitted with lenses ground from a transparent crystal that makes objects refract and shimmer slightly when the bearer looks through them.

A brooch made of gray stone, studded with uncut dull gems and wrapped in tarnished metal wire.

An elegant yet simple flute carved from a single piece of ebony wood.

A coin-sized piece of polished bone that can be worn around the neck as an amulet or pinned to clothing as a brooch.

A herbalism kit that contains a variety of instruments such as clippers, mortar and pestle, and pouches and vials used by herbalists to create remedies and potions.

A bizarre structure of pink, worm-like protrusions, each ending in a clear, bright violet crystal. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as cobaltian calcite.

A large, clear quartz embedded with a seemingly random assortment of tiny golden crystals. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as pyrite.

A ragged hunk of malachite has been broken open to reveal a series of translucent cyan domes. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as chrysocolla.

A collection of hundreds of delicate, clear white crystals the length of a finger radiate from a central point. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as strontianite.

A series of sharp teeth on a leather strap, which can be affixed around the head. A realistic yellow cat eye blinks in the central position.

A wand crafted by moon druids in honour of the great beasts of nature. The core is made of a dryad sapling grown from the fertile remains of a large beast. The bones grow around the sprout and meld into it.

An ornate bronze tube, capped on each end with polished horn and wrapped tightly with thick red cord.

An intricate metal contraption which clamps to a table top and consists of a small vise, several articulated arms with lenses, clamps, and unidentified doodads. The entire thing is covered in small coils and loops as though to hold a vast array of tiny tools.

A life-like painting of a skull on black canvas with intricate embroidery decorating every surface of the skull and tiny silk flowers sewn throughout the surface.

A polished jade hair band studded with tiny black stones which sparkle with a faint, internal light.

A collection of small pastel spheres made of some tightly packed powdery substance with a cloying floral scent.

A slick, polished cane with a ferocious sea monster’s head modelled on the top. A hidden trigger causes the monster’s mouth to open and close.

A six inch bronze fish hook encased in a clear glass cube. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as the third place trophy of the annual fishing competition of a local port city.  

A perfectly smooth clear glass square, roughly arm-length along each side, with bevelled edges and rounded corners. It may have once been a table top.

A leather mask that is probably depicting the front half of a skull, with two tiny horns stuck on the top. It is sewn of layers, and layers of a strange leather, needing the multiple layers to give it any sort of structural stability. Knowledgeable PC's can determine that the disturbing object is sewn of ancient human skin, taken from bodies long lost under the hungry earth of swamp bogs. Should the bearer wear the mask and make eye contact with another intelligent creature, he feels as though he is just at the cusp of tapping into unfathomable knowledgeable.

An old lute made of ironwood, with strings and tuning keys of glistening steel.

A large, transparent red tumbler made of some unidentifiable material, its sides textured delicately and a single seam recognizable down one side. Strange characters decorate the bottom.

An ornate, hand-inlaid, glass globe contained within a protective wicker cradle.

A leather wallet containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the moneylenders, investors and bankers guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A series of ancient, hand-drawn maps representing uncountable countries and territories in some unknown part of the world.

A crystal ball containing a miniature frozen landscape. When shaken, the landscape appears to experience simulated snowfall.

A polished metal case containing a set of fine needles, similar to those for sewing, several thin glass cylinders, and a single ampoule of a sluggish red fluid.

A small sterling box engraved with the image of a small bunch of fruit with leaves and vines. Resting inside is a sealed paper packet which rattles when shaken.

An intricately detailed figurine posed as though singing to an audience on a balcony above her. Her eyes sparkle with tiny jewels to make it appear that she is crying.

An inky black square housed within an ornate golden frame. On closer inspection, faint shapes and motion are visible in the painting, as though it shows an active scene in an unlit room or perhaps underground.

A large brass hook that vaguely reminds you of a boating implement. Sharpened to a wicked point at one end and threaded for mounting on the other, the metal is polished to a mirror sheen.

An intricate clockwork crow that stands frozen in a quizzical pose, as though gazing at something interesting just above your head.

A sheaf of parchment that contains entirely too many limericks.

A pair of crystallized humanoid eyeballs. You can see something dancing inside the pupil of each eyeball.

A carved wooden mask depicting a snarling animal face with sharpened teeth and painted in brilliant yellows and reds to resemble flame.

A large travel pouch crammed full of preserved cheeses.

A joined oak stool with troll-shin legs.

A small dowry chest inlaid with enamel pictures depicting lusty milkmaids.

A bronze lamp of a leaping sun figure being pulled by three heavily pregnant sphinx.

A papyrus scroll depicting a ritual disembowelling.

A bronze horse figurine trampling on slave children.

A written note saying, in what looks like a child’s handwriting, “You’d better stop doing what you’re doing. It’ll get you killed…or worse.”

A smooth piece of rounded amber that has a human eyeball in it.

A handheld mirror that's cracked with one missing shard of glass. Each new moon, the missing shard appears, and voices singing unsettling songs emanate from it until the sun rises.

A lady's ankle bracelet designed to look like rutting unicorns.

A delicate lacquer and silver fan with death’s head moth motifs.

A set of five bones wrapped with different-hued ribbons. Each ribbon is made from different fabric, and each one causes the bearer to smell or taste something unsavory when touched.

A bracelet made of brass triangles each with a face of anguish carved into them.

An anklet crafted from jade with hieroglyphic warnings of dire things to come.

A pair of large earrings set with faceted citrines that flash again and again with a thousand twinkles, attracting the eye.

An embroidered claret-coloured jacket decorated with brass buttons on the front and on the sleeves.

A crimson, demonic bloodstained robe that grants the bearer the unholy vigor of the demonic blood that taints the cloth.

A set of fine, angular robes closed with a wide band, tied behind him in a crisp, elaborate knot. The clothing is impeccably clean and its former owner must have been fastidious about his appearance.

A perfectly preserved hummingbird, its wings fully spread as if in flight, encased in a clear glass cube.

An enormous star sapphire, well over a hundred carats, but of very poor quality. The colour varies from cloudy gray to muddy brown, and there are concentric rings crossing the material and several black inclusions and imperfections.

[jorjashillinglaw]

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[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 37

Author’s notes: So. Remember when I was sitting on something big? Yeah

Chapter 37

The Outsider smiled softly once the area around you settled, his dark eyes meeting yours with an emotion you did not recognize.

He looked so calm, so pleased with how things were going. Meanwhile you were aghast, heart thrumming away like a caged bird after all that you had seen and experienced. The cold was so very jarring as it followed the scorching heat of flames, like being doused in ice water and sending chills down your spine and arms. What the hell had any of that accomplished, other than putting Vergil through a harsh punishment? Even you, who hadn’t known Eva personally had been shaken by what your eyes were made to witness. No one should be forced to watch a mother and her children suffer through that, especially not one of the very children who went through the tragedy and came out the other side damaged.

Your mind was a whirlwind of questions, mostly pertaining to what happened to Vergil when he left that house. Demons had been crawling all around the surrounding town and homes, attacking and destroying everything in sight. Young Vergil, all alone on a playground, still upset about his mother and brother’s actions...what terrible things must have happened to him? Attacked by demons, hurt by them, forced to suffer through it all without the love of his mother and knowing that she was killed. No wonder he was such a surly, bitter man--he was starting to make more sense to you, bit by bit. God, what would Eva have thought if she knew what would become of Vergil? How many deaths that he would cause, the man he would grow to be.

And worse...you couldn’t stop thinking about the what-ifs of the situation. What would have happened had Vergil not ran from the house, if he had stayed behind with his brother and mother when the attack started? He would have been forced into that closet too, maybe his mother would have stayed with them and survived. But...things were rarely so cut and dry. The fact that the closet Dante was in didn’t burn was a miracle, coupled with the demons not finding him despite being explicitly sent by Mundus to kill Sparda’s kin. Maybe they assumed since they found Vergil, that both sons had been taken care of? Or maybe they assumed Dante would burn with the mansion. Whatever the reason...maybe the circumstances of the situation would have changed if all of them had tried to hide.

Maybe the demons would have found that closet. Maybe all three would have been lost.

Regardless, the tragedy of it all was a lingering wound on you now, one that you doubted would be soothed. And that pain was starting to translate into rage, seeing Vergil wheezing on the floor, one sleeve scorched by the fire’s illusion and hair unkempt and messy. You knew the kind of pain he was feeling, one so heavy it could make people drown in it. There was a tolerance for these kind of things that existed inside your body, made strong and firm by years and years of gritting your teeth through suffering and terrible memories. You could still stand after seeing that, you could still breath despite how much it hurt. Vergil was not like you, years of coping mechanisms and cold-heartedness made that pain all the more heavy to bear. 

This solved nothing. All it did was hurt the man for his sins and break him down further and further.

You stood up from the floor, eyes still black as you approached the Outsider with rage boiling in your veins. He was steadfast, staring you down with the calmest expression you had seen and poise in his posture.

“Vergil Sparda has passed his first trial,” He said once you paused before him, your eyes steely and lungs still stinging from the smoke. The Outsider tilted his head, a smile playing on the edge of his lips as he regarded you with something close to amusement, “Is there something you wish to say to me, Y/N? You seem distressed.”

You didn’t hesitate, especially when he was using a tone like that. Your hand whipped out, cracking him across the cheek with as much force as you could muster and ringing the sound out through the Void. Had you ever showed such defiance to the Outsider before, physically striking him in retaliation for his actions? Never. Never. But...Respecting a God who had helped you was one thing, sitting by and letting him be cruel and sadistic was another. Your fear and caring you felt for this creature, one who was seemingly a father figure to you, was like a weight on your chest battling with the anger and fury at his actions. But some things could not be excused, and you had been a slave to ignorance and the wills of this God for far too long. Powers be damned, blessings be damned. After what happened in the Qliphoth tree, this had been a long time coming.

You hurt me, you betrayed me. And now you’re trying to break him.

“Are you satisfied?!” You hissed, grabbing the God by his collar while he put up literally no fight. In fact, he hadn’t even flinched when you hit him, merely blinking slowly and tilting his head back to look at your furious eyes. Somehow his lack of reaction made you even more angry, “What the hell are you thinking, forcing this upon him like it will somehow solve anything! It solves nothing!”

The Outsider’s gaze did not waver, eyes steady as they stared at the black gaze you inherited from him. What had become of him, this creature that you once looked up to and would willingly say you adored? He was the closest thing you had to a parent and he just...He was crushing everything. 

“This man has hurt you, has he not?” The black-eyed God replied, narrowing his stare and tipping his head to the side, “Yet you still wish to save him, to preserve the part of him that you think still exists.”

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it drew blood, the taste coppery in your mouth. Just because he was right didn’t mean a damn thing.

Your fingers still gripped his jacket, feeling his cold breath as you leaned closer and said in a biting tone, “And what does that matter? Why are you doing this?!” All the pain of his betrayal was spilling forth, mind reliving the moment of V’s absorption and the feeling of the Outsider’s firm grip on your neck, “You wouldn’t even let me try…! You wouldn’t even let me attempt to stop him, to find another way…! All of this, forcing me down, torturing Vergil with his past--just tell me why…!”

Please. I don’t want to hate you, I don’t want this doubt. 

You could remember the beginning years of the Void, of his blessing. The first years of learning your powers, of pulling your shattered mind back together. The Outsider had been calm and patient, kind to you and understanding of the trauma that came with your existence. It was he who had done all that he could to rebuild you, taking away the burden of memories and shaping you into a fighter, one who could withstand the Void’s power and not break under its weight. Yet through all of that had been a distance, a wall you had always secretly hoped would be breached. The Outsider never embraced or touched you, never gave the physical affection that a parent would. 

It was as if he had never knew how, just as puzzled by you and what your relationship was as you were. There was a sense of naivety, an impassiveness covering up a lack of understanding and years and years of passing human contact. All you had wanted was to regain what was lost, what you had never properly tasted--the chance at having loving parents, ones who were proud of you and not afraid to say it. To be strong, to love and be loved equally with no trauma of pain holding it back anymore. Human existence had robbed you of that, taking it all away and leaving you wanting, hungering for the fruits of happiness you were only allowed to briefly sample.

It was why you couldn’t hate Vergil, still wheezing and rasping on the ground, trying to gather his emotions together. He had been hurt time and time again, broken down without rhyme or reason and searching desperately for a means to cope, to feel strong. Had you been offered it, had a darker power sought you out...would you have hurt people as well at a chance of happiness, drowning in that desperation and letting it choke you? The son of Sparda had done terrible things, been selfish and cold and greedy. Things that could not be excused by his trauma, but...you understood it. You did. When one had their face constantly pushed into the dirt, they tended to do all they could to breathe. 

You had done that too. Had taken the first hand that pulled you out of the dirt. 

The Outsider let out a slow breath, the icy chill of it making you shudder lightly as you wheezed out your own angry, panting breaths. That calm expression shifted a bit, and if you weren’t mistaken....was that sadness in those endless, dark depths? The Outsider shocked you then, lifting his hands from his sides and doing the one thing you had never felt from him--he cupped your freezing cheeks with his own icy fingers, making you gasp and muscles tense almost painfully. The tender action shocked you to your core for a moment, anger trapped between the surprise and confusion with nowhere else to go. 

But...why? Why is he doing this?

I don’t understand.

“You are the closest thing to a child I have ever been allowed,” The Outsider replied in a low tone, sounding  a bit grave and serious as he continued on like you weren’t staring at with an expression so lost, “Born of my power, my essence. All that I do, I do to make you stronger, even if those actions make you hate me.”

What? 

You blinked in shock, eyes wide and staring at him with a tortured expression on your face. This was too much, this was too much. All those months of thinking, waiting, not understanding...this didn’t help, it only served to increase the turmoil coiling inside and breaking down the walls of hatred you had formed to protect yourself from the Outsider’s betrayal. This validation, the knowledge of him seeing you as his kin...it only amplified the pain, leaving you wondering and pleading internally, not able to understand why he hurt you so much despite claiming you were his only child.

Why now, when it will only sting the most?

I just want to be happy. 

I wanted you to be a part of that happiness too.

 “P...please...Outsider...Father...” Tears started forming in your eyes, voice hoarse and conflicted as you whispered, “I don’t want this…! I don’t want anyone else to be hurt…!”

Not you. Not Vergil. Not anyone.

Using such a name for the God made his pause, eyes finally closing and breaking the stare he held between you both. He looked a lot closer to a human when he wasn’t gazing with those deep, empty eyes. Softer. Up close it was apparent just how unbelievably tired the Outsider looked, dark circles lining his lids and skin so pale in complexion. 

“There is still so much you do not know,” He finally replied after some pause, opening those exhausted eyes of his to meet your teary gaze, “Things that cannot be forgiven. Even if it means earning your malice, there are things that must be witnessed.”

That was not the answer you wanted to hear.

You gasped, stumbling when the Outsider removed his hands and took several steps back with his expression switching back to the calm, unfazed look from before. As he did so, black crystal started swirling around the space, morphing the surroundings like they did before, but...only partially this time. No no no--No more trials, no more punishments…! You summoned your tendrils, wrapping them around Vergil to help him sit up, shielding him from the view in front of you. The dark crystal formed a wall behind the Outsider, like a screen that stretched all the way into the Void’s non-existent sky. On that screen formed an image, like the two worlds had been spliced over each other and now overlapped.

Your eyes widened, taking in the view of what could only equate to...Hell.

This was Hell.

It was dark, a vision of red and blood in a cavern that you knew could never see sunlight. Unlike the previous illusion, you were not immersed in it, not standing in it, but...seeing what was going on was bad enough. You felt your chest clench, staring beyond the Outsider at a man suspended by fleshy tendrils from all directions, dripping blood into a pool below. He looked like hell, practically ripped apart and completely limp. You knew that white hair, even with his back to you it was very clear who you were seeing. 

Vergil.

The man behind you was panting, making you turn to see him sitting up with a glassy look in his eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze still burning with tears and expression conflicted. No more trauma, he shouldn’t be seeing this--but you doubted he would even if you weren’t there. He wasn’t seeing anything with a faraway expression like that, eyes downcast and hair draping over his face. You resisted the urge to embrace him, to cover his gaze and ears to protect him from this madness. V’s trauma was a vision in your head, breaking you down to nothing for each moment you remembered, that vulnerability so raw and real. It hurt, Vergil was in pain and you just wanted it to stop.

“Outsider…!” You whipped back around to stare at him pleadingly, stepping back and raising a hand to shield Vergil from view, “No more of this, please…! He’s had enough, we both have…!”

The Outsider clicked his tongue, shaking his head at your words and walking a slow circle around you both. Your tendrils summoned around Vergil as he went, acting as a shield despite how little you knew it would do. The God could stop your power with a flick of his fingers, but...he didn’t. Those eyes remained trained on you, watching with curiosity and something a little...disappointed. You half expected his new illusion to encompass the surroundings, enveloping you in the wet, hot air of hell and furthering the torture for the son of Sparda behind you. But that didn’t happen either.

“We will forgo this second trial a bit,” He replied to you, clear and precise. Like the training lessons he had given you all those years ago, “If that would please you, dearest Y/N. But you wanted to know, didn’t you? About Vergil’s bloody past, about what the poet spoke to you of...his trauma caused by his time as Nelo Angelo.”

Not like this, not at his expense.

As you watched in shock, the image before you moved, a newcomer appearing in view before the suspended Sparta. Your gaze snapped back to the screen, fists clenching at your side and tendrils resisting the urge to shield your eyes too. By the Void--He was huge, emerging from the shadows as a behemoth tall enough to be  sky scraper. There was no mistaking this creature, with his king-like stature, curling beard and powerful presence--this was Mundus, the King of the Underworld you had heard mentioned before.

The realization made you gasp, feeling a chill travel up your spine and your fists clench at your sides. It was a strange sensation, wanting to protect Vergil behind you while also watching the Vergil of the past suffer and struggle. Alone. He wore different colors then, more in hues of blue, but...they were so sullied by his own blood that it was hard to tell. 

Mundus stared at the son of Sparda with a cold expression, eyes not visible in the shadows of his face. You knew Vergil would have never fared against something of his stature, the very aura he exuded through the screen of illusion enough to make you want to turn and run. The younger Vergil’s fingers twitched, dropping the broken remains of the Yamato down into the pool where it landed, slowly beginning to sink into the blood. This is how the sword was broken, to be found by the Order of the Sword and then by Nero later.

Things were coming together disgustingly well. Griffon had only told you the minor details of his own existence, about how Vergil took on the King alone and had fallen, Mundus manipulating his weakened form and making him into Nelo Angelo. There his three Nightmares had spawned forth, bringing with them the trauma and reminders of his failure. They never told you what Mundus had done to Vergil, how bad it was. And you were going to learn why.

Mundus parted his lips, voice emerging in a sound that dragged along your earlobes like razor blades. You flinched, hands instinctively rising to cover your ears and taking another step back. But as soon as the sound reached you both, you heard Vergil gasp, the sound choked and hard as he raised his head. His expression was one of shocked fear, of remembrance. And it shattered you into a million pieces.

He cannot see, he can’t know this pain again.

“Sparda...Sparda--that traitor!” Mundus growled, the sound loud and vibrating the air as the Outsider continued to circle you both, not looking fazed in the slightest, “Had he not sullied demon blood with a human womb...Perhaps he could’ve had a son with at least some grit.”

He spoke of Eva, Vergil and Dante’s mother. Something about his dismissal of the woman made your blood boil, but you couldn’t afford to focus on that now. You snapped your gaze to the Outsider, feeling your shoulders shake as he met your gaze like it was a challenge, as if there was something to prove. 

This helps no one.

“I wish to see no more…!” You spat at him, kneeling by Vergil and putting an arm around his waist, trying to urge him to his feet. Your voice seemed to snap the confused, panicked daze Mundus’ voice brought, icy blue eyes sharpening and lips parting in a gasp. He finally met your gaze, chest rising and falling with slow breaths and expression so very conflicted, almost...humiliated. He was at his weakest mentally, and he knew it. To fall to pieces in front of you, to break down into hysterics and cry for his mother...you couldn’t image how much that did to his pride.

“Y/N…” He rasped, voice raw from yelling even as you helped him slowly to his feet, “This..this is...I cannot…”

He didn’t have to elaborate, you understood.

The Outsider paused, tilting his head when the other Vergil spoke, the one from the illusion. It made you and his present day counterpart turn, watching as the Sparda lifted his head and rasped.

“...Done with the drivel yet?” He was so young then, so cocky and full of himself. It made you want to shake the poor half demon, the feeling doubled when he added weakly, “I can keep going.”

An obvious lie. You doubted Vergil could lift his fingers at that moment if he was asked. The one at your side stared at the memory with regret, his hands clenching into fists so tight that he was digging the nails into his palms. You gasped when blood started to trickle down, pattering onto the piece of debris you stood on like the blood trickling from his past self. He looked like he was going to be sick again, forced to watch a moment in his life that had brought much trauma and pain. And that heavy, drowning humiliation. Mind you, it was his choices that lead to this outcome, but…it didn’t make things any more tolerable. In fact, you were willing to bet it stung a lot more knowing he could have avoided all the pain had he just went with Dante, had he tried.

Like with everything, what would have happened if he swallowed his pride and decided to live his life with his brother? The agony of that uncertainty was drowning him, and that was a truth you knew he didn’t need to face anymore.

No more of this. No more.

“Outsider…!” You summoned more tendrils, cracking them out along the ground and stopping the God’s infuriating pacing, “End this, please…! What more must he endure before you are satisfied, what truth does this bring other than pain?” 

But that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Bringing pain.

You took one of Vergil’s hands, stepping closer to him and feeling his fingers grip yours like they were a lifeline, “He knows what happens here, and so do I…! If you had any ounce of caring for me, you would stop this nonsense where it starts…!”

You could feel Vergil’s gaze leave you, staring at the image of Mundus pulling him up into his grasp, hand big enough to hold his whole body. His fingers twitched, Vergil stepping back and pulling you close enough to put your back flush against his side. He was gritting his teeth again, trying to hold onto the anger above the pain and maintain his composure. Those walls wanted to rebuild themselves so fast, but Vergil seemed so exhausted, so tired. Each breath was slow and measured, brow dotted with sweat and hand gripping yours tight enough that you were afraid he would break bone. 

The Outsider paused at your side, keeping his eyes on Mundus and raising a hand to freeze the image. You could almost breathe a sigh of relief, seeing the King’s mouth open and say nothing as the illusion waited for the God to continue it.

There was an air of aggravation now, the Outsider turning toward you and letting out a low hum as he asked, “Do you truly wish for me to end this trial?” Those black eyes lingered on Vergil, narrowing slightly in annoyance as he added, “I will forfeit this as you ask, child of mine. But...the final trial I will not. There is truth to find there, since you claim truth should be the the only trial he faces.”

The God almost sounded...sullen, like your desire to protect Vergil disappointed him. There was something hidden in those black eyes, a sorrow you did not understand. Regret. What more did he possibly have to see, what other truths? You hesitated at the bite in his tone, feeling like a child who had been reprimanded by their father despite all efforts not to. But...this was not something you could tolerate any longer, sitting idly by and letting the God have his merry way. Someone needed to protect Vergil, even if he didn’t want you to. Not that he was going to say anything now, staring down the Outsider with such a fierce hatred that you were shocked the God didn’t catch fire from the heat.

No, all he offered in response with a slow smile, seeming utterly pleased by seeing the Son of Sparda so wrecked. Vergil was growing more and more furious, crackling with an air of anger that made the cold of the Void pale under its fire. You knew damn well he didn’t want to take part in these trials to begin with, especially not with no other choices and no way out. Now, seeing exactly what it had in store for him...he must want the Outsider dead, hating feeling weak in any capacity and being forced back against the wall. You saw his fingers twitch, free hand grasping the hilt of his Yamato like he wanted to attack the Deity before you. But trying was a waste of time.

And he knew it.

“I care not for your trials…!” Vergil growled, tone gravelly and raw as he narrowed his gaze on the smug God, “If you wish to punish me, then leave her out of it…!”

That made you jolt, indignation rising along with the worry in your throat as you protested, “Vergil--!”

“Enough,” He snapped in reply, cutting you off and meeting your pleading gaze with an exhausted one of his own, “This is what V wants, would you really deny him that which he desires?”

Of course he would say that, of course he would bring V into it.

And for the record, hell yeah you would, especially if it meant him sacrificing himself. You learned after those four months that doing so was never the right way to solve anything, not when there were people who cared about you. And everything be damned, you knew there were people who cared about Vergil. You, Dante, even Nero...you owed it to your friend to make sure he got to know his Father, that he would return home to make amends. Becoming one with the Void was a fate worse than death, losing your consciousness to the thousands of others and becoming a part of the chorus, lost to never be found again. You had been a strange case, you had gotten lucky--By circumstances beyond your control, you had not been consumed and were promptly found by the black-eyed God.

Vergil did not have that kind of luck.

“I’m done with losing people,” You replied to Vergil in a harsh tone, gripping the collar of his jacket and forcing him down to stare at you on your level, “You don’t get to make that choice…! It was my interference that brought us here, my mistakes…!”

Because of that, you refused to run. You would see this through to the end.

Vergil scowled at that, desperation in his eyes as he parted his lips to reply. But the Outsider was faster. You heard the God sigh, making you both turn again to look at him as he waved his hand at the image of Mundus and the younger Vergil, making it shatter into crystal that swirled around you all.

“Is this what you want, Y/N?” He looked straight at you, a thousand warnings in his eyes as the wind whipped his black hair slightly with the force, “To see this final trial by his side, to observe this truth no matter how much pain it will bring?”

You had stayed by his side through the death of Eva, through the fire and torment of his burning family home. No matter what came next, you could handle it for his sake. The deaths of those in the Qliphoth, seeing Dante’s struggles, maybe Nero’s? You could handle that, you could be the pillar of strength he needed to get you both out of there alive. Whatever the truth would bring, you weren’t going to sit and be ignorant anymore. Consequences be damned.

So you nodded, squeezing Vergil’s fingers and ignoring his sharp, desperate gaze as you replied, “I will not be swayed. After all, you’ve been showing me new pains for my entire life...haven’t you?”

Every ache, every agony...he made sure I went through them.

I just want to know why.

The Outsider tilted his head to the side at your words, as if he could sense the very context held beneath them. Silence passed between you both, punctuated by the Void’s howling and the whipping wind. You didn’t know what was going through his head, but you hoped it was something close to mercy, closer to what you thought the Deity was upon learning from him, from doing his bidding. There was a pleading look in your eyes, silently begging him to understand and listen. You didn’t want this anymore, didn’t want this conflict or hatred. You didn’t want to hate him anymore. Getting to live your life a second time was a blessing, getting to try again was a gift. And being able to do it all with the power of the Void and the Outsider guiding you was more than anyone could ask for.

But...there was something in the Outsider’s expression that made you nervous. A reluctance, one that was enhanced when he raised his fingers, sending the cloud of dark crystal swirling about you both like a cloud.

“Then so be it. But let it be known that I tried to warn you.”

You flinched, closing your eyes and gripping Vergil’s coat tightly between your fingers as it weaved around you loudly, coldly. Changing the landscape again, you knew that much. It was hard to get your sense of direction, like being turned upside down in mid air and trying to regain balance. You felt the cold start turning into warmth, the shimmering rays of the sun painting on your skin and making you gasp. Inhaling brought the taste of salt water on the air, wind sending your hair adrift and feeling nice despite it being utterly fake. Another illusion.

In a matter of seconds, the Void’s howling dissipated, leaving behind the quiet sound of footsteps, of voices low and murmuring as they brushed past your ear. It took a few moments for you to catch your breath, to get your barrings after being thrust into a new space so quickly. Your brain was scrambling, confused and trying to tell you that the Void was now gone, but you knew better by now, didn’t you?

You knew this place too, that was a fact.

You opened your eyes, feeling shock settle over you as the surrounding registered within. This was Fortuna, you would recognize it anywhere. The architecture, the towers reaching toward the sky and that ocean breeze you had experienced for months of peace. But...it was different now, not the crystal woven buildings of your home with bustling in the streets of new and old technologies alike. No, this was far more subdued. You stepped closer to Vergil, anxiety settling in a hollow pit of your stomach as you watched people walk by with their heads down,  wearing cloaks and hoods and all keeping to themselves. It was so quiet, a far cry from the laughter and talking of the city square now, Fortuna opening its doors to the outside world and finding peace and culture they enjoyed.

And even more shocking was the behemoth looming over the city in the distance. Made of stone, towering high into the sky and staring eerily into the distance. 

Nero had told you the story of how that statue fell, a homage to the demon Lord Sparda that was built by the Order of the Sword. But it was still here, the damage caused by all the events Nero was involved in no longer there. This was definitely the past--so maybe your assumption was correct? Maybe you were seeing what happened to Nero growing up, the truth of living without his parents? But...why weren’t you in front of the orphanage, instead in the town square several streets away. What was the truth to find here?

You looked up at Vergil, finding him frowning and staring around with wariness in those sharp eyes.

“We’re in Fortuna,” He stated the obvious, tone low and still rasping from before, “I...remember coming here to investigate the Order of the Sword.”

You blinked, stepping back from him and looking out at the people oblivious to your existence. One hand reaching out phased right through them, proving this illusion to be just like the other. It felt real, but you could not interfere with those who existed in it. 

But...that wasn’t important right now. A realization was forming in the back of your head, one that made you take pause and turn to look back at Vergil.

“H...how many times did you come to Fortuna?” This was where he met Nero’s mother, wasn’t it? Had to be, considering the fact that Nero was born and raised in Fortuna his whole life. Getting in and out of the city at a time like this was difficult, if not impossible considering the grip held on it by the religious group. 

Vergil frowned, putting a hand to his head and wincing slightly, as if he was in pain.

“...Once,” He finally replied, almost reluctantly, “The memory is vague, most likely due to my run in with Mundus afterwards. I do remember finding a book telling me the information I needed, then leaving to form the tower as a means to gain my father’s power, but…”

He didn’t remember Nero’s mother.

As soon as the thought formed, you froze, seeing a familiar shape walking through the crowd nearby with his head down like the others. The man stood out a bit, tall and broad shouldered with the familiar handle of the Yamato peaking through his cloak. You could recognize Vergil’s air of confidence anywhere, even when his younger self was seemingly trying not to be noticed. Blending into the crowd as best he could, people of Fortuna clearing a path out of his way and not looking at his face at all. His older version at your side noticed too, standing at attention as he watched himself walk past, face younger but still wearing that cold, cocky look he always had. It felt so strange, seeing a closer version to the Vergil you knew, but so much softer and more naive looking. Vergil at his peak of stupidity, it would seem.

But you knew now, the truth you were realizing here. The fact that Vergil didn’t seem to remember anything about Fortuna, about Nero’s mother told you everything you needed to know. What had happened to this woman, one who somehow managed to gain Vergil’s attention enough to form a child? Imagining the son of Sparda engaging in a quick fling seemed heavily unlikely, especially given the lack of interest he seemed to have in anything but power. Vergil clearly had not stayed behind for her, and Nero didn’t know who she was either. It didn’t bode well, and you were willing to bet her story would be a painful one. Of course the Outsider would want him to see what happened to this woman, the mother of his child, and make him feel terrible about that too.

He was doing things out of order--why this last? Wouldn’t it make more sense to show Mundus last, considering that happened after Vergil fornicated in Fortuna?

“Nero’s mother…” You murmured, making Vergil tilt his eyes back to you, “Is there anything you remember about her at all? She must have been special, especially considering the fact that she somehow caught your eye.”

 Vergil seemed so focused, so driven. Romance or lust was so low on his spectrum.

The man in question furrowed his brow, letting out a low growl from his chest and rubbing his temple with hard fingers, “Why do I feel insulted by your tone?” He asked flatly, making you raise a brow at him, “I remember very little. She wore a red dress--does that help at all?”

A woman in red...that kind of narrowed it down, right?

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and feeling absolutely exhausted by the whole situation, “This is what the Outsider wants you to see so pay attention--didn’t you wonder at all what happened to this woman considering the fact that you barely remember her?” You met Vergil’s eyes, a serious expression on your face as you continued, “Nero searched Fortuna for her, but she was nowhere to be found. You are meant to see her fate.”

And like it or not, you would both be witnessing it.

Vergil looked away, a muscle twitching in his jaw and an uneasy air settling around his form. You knew this might be less damaging than watching his own mother die, especially if he had no attachment to the female. But...this could bring closure to Nero too, and that was important. Guilt could be an effective teaching tool, one that Vergil needed to become more familiar with after spending his entire life ignoring such things. Her fate was as important as his own, and he owed it to Nero and himself to at least try and see what happened to the poor girl he left behind.

Almost on cue, you saw something out of the corner of your eye--a flicker of color. Right on time. It made your head turn, a breath catching in your throat as you saw a hint of red walking from the direction illusion-Vergil was heading in. You gripped the real one’s hand, making him follow your gaze before you let go and started heading toward the woman in question. This had to be her, there was no doubt about that--head down with a white hood, dress a scarlet red and walking slowly past Vergil on the quiet street with a gentle stride. Her face was obscured, which was unfortunate. But you assumed you’d see it soon enough. 

You walked to her side, phasing through the people of the crowd and pausing once she did in the middle of the cobblestone street. Vergil didn’t look at her, didn’t even seem to notice her--but it was clear she noticed him. You need to see this, right? You weren’t bothered by knowing Vergil had slept with another woman, especially considering he and V had no knowledge of you then. But...Something felt...off?

Something isn’t right.

Your foresight started prickling in your chest, growing in heat and intensity and making anxiety boil through your veins. What the hell was all that about, there was no danger here, correct? If demons showed up in an illusion, would you sense them too? But….you felt nothing in the house when it was attacked, no indication that danger was coming. Your Foresight had been completely quiet then, not seeming to notice the manifested danger or the fire threatening to burn you. So why was it coming to life now, warning you of something that was not seen?

You halted your steps, standing feet away from the woman in red with confusion and worry in your eyes. Vergil approached your prone form, watching her as well but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at his face. Instead focused on her, observing as she turned away from the both of you to look behind, seeming to notice Vergil and stop to look back at him with a soft smile peeking out from the hood shielding her face.

What was it that got her attention?

Maybe the energy he carried, maybe the way he walked. You weren’t sure which, but you could feel her interest like a tangible force in the air. That and...more. You felt recognition above all else, like you had met the girl before at some point in your life, as impossible as that was. It prickled at the back of your mind, sending off warning bells and making you incredibly uneasy.

The only women you met in your travels of this world were Nico, Trish, Lady, and Kyrie--and that was excluding the women of Fortuna you grew to recognize.  And there was no way this girl was any of them based on her body type alone, and the fact that two of those girls would be babies at the time. Not like the women working the shops, not anyone you had helped. In fact, this was years ago was it not? This woman would be in her forties by the time you knew her. And she carried no aura similar to the older women.

But...something felt off, something felt wrong. The foresight was growing louder and louder as you stepped away from Vergil, frowning as you tried to move close enough to observe her face.

Don’t.

Don’t look.

Hide your eyes away, child of the Void.

The whispers turned to screaming in your ears, making your steps falter and eyes blink in confusion. What...was happening? What was going on? You were feeling rooted to the spot, standing next to the woman with your heartbeat increasing on every breath. Vergil wasn’t immune to your fixation, to the intensity of your gaze. He asked you if you were alright, but you barely heard it, ears starting to sound like they were underwater, drowned by your own pulse.  Look away look away, the Foresight chanted, growing louder and louder as everything around you seemed to slow, to dim, You can’t, you shouldn’t, you mustn’t. This was not something you were supposed to see, but it was far too late now, wasn’t it?

The girl’s hands raised from her sides, gripping the edges of her hood and gently peeling it back, revealing her face to your eyes.

Wh--

What? 

Th...that’s not…

This isn’t--

That’s not possible.

There must be a mistake--

Your eyes were wide and unblinking, staring at the face before you and unable to comprehend what your head was seeing. What...what was going on? You saw her eyes, the same color as yours. Her hair, the same color as yours. Her face...that...that was your face, was it not? Those were your lips, your nose, your cheeks, your everything. That was your smile on her lips, gentle and full of interest as she watched Vergil walk away. Your fingers lifted on her hand, touching your-- her cheek like she was in awe. Your breath stopped entirely in your lungs, heart pounding so hard in your chest that the roar of blood in your ears was deafening. Impossible impossible impossible--this was not possible. Your fingers started shaking, the Foresight in your body screaming in agony as you stared into her face, like a mirror, seeing yourself and unable to comprehend any of it.

She is--We are--I am--

I can’t--I can’t I can’t I can’t.

This cannot be real.

Your brain snapped like a weak twig, mouth opening but no sound coming out as your power and soul screamed out in absolute agony. Anger, despair, horror, pain, fear, incomprehension--It was like a tidal wave shattering the glass holding you together and flooding all in its path. You felt yourself crumble, mind shutting down and all the powers enveloping you in a sea of blackness that felt all too familiar to your body. And for once...you welcomed it, that feeling of nothing. Everything went howling into the Void in an instant--no more thoughts, no more sight, no more feeling. You fell to your knees and entirely shattered apart, the image before your eyes snapping away into the darkness like it had never been there at all. 

You fell to pieces, mind shutting down before it could destroy itself even more. Like razors, the weight of the grief and absolute horror was ripping apart any sense of sanity you could have, protecting your soul from cracking into the state it had been all those years ago in the Void. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. This cannot be. This cannot. Be. She is me and I am--

You lost it. You lost it. 

Your mind writhed and thrashed, body going limp on the ground as the blackness consumed all the chaos and sent you into a state of absolute darkness. And in that split second of lucidity that remained before it was all taken, you heard the Outsider’s voice in your head.

Forgive me, my child. There are some things that even you were not meant to see.

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[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 3

Authors Notes: I’m gonna cry, you all are so nice ;-; Thank you so much for your kind words and comments! I’m gonna try to keep it at one chapter a day for a while yall.

Chapter 3

Chaos burst forth in the next instant. Shadow attacking the demons in a flurry of spikes and claws, teeth sinking into a demon’s throat with a spurt of blood. Griffon cackled gleefully, flying to the nearest demon to level his own attacks. You found adrenaline pumping through your veins, tendrils whipping out to attach to the nearest demon and impale it through the chest. Several of the creatures started for you and V, who calmly strolled to the side with his eyes fixed on the spectacle. He pulled out his poetry book, hair blowing in the breeze as he dodged an attack from a distant demon, pointing his cane at the creature with an expression of cold glee. Shadow was on it in an instant, ripping at it with its attacks and bringing the demon to its knees.  

“Pin him to the wall,” V growled, darting over and quickly slamming the sharp end of his cane into the creature’s head, killing it instantly and causing it to disintegrate. You used a nearby building to swing around behind him, planting your heels in the face of a demon creeping up to attack the poet while he was distracted. It screamed in pain, swiping at your legs with a clawed hand. V’s cane whipped around in the next instant, impaling the creature’s hand and stabbing into its neck. A rush of air left your lungs as you stumbled back, skidding on your heels as the tendrils stabilized you. Holy shit. The demons were definitely fast, but there were moments where V was faster.

He took a few steps toward you, eyes tilted down to his book as he moved in a slow turn around his fighting companions, murmuring Poetry from his book as they attacked a third demon, “To see the world in a grain of sand, and Heaven in a Wild Flower. Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an Hour.”

Energy seemed to crackle ever so subtly in the air around him as he spoke, voice clear and smooth. He closed the book with one hand, dark green gaze passing over you as he teleported over to the third fallen demon, stabbing it right between the eyes before yanking his cane out with a twirl of his body. You found yourself fixed to the spot, both awed and amused as you witnessed how V fought. So different than Nero, but with a very similar dramatic flair. Both had a taste for being incredibly extra it would seem. V’s was just on a whole different spectrum.  

You thought you saw him smirk at you as he turned, pointing his cane at the two remaining demons with a command of, “Slice them.”  

Shadow and Griffon descended upon the creatures in seconds, breaking them down to nothing but crumpled husks. V had to land the killing blow on them as well—in fact it seemed his companions wouldn’t kill a single one. V had to end each one, finishing them off with a leap in the air and landing in a pirouette. You grinned a little at that, retracting your tendrils back and letting the energy calm down a bit. As soon as the final enemy was killed, whatever was blocking your paths disappeared, the breeze clear and your Foresight quiet once again. You looked around, watching the bodies slowly dissipate into the air as Griffon and Shadow settled down. V seemed pretty fucking capable on his own, if you were completely honest. Sure he looked a bit skinny, but from what you could tell he and his companions didn’t really need your power.

Or so you thought. As you looked at V, you noticed him lean heavier on his cane. It was a subtle change; one you were sure you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been looking for it. He griped the top of the cane until his knuckles were white, Hair shielding his face so you couldn’t see his expression. He straightened up a little bit a second later, turning with that same half smile he wore before and his dark green eyes meeting yours. You tried not to display your worry, finding yourself pretty concerned for his well-being. You didn’t know the nature of what was wrong, but you wanted to help people—it was in your nature. You were also hoping to become friends with the trio you had met so far, you wanted to be useful.

“You have quite the interesting power,” V commented, snapping your racing thoughts back to the present. You focused on him again, face heating a little when you realized you had probably been standing there staring like an idiot while you zoned out, “Your ability makes you fairly fast...I noticed tendrils appearing out of your person as well.”

You nodded, lifting a hand to summon some of the blue, feathery wisps of power to show him.

“This is essentially what my abilities look like. They’re almost like super strong threads, they're pretty versatile,” He came closer as you spoke, lifting his free hand to hover them over the tendrils. They gently wrapped around his fingers, so you took the opportunity to try and aid him a bit. Focusing your energy, you continued, “They can attach to anything, make things for me. They’re how I transfer energy too.”

He seemed mesmerized by them, curling his fingers as he enjoyed their gentle glow. You knew they felt soft to the touch, but they were razor sharp and hard as steel when needed. Born of the Void’s nothingness, its energy into physicality. The first time you used them, you remembered it burning you for days. You would vomit whale oil when you tried to extend—it took months of training to get used to it, and even longer to cultivate your own style and learn your limits.

But you couldn’t tell V that. Not now.

Instead, you let out a slow breath, focusing on the sharing of your power as you murmured, “From the Void into you.”

You felt the energy leave your body, traveling into V’s fingertips. He stared in a mixture of surprise and intrigue, watching as your energy traveled through his arm and disappeared into his body. He let out a slow breath when it did, flexing his fingertips and staring at them with his lips parted with intrigue. You hoped whatever was ailing him was at least lifted somewhat, retracting the tendrils and letting the energy inside simmer down. Adrenaline was your friend at that moment—All that time in the Void left you aching for a little excitement, it would seem. You felt practically bubbling with energy, ready to expend it on whatever necessary.

A moment paused between you and the taller male, him still looking at his fingers with an expression of curiosity. If you weren’t mistaken, his complexion had improved a bit too.

“How fascinating...” He breathed, meeting your gaze with a light smirk, “An interesting sensation to say the least.”

You rocked back on your heels, running a hand through your hair as you asked, “Feel any better?”

He paused again, glancing at you from underneath his lashes.

“...I do,” He replied, inclining his head to you in a grateful nod, “Thank you, Y/N.”

Ohhh dear. Something about hearing him say your name like that made your stomach do flips. You nodded back at him and turned away with a small smile, looking down the alleyway and trying to will your heartbeat into slowing down. That was definitely the adrenaline, it wasn’t fading any time soon. You heard Griffon let out a strange trill, wings flapping as he swooped by you again, sending your hair waving in his residual air. He landed on your shoulders as before, gentler this time as you reached back to hold his feet steady. You heard him snicker in your ear, beak closer to that side of your head.

“Ohhh someone was lookin’ starry eyed back there,” He breathed quietly at you, sounding heavily amused, “You okay girlie? Need some breathing room? A cold shower?”

You rolled your eyes at him, tapping a finger on the side of his head as you replied, “Behave, Birdie.”

He snickered again, shaking out his feathers a bit as you turned back to look at V. He was putting his book back into his vest, back to his usual demeanor of eyes focused and that wry smile on his face. Shadow shook out it pelt, letting out a low growl as it slid past you and V, sitting down nearby to lick its paw. You sighed, hating that the big cat was so standoffish to you, even after your food bribe. V was right, despite his gruff bullshit Griffon was a lot easier to win over. One piece of meat later and the bird was riding on your shoulder cawing in your ear. Mind you, that wasn’t a complaint. You were incredibly pleased to not have to fight with Griffon all the time.

“So,” You asked as you started to follow V forward again, still firmly grasping the bird by its talons as you walked, “This Dante guy, who is he?”

V turned into another alleyway, and as he did so you watched Shadow disintegrate as his feet,  absorbing into V’s tattooed body. You stared in startled shock, worried for a second until you realized V's tattoos got darker with the action. So he could take his little companions and have them inside his body? That was certainly interesting, but in retrospect it made sense considering you saw the panther pop out earlier when V summoned it. Still, it was jarring to watch for the first time up close. Not to mention your heavy disappointment when you realized there wouldn’t be a chance of you petting it while it was on its master’s body.  

Griffon, however, seemed perfectly content from his spot on your shoulders. You absentmindedly made another small scrap of meat, tossing it up to him to catch in his beak. He chirped eagerly when you did, the chomping sound pretty gnarly if you were being honest.  

V smirked again, hopping up over a piece of debris in your way as he replied, “Dante is a demon hunter, one that is a friend and acquaintance of Nero. I hired him to help...take care of Urizen.”

Huh. You hopped over the rubble as well, surprised when Griffon helped you a bit. Though you were sure he was supposed to help his master with things like this.

“Everyone seems pretty worried about him,” You commented, conjuring up a granola bar in your other hand. It occurred to you in that moment that you and V had been walking for about two hours and maybe eating something would be a good idea. You summoned another, tapping his shoulder once to get his attention and hand it to him, "Here, you should eat something."

He stared at the bar, eyebrow raised as he gently took it from you. By the expression on his face, you swore the thought of food had never occurred to him. He seemed pretty much human and humans had to eat. Unless he had a health condition of sort? But even then, he had to find nutrients somewhere, from something. There was a lot you didn’t understand about V, but you knew for energy and such food was a good way to go.

“I...” He said, hesitating a bit. You had never seen him hesitate before, “I don’t think this is necessary.”

You shrugged, taking a bite of your own and swallowing before replying, “I disagree. Food translates into energy V, and...well...no offense... You look like you can use something to eat.” It was bothering you, his state of being. He walked and fought fine, but your foresight was just...tingling in your stomach where he was concerned. You felt like you had to worry, because no one else would.

Griffon chuckled heavily at your words, eyeing his master as he sneered, “That’s French for ‘you look like shit, V’.”

You sighed, “No that is not what I meant. At all.”

“That so?” Griffon’s tone held very heavy implications, “You got some sort of feeding fetish?”

You couldn’t help yourself. You laughed.  

It must have been pent up from you containing yourself, because as soon as Griffon’s taunt registered with you, laughter burst forth from you, shocking you and probably V as well. You let go of Griffon’s talons, resting your hands on your knees as you came to a stop for a few seconds. Griffon was having a good snicker from it himself, landing on your back as you caught your breath again. You found yourself oddly embarrassed for laughing, not wanting V to see your face as you calmed down a bit. Something about the joke he made was oddly familiar to you—You couldn’t place why. Probably another lost memory from your original life.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Griffon caroled with glee, wings flapping as you straightened, “A definite yes.”

“That’s a firm no,” You snickered, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, “I’m sorry for laughing—It's been a long time since something got me like that.” It had been a long time since you had a true, full bodied laugh.

You finally looked at V. He was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—he was smiling, but the look in his eyes was curious and searching. You found your heart beating again, and this time you were pretty sure that wasn’t adrenaline.

“Please, don’t apologize,” He smirked, and much to your delight he took a bite of the food you gave him. He seemed to chew for a long moment, like he hadn’t eaten food in his entire god damn life, before finally swallowing, “Though I must admit. I am seeing quite the pattern with food and you.”

You huffed at that, crossing your arms over your chest as you replied, “I don’t have a feeding fetish,” You shrugged, adding in a playful tone, “I more so have a hand fetish over anything.”

V rose a single brow at that, “Do you?”

“No!” You laughed again, offering him a cheerful grin, “I swear. No kinks from me.” Yet.

He chuckled lightly, griping his cane and turning away again. You quickly followed along, eating the rest of your food before putting your hands out to grasp Griffon’s talons again. You kept your gaze half forward, half on V to make sure he ate the remainder of his own. It took some time, but he did eventually finish the bar. He held a thoughtful expression the whole time, chewing slowly and purposely. Externally, he seemed pretty pleased. You were certain that if he wasn’t supposed to eat it, he would have declined and explained at the start. Determination filled you now—you wanted to learn more about the people you traveled with, their mannerisms and who they were. V was a mystery waiting for you to discover, and in a way that was...exciting.

Your group continued on for another few hours, walking through the city. You only stopped a couple more times to fight demons, taking down whatever stood in your path. You enjoyed being able to stretch your muscles and energy again—the time spent resting left your body itching for activity. As you fought, your stiffness disappeared, blood pumping with every kill and Void energy burning in your hands, your lungs, your stomach. With each battle you witnessed more and more of V’s personality shining through in battles. His taunts were...interesting to say the least. He was an absolute dork, you realized that. He almost seemed like he was having fun during battle, carrying a confidence and amusement into every encounter.

You learned where to act where he would not. Support, nothing else. Like his summons, you filled in the gaps where V lacked. You watched his back whenever necessary, helping pull him out of the way of incoming attacks with your tendrils. It shocked him the first time, but after the fourth or fifth fight he came to accept when it would happen. He was a bit reckless—his taunting and confidence would have definitely got him hurt had you not stepped in. But learning to fight with a group was...fun. V was like a maestro for you, Shadow, and Griffin. For every step he took, you and the others reacted. It was interesting to see Griffon lifting his master up occasionally to get him to safety, or how Shadow fought at V’s command. They were a well-oiled machine, and your foresight told you that was a good thing. You were on the right track.

Occasionally while traveling you would see Nero in his own fights in the distance. You exchanged a wave with him a couple times while V destroyed some Qliphoth roots, you sitting on the edge of some metal steps as you watched Nero zip around in the distance. He taunted just as frequently, if not more, than V. His taunts were equally as silly, but on a whole other level. Where V had a low level extra, Nero was loud and boisterous extra. V was the goth theater kid who just couldn’t help himself, and Nero was young, dumb, and full of...well, you know.

Once V finished destroying the roots in your way, you stood again, stretching your arms above your head until your joints popped. Glancing at the sky, you calculated it was about six o'clock, soon to be seven. The sun was starting to set in the sky, casting a pink and orange hue on the land. You scanned the horizon line, seeing the occasional, small demon fly off in the distance. Not worth any time or effort. Besides, getting that far out was pretty much out of your way.

Sighing, you rested your arms on the metal railing, thoughts drifting off again as you kept looking at the sky. You were sure it would have been beautiful if not for that ugly ass tree. It seemed so monumental, so impossible. You knew that wasn’t the case, otherwise the Deity wouldn’t have sent you. There was a solution, one within reach—all that mattered was getting to it.

V walked up beside you, his gaze scanning you from your right side as he wiped the remnants of the roots off his cane.

“As unfortunate as it may be, we should stop there for the night,” He pointed his cane to the left as he spoke in his silken tone, referencing what looked to be an abandoned warehouse past some shipping containers and a bridge, “Traveling at night is neither safe nor wise.”

You nodded, offering him an encouraging smile, “I’ve slept in worse places.”

A lot of your missions lead to you resting in whatever ways you could whenever you could. And considering a lot of those missions included people who didn’t really give a damn about you...There were several cases of you sleeping in less than savory locations. Not your favorite missions to be sure, the warehouse was a welcome change

He let out a low hum in response, tapping his cane on the ground as he started moving again. You were pleased to see Shadow staying out this time, walking behind its master with a mighty yawn. Griffon soared on ahead, circling those of you down below as you neared the ledge leading to the shipping containers. You found yourself taking up the back again, contenting yourself with watching pretty boy’s hair drift in the breeze. You had already surveyed the area—there were Qlipoth roots up ahead to destroy, coiled around the bridge and budding in the center. You were wary of those. The bridge looked on the verge of collapse; a stray wind could have toppled it.

Regardless, that was the way to go. You crouched down, preparing to jump down from the shipping containers to the railroad tracks below. But your foresight stopped you, flaring up in your chest and lungs. You rubbed your chest, hissing lightly in pain and immediately sensing something was up even before you jumped down. You put your arm out to grab V, but he was already ahead, hopping down with zero hesitation. Pretty much throwing caution to the wind.

Sure enough, as soon as his feet touched the ground, demons began to appear, one by one. You winced, hating their bulbous heads and spikey bodies as they all turned to shriek at V.

You immediately hopped down behind him, steeling yourself to fight when Griffon swooped by, cawing up a storm as he circled the two of you.

“Hey Shakespeare!” He quipped, sending clouds of dust up with each flap of his wings, “You haven’t even shown the girl Nightmare yet!”

Nightmare? What did he mean by that? You heard V let out a light noise of agreement, tilting his head back to give you a light smirk.

“How rude of me,” He replied, turning back and snapping his fingers sharply. Energy crackled off of his body in the next instant, and much to your shock the black evaporated from his hair, leaving it a dazzling white.

A portal appeared above the fight, and from it a new creature burst forth. Made of swirling black energy, huge and lunky. It fell from the portal and landed right on the demons, swinging a mighty club of an arm around at the creatures and sending them flying. You let out an impressed sound, already guessing this was another companion—already dubbed “Nightmare”. V walked around the battle again, cane in one hand and book in the other as he commanded at the creature to attack. You realized right away he was showing off—Nightmare was the definition of overkill. A laser shot out from his eye, leaving a trail of exploding destruction over the group of demons. One went flying past you, a quick side step to the left dodging its broken body. V was on it in the next instant, his body brushing past you as he darted to finish it off. You saw his face in that moment, finding yourself awed again as time seemed to slow.

White hair waving about his face, an elated grin tilting his lips. His eyes were open wide, reflecting the light of the dying sun so his gaze was like glittering Jade. He looked...elated, like he was heavily enjoying himself. Like a little boy discovering play for the first time, he darted past you, sinking his cane into the chest of the creature, ripping the object up and slashing it from crotch to torso. He paused in place, hand on his face as he began to slowly laugh, the sound starting low and rising in tempo. You blinked at the display, feeling entranced as he tilted his head up, still laughing as the creature disintegrated. You were pretty sure these actions should have disturbed or unnerved you but...you found they didn’t. Instead you found yourself even more intrigued, letting out a quiet, exasperated sigh at yourself.

Your foresight suddenly flared again, breaking you out of your musings. Your gaze jerked up, seeing three demons about to jump down and attack V while he was taunting. Your power was activated on the next instant, shooting along the ground to grab the idiotic goth and yank him away, simultaneously shooting up and impale the demons in several locations. V let out a light “oof” as you swung him around; you winced when you realized you might have snatched him too fast. He rolled a little when you released him, coming to a graceful slide on his knees a few feet away. Nightmare disappeared in the next instant, the remaining demons on that side already at death's door—V's hair returned to black, so you figured out pretty fast that was where nightmare had been hiding. Was V naturally white haired then?  

You shook your head. You had to focus on the battle. You knew V could handle the dying demons on that side, so you addressed the creatures still impaled by your tendrils, summoning the energy of the Void and holding out your hands to them. They really were ugly creatures, spitting maliciously at you, claws swiping at open air and teeth snapping. Akin to bugs, with spiny bulbous bodies. Unable to be reasoned with, unable to compromise.

“From being, into Nothingness,” You felt your hair rise slightly with this incantation, one of your stronger spells. If you were being honest, you were showing off a little bit yourself. The energy of the Void wrapped around the creatures, making them scream and squirm as it ate them away, sucking away their life force until husks remained—they crumbled then, disintegrating into nothingness as your tendrils retracted back into your body. You heard the final creature scream as V cut into it, turning in just enough time to see him spin, a trail of blood following his cane as he finished the creature off. Shadow and Griffon settled themselves, the bird flying over to you as the battle ended just as quickly as it had started.

“Hey girlie, wasn’t that neat?” He squawked as he landed on your shoulders, flapping wildly, “Nightmare fucking destroyed those bastards!”  

You smiled, walking forward as he contented himself with making you his perch again, “He was very cool, I’m just sad I didn’t get to say hello.”

V approached you, wiping off his cane as he did so. He was lightly smirking again, dark eyes down on his task as he said, “There will be more chances,” he pointed the silver cane at the bridge, tone light and breath slowing from the excitement of the battle as he said, “That is our last task for the night. Let us make haste.”

You opened your mouth to reply and agree, but it occurred to you that he sounded pretty out of breath. You observed him again, noticing easily how winded he was. He was back to leaning on the cane, and you thought you saw him sweat a little. Maybe taking out Nightmare cost him a lot of energy? You frowned, looking up at Griffon with a searching expression. You were starting to realize V was not the kind of person who would say if he was hurting, uncomfortable, or tired. He wouldn’t ask for help, so you had to decide to give it without being prompted. Griffon inclined his head, eyes darting to his master with a light nod as V started forward again.  

You walked up behind, summoning your tendrils to lightly wrap around him again. His steps faltered a little at the sensation, gaze darting to you with a startled expression as you summoned your energy and sent it into him with a light murmur of, “From the Void into You.”

You gave him a higher dose of energy, hearing him release a heavy breath as it fused with his being. Shadow sat at his feet as V’s eyes closed, breathing going even as you tried to ease his discomfort. At least...you hoped you were. If this wasn’t helping, you hoped V would say something at the very least. It didn’t hurt to try and do everything you could. After a few seconds you retracted the tendrils, letting the energy settle back inside as you flexed your fingers a bit. You weren’t reaching your limit per se, but the months in the Void left you able to take less of the strain. Like going months without stretching and working out, then jumping back into those activities.

“Better?” You asked him with a smile, rocking back on your heels a bit as he opened his eyes again.

He paused, mouth half open in a thoughtful expression as he turned to look at you. Almost like he was thinking about the question. He rolled his shoulders a little, flexing his hand that wasn’t holding the cane. He held it up in the light, a curious look on his face as he stared at his fingers. You noticed he wore a ring there, silver and glinting in the sun.

“Yes," He breathed, turning to look at you again with that wry smile you had grown used to, “You could tell I was fatigued.”

It wasn’t a question, but you still answered it, “Yeah. I’ve gotten good at reading people over the years,” You smiled playfully, taking a few steps past him as you replied, “Someone has to look out for you. You’re pretty reckless, you know that?”

He paused again, something about your words making his expression shift a bit. You stopped in place, blinking as you saw a couple different emotions drift on his face. Confusion was one of them, but the others...you weren’t sure. He settled on a faraway look for a second, jade eyes reflecting the sun as he looked to the side.

Had you said something wrong? Worried, you took a step toward him again and said, “V? Are you okay?” You hated the idea of saying anything upsetting to him.

His gaze snapped back to you, and you saw him smile again. Only this time the smile looked...relieved. And a little...vulnerable?

“Thank you, Y/N,” He murmured, green eyes meeting yours, “You are very kind, and the help is welcome and...needed.”

You nodded, smiling again but still finding yourself confused by his reaction, “You know you can always ask for help, right?” You griped Griffon’s talons, realizing he was actually being polite and keeping quiet during this conversation, “If you ever feel like you need my assistance, that’s what I’m here for.”

V let out a low hum, gave his cane a light spin as he brushed past you. He gave your shoulder a light squeeze, mouth tilted up in that half smile as he met your gaze.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You wanted to call him a liar, but you knew that would be very rude.  

Luckily, Griffon did it for you.

“Liar!” He accused in his grating voice, flapping his wings a could times as his master removed his hand and continued to walk, “You’re way to stubborn to ask for shit!”

V smirked a bit at that, but kept walking. You and Griffon exchanged another look, both of you sighing lightly. You smiled exasperatedly, summoning another piece of red meat to toss up to him to eat. Then another, to toss to shadow, who rose to follow its master. Instead of ignoring it like you expected, the cat snatched it out of the air, turning as it chewed. Well, there was another little victory, right? You giggled quietly, jogging forward to catch up with the other two as they stepped onto the bridge, heading for the Qliphoth root with intent to destroy.  

You tapped Griffon’s talons, gesturing for him to join his master as you stood off to the side, looking the root up and down. They were spiky and gnarled, writhing slightly as V spun his cane, approaching the bulbous bundle of red that you knew was its weak spot. You looked over the bridge, still pretty worried about its integrity, but knowing damn well you couldn’t just leave the root to grow and fester where it was. You quietly made your way to the side as V began to destroy the root, activating you power and prepared to act if something happened.

“Hey, V?” You warned as Shadow and Griffon smacked the bulb, “This bridge is pretty shaky—”

A loud rumble broke out as soon as the root was destroyed, disintegrating into nothingness. The bridge, as expected, began to shift and collapse underneath you and the others. Well, that root was the only thing that seemed to be holding the bridge up. You saw V slide a bit, griping onto his cane as the cart on the bridge began to slide.  

“V!” You wrapped your tendrils around him as he began to run, keeping pace with him as you both ran up the tilting bridge and leapt. Much to your shock, before you could activate your energy, you felt V’s hand grab your wrist as he jumped. Griffon appeared above him in the nest instant, grabbing V and lifting him and you up and above the debris as it crumbled into the water. You let out a shocked gasp as you were suddenly suspended in air, dangling by your wrist as V grunted and griped tighter. Too much weight, you could tell that right away. You hovered there for a few moments, Griffon huffing with the strain.

“God damn it!” He squawked as he started to descend, but you were still too high and not close enough to land, “Too heavy I can’t hold onto both of you!”

As he said so, his talons slipped off of V’s shoulders, Griffon releasing an alarmed shriek as you and V suddenly plummeted toward the ground, “Son of a bitch!”

You weren’t afraid—you knew you could handle it.

Summoning your power, you coursed the energy through yourself and the tendrils, pulling V closer as you closed your eyes. The tendrils shot out on all sides, connecting with the ground before you and V, creating a slide for you to land on and slip down. You felt one of his arms wrap around your waist, turning you both so he would take the first impact—luckily for him there would be no impact to feel. You let out a hiss, whispering out “Feather fall!” right before he hit the slide. The ability wouldn’t slow the descent, but it would mitigate any impact, pain, or damage the fall would cause.  

V hit the slide, you tucked against his side. You felt him press your head to his chest as you rolled a couple times, eventually skidding across the concrete to an ungraceful halt. You let out slow, relieved sigh, feeling V’s even breath on you as you deactivated the power of the Void. That was almost pretty bad—Though you came to a realization right away as you and V sat up, him griping one of your arms still as you shook off the shock of the fall.

You were...very touch starved.

The seconds of being held were nice, so nice that you mourned the contact the instant it was gone. Living the life you did allowed for very little affection, if any. There were several missions were you were told to assist then ignored by all those involved...like a puppet to be used, then abandoned.

But you couldn’t think about that, not right now.

Instead you let out a light laugh, meeting V’s gaze as you both caught your breath.

“V,” You said in a low voice, “Let’s both agree to plan before we do stuff like that again.” You could have easily saved yourself while Griffon saved him. Hell, you could have saved them both easy. But you didn’t want to be rude.

He let out a low hum, sitting back on his arms as he looked up at Griffon, who was descending and still cursing at both of you, “Agreed.”

You laughed again, earning a grin from the goth as Griffon came screeching down at both of you.

“I cant believe I fucking dropped you!” He shrieked as he landed in front of you both, “Fuck! I thought I was going to have a heart attack! V you know I can only handle your weight, not saying Y/N is heavy or ‘nothin’ but FUCK that was the WORST!”

You let out another light chuckle, giving Griffon a pat on the head as you replied, “You’re doing great, sweetie. Just everyone remember next time I can definitely handle a free fall.”

V let out a low chuckle, finally releasing you as he slowly rose to his feet. Shadow appeared from him once more, nervously circling your group and sniffing the ground. You looked V over, deciding he was no worse for wear and not hurt by the fall. It worked out pretty well, all things considered. V held out a hand to you as soon as you began to rise, one you grateful accepted as he helped put you to your feet. His hand was...warm. His skin felt soft, overly soft. He lingered for a moment before releasing you, turning away to look at the warehouse. You realized a second later...V didn’t have hair on his arms. The more you thought about it, he was pretty smooth all around.  

Strange, but not the strangest thing you had learned about him. You shrugged it off.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” He said, nodding toward the warehouse and giving you a kind smile, “It’s getting dark.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but were cut off by a wave of dizziness that suddenly hit you. That was certainly not good. You swayed a bit, tilting to the side as you heard the rush of wings and felt talons suddenly gripping your shoulders. Griffon caught you, holding you up before you hit the ground.

“Whoa whoa there, girlie!” He squawked as you put a hand to your face, “You feelin’ alright?”

You didn’t look up, but heard V stop and turn, approaching you in the next instant.

“Y/N?” His tone was still low, but worried now. You heard him set his cane to the side, gripping your shoulders again, “Are you alright?”

His concern made you feel good; you’d admit that through the haze. You needed to re-calibrate your limits--you must have been asleep in the Void for a long time. You had over extended a little bit--in all the excitement you hadn’t realized how close to your limits you actually were. Your stomach was rolling, nausea rising ever so slightly in you. Well, this might as well happen. You lifted your gaze, seeing V’s concerned expression as he tilted up your chin.

“You’re as pale as me,” he commented, smiling a little bit, “You said you had limits. I am going to assume you reached them."

You let out a weak laugh, surprised when Shadow weaved between the two of you, sitting on your feet and watching your face.

“I overestimated myself a bit,” You admitted, “It’s been a while since I had so much excitement. I’ll have to practice more to reach what I could before.”

V let out a low hum of understanding, “In time. For now, can you walk?”

You nodded, shaking off some of the lightheadedness as you replied, “Yeah, I can make it.”

He nodded, looking up at Griffon and commanding, “Make sure she doesn’t fall.”

“You’ve got it, boss.”

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136193/chapters/42882194#workskin

Tagged: @silentwhispofhope @just-call-me-no-name @nightshadow4713 @slightlylunatic @efiicitia

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 24

Author’s notes: So....we’re already here. :3c hope you all enjoy this chapter I have been looking forward to it since the beginning.

Chapter 24

Everything seemed to move in slow motion for a moment.

You were suspended in mid air, tendrils extended and Void power burning in your lungs like frostbite. Cold, so cold, but far too necessary. The need to protect V outweighed any pain it caused, brain completely switching into instinct mode with the threat level so high. Nero could handle Malphas, of that there was no doubt in your mind. He didn’t bother to try and stop your launch in V’s direction, in fact he looked ready and willing to take all of the agro off of your poet. He raised the gun, a cocky smirk on his lips as a warning shot cracked off the back of Malphas’ numerous heads.

Bang.

Her echoing screams were like nails on a chalkboard, but you couldn’t be bothered with that at the moment. Your poet was here, he was alive. And that was all your frazzled brain could focus on. Before he could so much as react to what was happening, your arms were around his form, pulling him against you as all the air left your freezing lungs. By the Void, he was barely held together--the cracking made him look and feel like a porcelain doll, so fragile you were afraid even that embrace would make him crumble apart.

But...he didn’t, everything seeming to fall into place now that you were with him once more.

“Sparrow…!” His voice came in a low gasp, arms snaking around your waist to pull you tighter against him once he registered it was you. He was trembling, chest rising and falling with shaking gasps as he whispered, “You’re alright...you’re…”

He was worried about you? The very notion made your heart want to break in half, a shuddering breath gracing your lips as they pressed against his. He was the one in danger, crumbling under your hands and on the verge of fading away at any moment. How could he possibly be more fearful for you while in such a terrible state as he was? Even his lips felt chilled, dry, but it didn’t stop you from kissing him like his life depended on it. In that moment...it definitely felt like it did.

“I’m so sorry…!” You whimpered in reply, finally pulling away and pressing your forehead to his. Each breath lingered in the air between you, yours making clouds of frost, “I should have been more careful…! I was so scared that you would be...that…”

You couldn’t admit that you were afraid of his death.

The message came across plain and clear, that you could tell by his expression. Those elegant fingers cupped your cheeks, the pain you felt echoed in his jade orbs--but mingled with the all too-close companions of guilt and despair. There was so much you wanted to say, desperate to try and soothe that ache you were both feeling so heavily. But you knew none of it would matter, not now. Not when things were so raw. All you could do was wrap the tendrils around his body, summoning as much power the poet could handle to try and offset his condition.

“From the Void, Into You.”

He closed his eyes and groaned once those familiar words left your lips, his muscles tensing at what you knew to be an onslaught of pain. So much of the Void’s power was incredibly rough on those not accustomed to it, but this too was necessary. Nero was taking up the task of fighting Malphas below you both, the sounds of battle loud and echoing through the cavern. It all seemed to quiet while you concentrated on V, sharing your energy and holding his head against your chest. The cracking, as expected, did not clear in the slightest. But V’s form relaxed once you retreated the tendrils, a heavy breath brushing past his lips

You hoped to god that it eased his burden, even the slightest.

“I’m sorry this is all that I can do,” You murmured, pressing your lips to his ebony hair for a soft kiss, “Once Nero finishes her, we can head out again. It’s not much further, right? Just a little bit more, and we can take back what Urizen stole from--”

But you didn’t get to finish your sentence.

V wrapped his arms around your form suddenly, making you release a sound of surprise as you were tugged body to body with him. His back was to the wall again, leaving you both out of sight from those fighting below. What had gotten into him? A wild gasp escaped his lips, meshing with yours in a frenzy that left you dizzy, more intense than anything you had shared since that night.

What in the world brought this on?

His firm hands startled you, fingers sliding into your hair so he could press a harder, more heated kiss to your mouth until you were whimpering at the sensation. That intensity...it was jarring to say the least, heart pounding in your ears at the feeling of his tongue brushing yours. His affection had always been welcome, but this felt different. Too much desperation, like he had been drowning and you were the only air he had received in days.

“V…” You whispered softly once the kiss broke, face flushing when he pressed those lips to your neck. He lingered there, air from his nose brushing your skin in slow, steady bursts.

He felt so...tired, something about his actions made you want to cry.

“Please indulge me for a few more moments,” He whispered to you, his black hair draped over his face as the time between you stretched into minutes, “I need...this. Just a bit more.”

There was a heaviness to his body language, the phrasing and cadence he used...V made it sound like he was committing you to memory, savoring as much of you he could get before the final stretch. That did not jive well, especially not when it was coupled with a  thousand other terrible feelings. But...the feeling of his hands, the affection you both shared was as necessary to you as it was for him. All you could do was suck in a shuddering breath, holding him close and counting each heartbeat you shared. He was here in your arms, and as long as he existed there was hope.

Right?

“I love you,” You murmured, relaxing your form and straddling his waist as gently as you could. Trying not to put too much weight on him, “We will make it through this. We will.”

You felt V’s breathing hitch, his hands sliding up your back and tracing the lines between your shoulder blades. Feather-light, gentle like he was touching glass.

“As I love you,” He whispered, tone low and honeyed--as much as he could manage with his throat so weak, “You bring me so much happiness, Sparrow. Far more than I ever deserved.”

You didn’t like how he said that, it felt like a goodbye.

“V…” But the time shared was up, moment shattered like a glass dome before you could formulate the turmoil in your head.

It didn’t last nearly as long as you liked, especially with Nero giving Malphas a thorough ass-kicking down below. Her dying screams were pretty obvious at some point, ending the orchestra of gunshots and explosions from the boy’s devil breaker arms. You turned your head in enough time to see her collapse, the hellish creature that was her lower half slumped over and lifeless. Was it a part of her body, or something she was riding? It hardly mattered. Her cauldron cast a purple glow over her battered form, cracked and dripping a mysterious liquid down onto the Qliphoth floor.

“How do you have so much power left?!” Malphas rasped between her dying pants, raising clawed fingers in Nero’s direction like she still had some fight remaining in her body.

Nero didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reply, whipping out his pistol again to level another gunshot to her face, effectively putting an end to Malphas once and for all. She slumped over her cauldron, disintegrating into bright purple flecks that drifted into the open air and leaving a blissful silence in her wake. Christ, Nero made it look easy. Not a scratch on him, that cocky smile unwavering as he put his weapons back where they belonged. Part of you felt strangely proud--you knew he could handle her alone, and he more than proved it. She was definitely a formidable battle to go against, and for the white-haired demon hunter it was practically child’s play.

He turned, looking up to where you and V were hiding and calling out firmly, “You can come out now.”

You pulled back from V, exchanging a small glance with him before rising to your feet once more. The look in his eyes made you ache terribly, as much as you knew he tried to hide it. Flickering there before gone again, the all too familiar desperation and guilt you saw too much in him. It was settling in your stomach like lead weights, mingling with the Void’s burn and creating the most unbelievable sensation that something was going to go wrong. Trish’s firm gaze was still an image in your mind, setting off warning alarms that refused to quiet.

You wanted to ask him. You wanted to ask.

But he summoned Griffon before you could even open your mouth, grabbing your hand as the bird yanked you both up and glided you toward the ground. You could tell your avian friend was straining, a heavy grunt leaving his beak as he deposited you and V in front of Nero—he seemed barely able to manage, dropping you off like weights. The tendrils in your body snapped out to cushion the brunt of the fall, a huff of air escaping your lungs. You wanted to say something to him, maybe make a quip about how he needed to work out more. But...he disappeared, dissolving back into V’s form again.

That was by far the quietest you had seen the demonic bird, not to mention how short he had stayed. Something about that unsteadied you, especially when you realized he hadn’t even looked in your direction or acknowledged your presence. Was he just as tired as V was, needing to stay in his master’s form more than ever now? Or was it something else?

Neither sounded ideal.

“Great job, Nero,” You murmured to him, straightening your spine and turning your eyes to meet his, “Knew you could handle Malphas on your own. Are you hurt at all?”

He shook his head, a half smile tilting his lips as he replied, “Nah, I’m all good. She wasn’t much of a fight, if you ask me.”

You nodded in understanding, but before the smile could form on your lips you felt V’s form start to sway next to your own.

Everything seemed to halt, tendrils snapping out to catch him before he could even dream of hitting the ground. You saw Nero’s expression morph into shock, reaching out the same time you did and grasping V by his upper arms. There was no fight in the poet’s body, his eyes closed and breath coming in rattles that sounded like death itself gripping his lungs. No no no, he wasn’t any better, even with that much energy? You felt your heart begin to race in panic, holding up V’s form and trying to stop every terrifying thought worming its way back into your skull. His well-being, his secrets, everything you didn’t know…

All that you love, you are destined to lose.

The Void’s whispers grew, morphing into a low hum that made your teeth grind. You were in no mood for its bullshit, not when things were already so goddamn awful. There wasn’t a thing you wouldn’t give to shut up the progressively increasing voices, it least until this nightmare ended. You needed to focus, to swallow down the rising bile and do what needed to be done.

“V…!” You gasped, feeling Nero come up on his other side to put an arm around the poet’s waist. He looked equally as worried, gaze flickering over V’s struggling body with concern furrowing his brow, “Are you alright? Do you need more energy?”

Please, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.

V shook his head, letting out a light laugh as he replied, “No...It’ll do no good. We... need to get to Urizen,” He lifted his head, looking at you from underneath his ebony locks as he rasped, “Sparrow, do you think you can clear the way? Nero will help get me to our... destination.”

What? You blinked at his request, wondering what changed his mind when you had suggested that very idea not that long ago. Why now of all times did he want to be separated from you, after just managing to get back together again? For a second, you felt hurt, expression trying not to shift as you searched his face for any indication of his reasoning.

He looked so...drained. The cracking more prominent than any other feature of his face, jade eyes hooded and dark circles lining them. You closed your mouth right away, swallowing any questions you may of had at the expression he wore. He couldn’t fight any more, that was for certain. Nero would have an easier time carrying him than you would with your tendrils, V was far too lanky for you to manage. As much as the notion upset you, the need to help in any way you could was far higher up on your list.

So you nodded, biting down the hurt before it could fully form and replying, “I’ll scout ahead and kill any demons I find,” Your eyes settled on Nero, conveying every thought in your head as you told him, “Keep him safe for me. I’ll meet you at the end of the line.”

The demon hunter nodded, looking between you both with an expression ranging somewhere in between concern and confusion. There was no telling what he was thinking in that moment, but it scarcely mattered. You didn’t wait for any other answer, turning away from them both and launching yourself down the respective path with your tendrils. Your Void power was spreading pain through your stomach and throat, the rune on your belt letting out a strange sound that felt a bit too ominous for your liking.

Not much more fighting, then you could solve this issue with the others aid. At least...that’s what you hoped, rubbing your fingers on that aching part of your neck and making your way through the tunnel.

(V POV)

Seeing you go again after just getting you back was like a blow to his chest, but it needed to be done.

He needed to talk to Nero, even if it was just a few minutes. There was too much to explain, to get off his chest in such a short amount of time. V could sense it now, the growing sensation that was Urizen ever so close to his location. It prickled along his spine, every cell in his body screaming at him to move, to get to where he needed to be. The feeling was indescribable, but even through it all you were there, a beacon among the white noise filling his weary skull.

Kissing you before felt far too much like a goodbye, but he needed to get his fill before it was too late. To memorize the feeling of your hands, your lips, the way you sighed softly and stroked back his hair. He feared that, no matter what happened between himself and Urizen, he would never get to feel those sensations again.

He needed to tell things to Nero that you couldn’t hear, to make sure you would be alright after he was gone. It was burning on his tongue, desperation and despair fueling him as he gripped part of Nero’s coat.

He was surprised when Nero spoke first, his tone firm and resolute as he said, “You should turn around, your body isn’t gonna last much longer,” He looked in the direction you had disappeared in, a frown on his face, “She’s afraid for you, and each moment you waste going after Urizen is another you could be using to fix yourself.”

V paused, panting with strain when Nero started to lug his body forward despite his own protests. He sounded worried, for both you and the poet himself. It was...surprising to say the least.

“That...I cannot do. There is no way to fix what is wrong with me,” He rasped in reply, limping forward with his head hanging low, “I must go…!”

There was only one way to fix things. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer, not in this state. Your energy was barely weaving together what remained of his failing soul and tattered flesh. He could feel it draining even as he walked, greedily devoured by his half-soul in a desperate attempt to stay in existence. It was inevitable that it would never cease in its hunger, and that never ending pining would eventually lead to starvation. There was one thing he needed now, and it was just within grasp.

He wished it was that easy, to find a different solution and be free of the burden of his existence. To live a life with you...whole, his own self. He wanted it more than anything, more than the air he breathed.

Nero let out a curse, hefting V up more and replying in exasperation, “Dammit, V. Don’t push yourself, you need some rest!”

If only it were that easy. There was no more time left to rest.

“I must go,” He insisted as much as he could with his throat so raw, leaning on Nero and his cane. His feet kept moving, forcing the devil hunter to move with him, “To where Urizen is….!”

Nero halted, letting out a frustrated sigh and setting V down for a moment. The poet felt his heart speed up, that clawing desperation coming back as he met the white-haired boy’s angry gaze.

“Why?! Why the hell do I have to--” Nero began in a terse tone, his emotions rising up until V cut off his words.

“I beg you…!” He rasped, making Nero freeze and meet his heavy, jade eyes.

What was...that expression?

V swallowed, hating when he saw a glimpse of emotion in the devil hunter’s eyes, emotion that  reminded him of what he saw in you. That fear, concern, and there was genuine caring if he wasn’t mistaken. It made V feel...so very strange--he didn’t realize until then how much he had come to trust Nero, to consider him a friend. The boy was the only one who, before you, talked to him like a normal person, to consider him an equal. You two were so alike in that way, both full of raw emotion and caring with every ounce of your bodies.

That was why Nero was the only one V could trust with this, the only one he could ask.

“This is my last request,” He said in a quiet tone, his tone rattling with each breath of air he sucked in, “I want you to promise me, whatever happens down there. You will make sure Y/N is safe...that when I’m gone, she will have a home and family to help her.”

He couldn’t bear the thought, the idea of you falling to pieces with him gone. You deserved to have people who cared, ones who would take care of you when he was no longer there to do so.

Nero blinked in shock at V’s words, his jaw tightening visibly like he was grinding his teeth. The poet saw his mechanical hand clench into a fist, making the metal groan and protest under the strain. He was upset by this, that much was heavily apparent.

“Does she know?” He growled, narrowing his eyes on V’s face and tone incredibly heavy.

V sighed softly, turning his gaze back down to the floor and swallowing dryly again. Judging by your actions, your fear...you knew deep down there was no happy ending to this love story, no way out of what fate had planned for him.

“She suspects,” V whispered in reply, hand squeezing his cane so tightly it dug into his palm, “But she also hopes. I cannot take that away from her, not after she has been through so much. Please,” He lifted his pleading eyes to Nero once more, voice still hushed as he begged, “Promise me that you will make sure she is safe.”

Nero looked at a loss for words, looking away and running a hand through his white hair. It messed it up immediately, sticking up in sporadic tufts. V knew Nero was a good person, one capable of heavy kindness and empathy. And he cared about you, that much was apparent. The poet knew that Nico and the other girls  loved you as well, but Nero was the only one V could ask personally for this. The one person he trusted.

“....” Nero let out a heavy sigh, turning his eyes back and meeting V’s gaze with an intensity that made him blink, “I’m not gonna make a promise for something we were going to do already. Y/N matters to me, Nico, Lady. So just fucking focus on yourself for once--she needs you, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you go quietly.”

The relief that poured through V’s veins was so heady, he could have collapsed from it. He only nodded in response to Nero’s words, letting the devil hunter heft him up and start moving forward again. He should have known better than to assume anything less from the boy, especially considering all that had happened. There was still more to be said, but it could be continued as they walked.

“Dante is definitely gonna beat us there…” Nero muttered under his breath, grunting as he sustained V’s weight. Not that the poet was heavy, but...it was hard to lug around someone as lanky as he.

But V barely registered what the boy said, his thoughts drifting in and out on what he had been through in the past month. It had been a road filled with turmoil and regret, of his own guilt and sins riding on his back. Until you, he had nothing but this mission and the hopes of righting the wrongs “Vergil” committed. How strange that he would find the one thing he didn’t deserve, at the time he was most undeserving of it. Your love, your affections...After all he had done, you were a beacon of hope that he shouldn’t have even tasted. But he did, and grew addicted to it.

And in the end...you would be punished for a crime that wasn’t yours.

V would tell Nero about Vergil, the man who was Dante’s brother. About their conflict, and how Vergil became Urizen. But he didn’t need to know what V was, only that he needed to help him to his destination. The thought made V smile bitterly, lifting his gaze with a dark look in his eyes.

He started this mission on a bed of lies, and he would end it the same way. How fitting an end for someone like him, who would withhold the truth from even the woman he loved to preserve what he had.

(Your POV)

The road ahead was...strangely lacking in demons.

Your Foresight was quiet the entire way, not flaring once despite just how close to Urizen this part of the tree was. And that’s what made no sense. Something about it made you think of the final boss rush in a video game, where generally the road to the big bad finale was rife with lower level lackeys. You had expected the final stretch to be crawling with demons, making the trek to the end more...difficult. But there was an eerie quietness to the tunnel, dark and dank with not a single trace of life.

Maybe other demons were afraid of Urizen? Which is why they stuck to the outer levels of the tree. But here, where the “God” was so close they steered clear. It made the journey a bit easier at least, but it was also filled with foreboding. Something...wasn’t sitting well. You couldn’t shake the feeling that at the end of the road things would collapse like flimsy pillars of salt. And when you reached a large hole in the ground, filled with a blue glow the feeling only increased. This had to be the end of the road, Urizen would be down there waiting for the fruit to ripen.

Something about the idea of seeing the demon made you...uneasy.

Even the sensation the portal provided was unnerving, making your skin prickle uncomfortably as you stared over the precipice. The dull glow illuminated you in hues of blue, reminding you of the Void in a strange way. When it came to that place, it was a balance between the inky blackness of nothingness and that hollow, endless neon of glowing whale oil. And this...was on that end of the spectrum. You put a hand to your chest, squeezing the fabric of your blouse as your heart beat louder and faster. Down there was the cause of all this madness, and you only hoped you could keep the strength to face it.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, lost in thought. But it was only broken by the sound of Nero and V coming up the tunnel, straining with the effort to keep the poet upright. No more time to waste, to hesitate. You turned, rushing to meet them and wrapping tendrils around their bodies--they had made it to you faster than anticipated. Nero looked troubled, meeting your gaze with a steady one of his own and gritting his teeth. It was made obvious by that tick in his jaw, looking so tight you were sure it hurt. What had gotten him so riled up?

You could ask him later, right now the goth looked way too weak for you to prolong his suffering more.

“End of the line,” You said softly, wrapping your arm around V’s waist and turning to look at the portal below, “I’m willing to bet Dante is already down there, so we should go as well.”

You thought you heard Nero sigh, looking down as well as he muttered, “Let’s go then,” He looked at V for a moment, adding in a begrudging tone, “We’ll continue our talk once we get down there.”

That made you blink, confusion leaking into your face as you looked between the two boys. Talk? What talk? It seemed like V was sharing information with everyone but you, which wasn’t sitting well in the slightest bit.

But V wasn’t in an explaining mood, it would seem. He simply nodded at Nero’s curt remark, letting out a shaky breath of, “Certainly.”

Christ, you wanted to refute that, but there was no choice in the matter. Nero started forward, forcing you to as well as the pit loomed ever closer. Just like that, things were forced back into that little crevice in your head that you saved for each and every worry that needed to be addressed. That ache on the back of your neck increased to a dull throbbing, making you wince in annoyance now that you couldn’t rub it. The only thing the group could do now was take that plunge into Urizen’s domain below, and face the conflict that had been looming over the city of Redgrave.

No more waiting, no more climbing the tree. All that remained now was to try your hardest to save your poet from a terrible fate, and to face things as they came to you. No matter what happened, you would fight and remain steadfast to keep what you had. And neither a single pain, nor obstacle would stop you--you were prepared for the Foresight to try and stop you at some point, but you would grit your teeth and bite on the agony if needed.

This was what you were sent here for. You cannot hesitate.

So you didn’t.

You stepped off the ledge in unison with V and Nero, plunging into the glow and casting Feather Fall to stop the pain of decent. It was terribly bright for a moment, you squeezing your eyes shut as the wind rushed past. The feeling was akin to jumping into a pool of water, but without getting wet. Something felt very strange--the air went from smelling like rot and death to fresh air, the gusting around your forms cooling and feeling more dry than damp and murky. The sensation was far too odd for you to keep your eyes shut, opening them to see....not what you expected.

You were outside. At least...that’s what it looked like. Falling from a cracking sky, the only indication that this wasn’t really what it seemed. Blood was seeping through the shattered image above, fracturing it like glass and ruining whatever illusion the land was creating. You made out trees, the warped image of a dirt path leading to the mansion you saw before, only now it wasn’t the derelict estate in the rain. It was whole, standing proudly against the backdrop of the Qliphoth’s bubble of trickery in this area. Why was it showing here, of all places? It didn’t make any sense, especially not coupled with what you saw of Dante earlier, stabbing himself in the chest with a broken sword in the mansion foyer.

Speaking of Dante, when you landed on your feet you immediately caught sight of his form, fighting what you now knew to be the so-called “God” himself.

This was the first time you laid your eyes on the demon known as Urizen.

The famous Devil Hunter was fighting him, clashing his blade on his weakened body and fighting with more vigor and anger than you had ever seen in him. Teeth grit in a snarl, staring with dark eyes at the creature standing before him as he landed blow after vicious blow. Urizen was a sight to behold, huge in size and made up of eyes, spikes, and teeth. A behemoth, exuding an aura of power that sent a shiver down your spine and the Void power swirling ominously in your stomach. You saw no sign of a fruit, no trace of it even existing  here at all, and that made you nervous. Had Urizen already devoured it? But if that was the case, how was Dante holding his own so well? It didn’t seem to make sense.

And it was about to get worse.

“They’re brothers?” Nero whispered next to you, jolting you out of your frozen state and making you look at him in shock, “Why are they fighting each other?”

Brothers…? As in, Urizen and Dante? That made your body freeze again, staring at Nero with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. What on Earth did he mean, and worse--why had you never heard it before?  Those questions broke through the barrier of your mind like a dam, demanding answers and screaming louder and louder in tempo. But neither Nero nor V were looking at you, eyes fixed on the fight going on just mere yards away and unable to look away. But...you felt like V knew you were staring at him, his jaw tight and face half tilted away from you, like he was ashamed.

But...why? Why couldn’t he tell you that?

“To see one’s justice through, a man must fight for it,” V murmured, voice low and and breathy as he locked his jade gaze on Urizen’s form, watching as Dante reared back and stabbed the creature directly through a large eye on his chest, “Even if the one who stands before him is his kin.”

Urizen’s mouth opened in a choked gurgle of a scream, body twitching as Dante plunged the blade deeper and deeper. Something about the whole image felt...unnerving, wrong, especially knowing now that Urizen was apparently Dante’s brother. You felt your heart’s tempo increase, making your breathing speed up and palms start to get sweaty. Why had V not told you about this, especially if he seemed to know it already? Why had he held back so much from you?

“That’s ridiculous.” Nero stated in disgust, sounding vaguely...sad as he watched that same scene unfold that you did. To he who also had no family, seeing Dante and Urizen fight and try to kill each other had to be upsetting.

You stared at Urizen’s face as V spoke, watching the agony in his bright green eyes as the pupils turned into slits, “The brothers of blood disagree on the very reason of their existence,” His tone was absolute, turning into a low growl as Urizen fell to the Qliphoth floor, collapsing onto his back with a low rumble under your feet, “They must fight.”

The way he said it, Brothers of blood, implied the words not by choice.

Urizen had been defeated, just like that. Taken down by Dante alone, even after all you told him about needing to work with others. The demon hunter just seemed hyper-fixated on proving you wrong. You felt awed despite the twinge of annoyance, hearing Urizen inhale wheezing gusts of air as his limbs twitched in pain. How had Dante taken him down in such an easy manner? Surely this was not the same demon, the very one who defeated Dante before, and Nero as well. They had spent such an unbelievable amount of time talking him up, making him out to be some all-powerful God hellbent on destruction.

He didn’t seem so God-like in that moment. He just looked like another broken, defeated demon. Lying in a pool of his own blood, unable to get up after the thorough beating Dante gave him. It was almost...pathetic. This creature is what was considered a god? He was barely able to raise his head now as Dante took a few steps back, flicking the blood off from his blade. Absorbing the Devil Sword Sparda must have given him that extra edge needed to finally defeat Urizen, once and for all. All that hype about the fruit, about this final battle, and it still made no ounce of difference when it came to defeating Dante…? That was if Urizen had eaten it, which you assumed had happened.

But...why was that the case?

“Dante…!” Nero yelled, starting forward again and tugging you and V along. Your feet stumbled, barely catching yourself from falling forward in your attempt to catch up with the demon hunter. Christ, Nero was eager, seeming just as awed by you at the battle’s outcome. Maybe Dante was as strong as everyone hyped him up to be?

As for V...he never took his eyes off of Urizen, his breath coming in shallow, short pants.

Was he...okay? What was that expression he was wearing? That driven look, unwavering now that his goal was in sight. Something about it made you uneasy, shifting nervously at his side and registering how tense he felt.

Dante slung the huge  sword over his shoulder, wearing that trademark smirk as he took a few steps back to meet your rag-tag group, “You’re late,” He said casually, like you were planning on meeting at a party and he had gotten there first, “Just finishing up.”

Nero let out a slow breath, removing his arm from around V and moving closer to Dante. Leaving you to hold up the poet’s weakened form as well as you could. Much to your growing surprise, V gave your hand a squeeze, suddenly stroking his fingers around your chin and turning your head. You gasped, feeling his lips press firmly to yours in a kiss despite the other two men standing right there. V was never one for big, public displays of affection, so this felt odd. Instead of feeling comforted like you usually did by his affections, your unease grew in spades.

V was acting very strangely. Or maybe...you were paranoid?

But you were certain your paranoia wasn’t the case, especially when he released your hand, stepping away in the defeated demon’s direction. The way he did it, his posture, the fact that he didn’t look into your eyes once...There was a tightness in his jaw, a reluctance that made your chest hurt and heart pound against you ribs.

Something...wasn’t right. You blinked, starting to follow just on that instinct alone but the poet held up a hand to stop you, the motion clearly telling you to stay put. Now that Urizen was defeated, did he know what was needed to get back what was taken? You didn’t understand his intentions.

“Stay back,” V murmured in warning, tone absolute as he lowered his hand again, “Don’t worry...I can manage from here.”

You paused, a troubled feeling settling over you at the way he spoke. He didn’t seem like he was managing well, especially not with how weak he was. It felt like...he was distancing you, moving forward alone despite all that you had worked towards together.

And that felt wrong.

But before you could speak, the other two men talking cut you off.

“Is that really your brother?” Nero muttered to Dante, watching warily as well from his place at your side.

They were all looking at Urizen’s prone body, still wheezing and clinging to life despite getting stabbed through the chest. Your gaze darted uneasily between him and V, not liking the vibes you were getting at all. You knew how to read a room, so to speak, and V’s body language was...different from what you had experienced before.

“I’m afraid so.” Dante said simply...too simply. How could he sound so standoffish, especially considering the fact that his brother was a dying monstrosity? It made no sense, not with the limited facts you had. You knew your family hadn’t been kind to you, even if you couldn’t remember them. But to fight and kill your own flesh and blood…

It felt wrong.

But your concentration was waning from him, focusing back on the poet as he started toward Urizen. Slowly, his gait hampered by his weakened body. How he was still managing to stay standing, you would never know. He must have been running on determination and that strange, driving force alone. More energy wouldn’t help all that much now, but the way he was walking made you fearful that he would collapse or fall.

Your first instinct was to help him, but when you went to extend your tendrils…

They wouldn’t come out.

That couldn’t be right…? You were perplexed for a moment when the sight of the tendrils wrapping around V’s body never came, seconds ticking by without results. You froze in place, everything around you seeming to still as you concentrated again, trying to summon forth your ability to wrap around V’s form.

Nothing came, not even a single bit of energy. The chill swirling in your stomach wouldn’t move, wouldn’t bring forth anything no matter how much you strained. What the hell was going on? You had the energy to spare, the rune still on your belt and humming with all the power you needed, and yet...your tendrils never came.

Again and again you tried, confusion filling you even more when your desperate attempts still yielded nothing. What the fuck? What the fuck was happening?

Why wasn’t your Void power activating?

Panic started making your heart pound, the sensation curling in your gut like barbed wire as you started to hyperventilate. What was this feeling? Why wasn’t your power cooperating with you? It had never happened before, not in all the time you spent in the Void or otherwise. You lifted a hand, focusing harder and harder until it was a physical strain, but still nothing summoned from your palms. Even the gauntlet wouldn’t accept any Void power, the crystal’s usual humming eerily quiet.

Something is wrong.

Nero was oblivious to your internal struggle, continuing on to Dante, “So he was behind all of this. Your own flesh and blood.”

“Right again.” Dante replied with a half-smirk, tilting his head toward Nero.

Something is wrong.

You lifted your panicked gaze, facade slipping and exposing a hint of your trepidation as you watched V keep walking away from you, the wind sending his hair drifting and his shoulders hunched. He was just as oblivious as the others, he wouldn’t even turn around. For a moment, vulnerability claimed your entire body, a fear so prominent in made you want to cry.

This wasn’t right, something wasn’t right. All the confidence you had in your abilities, everything you believed in...they were falling to pieces. You needed V, you needed him and he was moving away from you. The urge to grab him, to pull him back and have him hold you again overtook each cell in your body, but when you tried to move…

Your limbs wouldn’t follow through.

What’s happening to me?

“In the last throes of defeat I see.” V’s voice was still audible above the wind, his movement more determined than you had ever seen from him. You couldn’t see his face, but by his tone you knew he was smiling. You wanted to yell for him, to thrash and cry, but you couldn’t move.

Why couldn’t you move?

Urizen spoke, his voice sending a jolt of unease up your spine, mingling with all rest of the terrible things you felt.

“You…” He growled, a sense of familiarity in that single word. He knew V, he recognized him. But this was more than that. He sounded...angry, disgusted, annoyed. That one word carried, bringing with it several implications you didn’t want to think about.

“V, get back!” Dante cautioned, stepping forward and readying his sword when Urizen’s large, mutated body started to twitch, “Things are about to get really messy.”

You wished one of them, any of them, would notice what was happening to you. But no one looked back at your face, not noticing the trembling breaths leaving your mouth, the terror in your eyes at the paralysis holding you back. The pain in your neck grew and grew until it felt like a vise was gripping you, but this was different.

You could feel it now, solidity forming and sending a chill down your entire body and a cry frozen in your throat. Someone was holding your neck, those were fingers clamping down on you.

I’m scared. V, please come back…!

But he only held up his hand to pause Dante’s action, half turning his face to show that smirk you hadn’t seen in so long. The bemused, somewhat smug smile of a man who knew he had won. The ebony hair you loved was hiding his eyes from you, he wasn’t even looking in your direction.

“No, please...let me,” He said in between his panting, starting forward again, “I want to end this battle...with my own hands.”

For a moment, you found your voice. Air was trying to pull itself into your lungs, but not enough to carry all that you felt in that moment. Whatever was happening to you, whatever was going on...you didn’t want it, you wanted to leave this place with him.

You wanted to go home.

But it felt like home wasn’t going to stay.

“V…!” You whispered, tone raw and barely there at all. Your body felt as stiff as a board, like your feet were rooted in ice. It was all you had left, all you could do to try and stop whatever he was doing.

But he wouldn’t be stopped.

Your voice only made him pause a moment, his gait halted and hand squeezing the top of his cane. You were screaming in your mind, imaginary fists pounding on whatever walls were holding you back, struggling and struggling until you were sure you could struggle no more. Your exterior only betrayed the slightest hint of panic, eyes wide and burning with tears that refused to fall. You were not in control of yourself, you were in control of nothing. And that terrified you.

“...This will only take a moment, my dearest sparrow,” V murmured, half turning his face in your direction but not looking at you at all, “Please...wait for me.”

With that, he continued walking, shattering you inside and causing a wave of despair to crash over your thrashing mind. Nero glanced in your direction, confusion and concern in his expression as he narrowed his eyes on your face. Was he reading what was hidden? The panic, the despair, the fear? You wanted more than anything to reach out to him, to beg for help, but your own limbs refused to move.

You were forced to watch, a prisoner in your body as V climbed on top of Urizen’s form, slowly and awkwardly being as weak as he was. Your fingers twitched, trying desperately to summon the tendrils again to grab him, to run. The very thought of doing so made the Foresight in your chest flare out, ricocheting pain through every cell of your body like flame-coated razors. Bitterly cold, icy to the point of burning. It so resembled the pain you felt that day, paying the price for your borrowed power. Like whale oil was trying to claw its way out your throat.

The cold grew on the back of your neck, those fingers so icy and firm on your skin. And with it came that chill all the way down your spine, sending tremors through you from your shoulders to your fingertips. You knew this sensation, you knew this. The feeling of the Void, that frigid awareness it brought in its wake more familiar to you than anything else. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t breathe. There was someone standing behind you, holding your neck in a death-grip and radiating a cold so fierce you could have gotten frostbite.

Deep down, you knew who it was, could feel it the moment he materialized, bringing with him the scent of whale oil and the whispers of his domain.

He was here. He was what was holding you back, forcing you into submission.

Dante and Nero seemed completely oblivious to his presence, unable to sense the howl of the Void or the radiating cold he was exuding. Not when your Deity didn’t want them to. He was standing at your back, holding your neck in his firm fingers and just barely brushing you with his own form. That was what you had been feeling this whole time, the entire journey down the Qliphoth. The Deity had been there, unseen and unnoticed, but with his digits clamped firmly down on your neck.

He had been there when you kissed V, when you hugged Lady and Nico. He had been there through the entire descent.

You were trembling now, deeply afraid of his actions and still watching V as he positioned himself over Urizen. This had never happened before, none of it had. The Deity had never touched you, been violent, forcing you to yield in a way like this. It was worse than anything you imagined, being forcibly pinned down by the hand of a God and having your will stripped away bit by bit.

Forced to watch V, you beloved, as he regarded Urizen’s battered body. You felt the Deity’s lips at your ear, his breath so cold it made shivers travel down your spine. When he spoke, it was both expected and jarring, making your teeth grind and a shudder ripple over your skin.

“What a wretched child you are”, He murmured, his voice both quiet and loud, pleasant and like nails scraping down a chalkboard, “Trying even though you know this is not something with which you can interfere. When did you become so disobedient?”

You couldn’t form a reply, not out loud and not in your head. No one else could hear him but you.

“Do not struggle,” V breathed in between pants, his voice still reaching you through the Void’s whispering, but sounding like he was under water, “For if you can’t even defeat me, then you’ve already lost.”

A whimper was born and died in the back of your throat, unable to even make a sound. Why was this happening? You had followed your instincts as always, just like with every other mission. So why were you being punished like this?

The Deity chuckled, the sound vibrating your lungs as your own breaths turned to frost.

“You knew the outcome all along, deep down in your subconscious. Yet you never asked,” He mused, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the back of your neck, “You would have rather lived in ignorance, because you knew what would happen. And you couldn’t bear it.”

Please. You had just wanted to be happy, you had just wanted to experience love, joy, family. The desire had been like a knife to the chest--you had wanted it so badly you could taste it. Those things that had never been allowed, what you had sold your soul to obtain. After all these years of helping your quest, encouraging your desires, aiding every mission like a father over your shoulder...why was he doing this to you now, clamping down on your will until you threatened to snap like a twig?

“I...will...not...lose…” Urizen rasped slowly, mighty chest rising and falling with heaving gasps. His entire form twitched, still struggling for strength even now, even in defeat, “Not to dante...I need power...More power…!”

That was what it was all about, wasn’t it? His search for power, the imbalance he caused in dimensions. So why did this feel so wrong, why had everything up until this point made no sense? You had been sent here to fix what he wrought, yet did nothing to contribute to it. The realization came hard and heavy, slamming into you like a truck--had the Deity not been holding you up, your knees would have buckled.

At the end of the day, nothing you had done would have brought forth this outcome.

Dante would have absorbed the Devil Sword Sparda, would have come here, would have defeated Urizen. He did it without you, without anyone. So...why? Why were you even there at all? The Deity would have known, he knew all that was written in obsidian. Omniscient, able to touch all outcomes and weave fate. This would have been foreseen, the problem righting itself and balance being restored.

Yet you had been sent there. You had fallen in love with V.

Aiding him was all you had done.

The poet in question fell to one knee, bracing himself with that silver cane as he replied bitterly to Urizen, “I know...We are one and the same, you and I.”

His tone was so low, but you still heard it. You wanted him back, wanted to go back to how things were. Each night spent with him was a blessing and a curse, the memories bubbling up and choking you more than the Deity’s grip. V’s back was to you, but you knew he was smiling as he continued talking to Urizen.

“But you’ve lost me...and I’ve lost you.”

His words held so much weight, so much meaning. That sense of foreboding jolted down your body, stirring up the fears, the lies, all the hesitations. It echoed in your skull, dredging up what V had once spoken to you before, about Urizen “taking something from him”. Something he had to return to live.

We are one and the same, you and I.

It became glaringly obvious what V had lost. And the Deity was right...deep down, you knew. But you didn’t want to confront it.

I have been a fool.

“Yet we are connected...by that one feeling.” V whispered, tone darker than you had ever heard it. The screaming in your head grew louder and louder, mingling with the Void’s chorus until it was all you could feel.

Dante and Nero were watching the same thing you were, unable to notice what was happening in your head but sensing exactly what you felt. They knew something was wrong, they knew as soon as he began speaking. But now, one of them had to be quick enough to act on it.

Stop him! You mentally screamed, chest rising and falling rapidly and shoulders trembling with the strain, Please! Please, please! Somebody, anybody…!

You would sacrifice anything to the Deity if needed. Anything. You would beg and plead and suffer a million years if it meant you could save V’s life while also sparing him from what he was about to do. Whatever it would take.

The Deity released a low hum, sensing exactly what you were thinking and releasing a cloud of frost by your ear.

“Would you do it? Would you allow yourself to snap in two just so I can allow him the joy of living without succumbing to his fate?” That resulted in a cold laugh, one that vibrated against your ears like the ringing of a bell.

You would do it. You would take the punishment--but he wasn’t going to let you. After all, this wasn’t about what you wanted anymore.

“I wonder how much more you can take, my dearest child,” He whispered, “Before you truly break?”

You didn’t want to this, you didn’t want to break. You wanted to look away, to fall to the ground and cry, to go back in time to take V away from all of this. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

“ And that...is why I find you so fascinating.” The Deity chuckled, the moments ticking by so slowly you were certain he had slowed down time. Forcing you to memorize every detail, the tattoos on V’s back, the way his shoulders moved, his hair drifting on the breeze. Every part of him you had touched, had come to adore. This was a punishment. This was a punishment.

Please...no more.

“I think you have forgotten your place. Where you come from, what I have given you.”

Was it really so wrong to want happiness? To try and find solace in others?

“What a reminder this will bring. This pain you feel, this ache...it will only serve to make you feel more alive.”

No more reminders, not like this.

You felt your eyes burning, turning black as whale oil tracked down your cheeks. None of the men saw, not Dante, Nero, or V. They didn’t see the glowing blue liquid drip from your chin, pattering onto your blouse and absorbing into the material. You could feel it like bile, churning in your stomach like the sea in a storm. And with it came every fear realized, crashing down on the shore of your mind and threatening to drown you.

“This pain is a reminder that you are alive.”

“While thy branches mix with mine,” V breathed, raising his cane with both hands above his head, ready to stab down on the same place Dante had moments earlier, “And our roots together join…!”

No.

You saw Dante jolt forward in your peripheral view, setting into a dead sprint in V’s direction. He had realized what you had, but only too late. He wasn’t fast enough, there was no way to stop V now.

Please, don’t leave me.

The distance between Dante and Urizen was far too great, the math already done in your head before the devil hunter had taken two steps. He was too late. You all were.

I don’t want to be alone again.

You watched, eyes wide and unblinking as V brought the cane slamming down into Urizen’s chest, a resounding crack echoing through the air as your eyes got one final, gut-wrenching look at your poet’s form. It was the only look you would ever get again. Every detail seemed hyper focused, down to the cracks lining his skin, the way his muscles bunched with the motion of thrusting down the cane, the light glinting off his silver ring. Your mind would never forget it.

It’s not fair.

A beam of energy shot out from Urizen’s form, blinding you and sending a shock-wave out in all directions. The moment it did, you felt the rune behind you shatter, and the hand on your neck disappear. The Deity was gone, having done his part in your undoing and leaving just as quick. With him he took the cold, your limbs now able to move and body falling to the ground like a ragdoll. You could scarcely remember a feeling like this, not in all the years of your existence, not in any of your deaths or rebirths. Everything he had held back burst forth, a silent scream of denial wrecking your throat and Void power bursting inside.

Agony, so much agony. This wasn’t happening, not like this, not after everything you had done. You had tried so hard, you had worked so fucking hard.

The shock-wave rolled over the landscape, slamming into whatever it could touch. More pain, lost within all the other things you felt. It sent Dante, Nero, and yourself flying back, the two of them landing nimbly while you slid across the floor. You couldn’t see for a moment, the impact rattling your skull and making you bite your tongue. To be blind on top of everything else for even those few seconds...

Please don’t make me look away from him.

I know if I do, I’ll never see him again.

But the energy was too much. The taste of blood mixed with that of the whale oil from you biting down so hard, bitter and coppery, the desire to retch settling at the back of your throat. You vaguely registered Nero’s hand on your back, holding you steady as the ringing in your ears began to subside. When had the boy gotten this close to you, had the blast sent you both in the same direction? He was next to you now, but you could tell he wasn’t focusing on you.

Your gaze lifted, seeing exactly what had Nero so transfixed.

Where V and Urizen once were stood a man, his back to you and silvery-white hair illuminated by the dying light of the Qliphoth’s illusion. The landscape was collapsing around him like shattered panes of glass, the shards slipping down past his prone form and falling into nothingness. The energy he carried made your shoulders tremble, all the pieces slipping into place like a broken, heart-wrenching puzzle.

A numbness filled you, the panic, confusion, fear, and desperation over-flowing as you stared at the unfamiliar person. He was wearing a dark coat, tall and broad shouldered. And at his side was a long sword, held firmly in his grasp--the Yamato, you were willing to guess. The same sword he had taken from Nero, ripping off his arm to acquire. You could hardly process what was going on, nor how to deal with all of it.

All you knew, all you saw, was that V was no longer there. He was gone, and in his place was this man, illuminated by the dying glow of the energy burst at his feet.

V is gone. He is gone.

“What is this?” Nero growled at your side, his voice filled with every terrible, shocked emotion bottled up inside you.

You couldn’t rip your eyes away from the man, whale oil still dripping down your cheeks as each part of you burned, so cold you were certain there was frostbite on your skin now. The emotions were rising like a tidal wave, increasing in intensity as the newcomer turned, slowly leveling his gaze over the three of you. So sharp, grayish-blue eyes like daggers on an unfamiliar, unyielding face.

You didn’t know this man, he was a stranger. Disdain seemed to crackle from him, ever heightened by the way he furrowed his brow, his hair pushed back from his forehead. He was standing in the place of someone who mattered so much to you, someone who had disappeared without a trace. All that remained of him was that leather bound book, sitting abandoned on the Qliphoth floor as the only reminder that V existed at all.

V is gone.

You had reached a limit. You could take no more, sobs threatening to bubble up from your throat and sharp, shaking gasps leaving your chest. After all that you had done, all the lies you stomached, V was no longer here. It was burning you alive, far more agonizing than anything you had felt before. This man was not V, not with those cold eyes, rigid posture, and sharp scowl. There was no trace of your poet left but that damned book, not even the forms of Griffon, Shadow, or Nightmare remained.

And in your ignorance, you ended up aiding in the destruction of all that you desired.

There was nothing left now but the pain, that gut-wrenching agony of losing the one dearest to you. It was too much, it was not enough. The glass that was the culmination of your being started to crack, the water hovering on the rim starting to dribble over.

As you began to crumble inside, you heard Dante panting in rage-- He uttered in a growling tone one single, damning name.

“Vergil.”

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Tagged: @nightshadow4713 @silentwhispofhope @slightlylunatic @just-call-me-no-name @efiicitia @raven-huntress

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 20

Author’s Notes: Mmmm let’s keep this shit going, yall. Sorry for the wonky schedule as always, I’m going my best

Chapter 20

(V POV)

Trish was understandably quiet as they walked toward the Qliphoth tree.

V knew she would be, especially after all he had told her about himself. About...everything. The poet couldn’t fathom why he felt the need to do so, and especially her of all people. Maybe he thought she would provide some insight, some guidance of any kind? As much as he was hoping, telling someone didn’t really ease the burden on his shoulders, or the pain of it all. The guilt, despair, and desperation were all still there, clawing its way through his chest to his throat. He felt like he needed to tell someone, but...with you, he knew it would only cause you more pain, more heartbreak. There would be no happy ending to the time he shared with you, and that alone was enough to make him hate every part of his existence.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t find the will to tell you. He knew what he needed to do when he reached Urizen, there would be no choice in the matter.

You always had the choice to warn her. But you decided not to, because you are a coward. You don’t want to face her pain now, when it means something to you.

You were the only comfort in his life, and he was going to hurt you like this.

Because later...It will mean nothing, won’t it?

His teeth ground a bit, hand griping his cane tighter as he struggled to keep up with the blond-haired woman. Panting, limping, exhausted. The energy you gave him had faded fast now that he was moving, not wanting to use Shadow to travel because Trish definitely wanted no part of that. It felt...wrong when it wasn’t you. She seemed in no mood to wait up for him either, and he was in no mood to argue it. The goth only wallowed in his own self-loathing, still wishing you were beside him despite how utterly selfish it felt. He was a fool, and a cruel one at best. And acknowledging what he must do to stop this calamity from continuing, to keep himself alive...it only made the pain worse to bear.

But he remained silent, Trish’s words echoing in his head.

I’m not your mommy, V. You’re a big boy—and you need to see this through. Dante’s war.

She was right, of course. He had a duty to see through, it was his mistakes that caused all of this tragedy. The fighting, the death, the blood-stained earth...it was his job to fix, despite his own wants and emotions. Despite what he felt for you. And that was what hurt most of all, the idea that in the end you would become another unfortunate victim of his bad decisions, his greed. Just like every human sacrificed to the Qliphoth tree. The thought made his steps falter a bit, eyes squeezing shut as your expression at the time he started crumbling replayed in his mind. Your shock, your horror...How ironic that now your tears would mix with the blood on his hands, burning his insides until he crumbled into nothingness.  

He deserved this suffering. You didn’t.

“Does she know?” Trish said suddenly, making the poet flinch and snap out of his thoughts.  

It was the first words she had spoken since they had started walking, her eyes usually forward and mouth firmly shut. V looked at her, the woman now gazing back with a frown planted firmly on her lips.  

“...I beg your pardon?” He inquired, voice a little strained and hoarse. He didn’t know why he was asking...he had the feeling of who she meant.

He just didn’t want to answer this question in the first place.

Trish stopped walking, making him pause as well as she stared at a crevice stretching in front of them. The tree was close now, so close V almost gagged at the smell of it. Ash, rotting bodies, blood. So much blood. Trish winced as well, her nose scrunching up as she turned her gaze back to V once more. The woman was luckily dressed now, wearing her usual attired of revealing, tight black leather. Something about it made V heavily uncomfortable, resisting the urge to look away from her serious gaze. Or maybe that was his desire to ignore the question making him not want to stare at her?  

“That girl from before,” She replied, crossing her arms over her chest and staring him down with eyes he felt could cut right through him, “Who was she, anyway? I heard enough of what you both were saying to tell she was close to you.”

V felt his body stiffen at the mention of you, that guilt gnawing at him even more now that someone like Trish was calling him out. It felt like she knew exactly what he had been thinking about, like she could sense his innermost turmoil. It was strange though, he neither expected her to notice it, nor for her to speak out. She didn’t know you at all, but her tone sounded heavily displeased. Not that he could blame her. His own actions and mission were displeasing to himself as well, a constant weight on his already aching back.

“We...met her in Redgrave,” He replied slowly, turning to meet her heavy gaze from under his own lashes. They wouldn’t protect him from her sharp glare, that was for certain, “She offered to come along and help us. And...no. She doesn’t know what I am, only... that I am falling apart. And you will not be informing her.”

Trish’s brows touched her hairline at that firm comment near the end, her eyes narrowing a bit on the poet's face. His wording definitely didn’t jive well with the woman, that was plain in her expression.

“Are you using her?” She asked in an annoyed tone, sounding as if she was promising swift violence based on his answer, “Didn’t think you were the type to stoop so low. Might not be my business but it’s cruel to lead a girl on.”

Something about the way she said that made annoyance ripple along his spine. Like petting a cat the wrong way. They were wasting time on this conversation when they should have been heading for the tree, meeting back up with you. V would be lying if he said her words didn’t sting, like daggers cutting into his chest. You were more to him that she could ever understand, so why trying defending himself? He cared about you, craved you, needed you. But...was she wrong? He was using you in a way, using your energy, your kindness, your affections. It was tearing him apart, and Trish could never understand that. But what did it matter?

He was worried about your safety, and he wanted to keep moving.  

But...why couldn’t he just let it go? His jade eyes were tired, his tone defensive when he replied, “I wouldn’t dream of leading her on. What I feel for her is genuine, and I don’t have to explain that to you.”

V griped his cane, turning to start walking toward the tree again, but Trish grabbed his arm and stopped him. Why couldn’t she just let the topic drop? He turned, a scowl tilting his full lips as he met her gaze again. The pain and deterioration were making him irritable, even more so now that you weren’t by his side. All the goth wanted was to go, but Trish seemed firmly against it.

“All the more reason why she should know,” Trish made a face, staring at the poet incredulously as she continued, “You fell in love with this girl? Being half a person, crumbling like you are? And she doesn’t know? You’re going to just string her along and then leave her to mourn you?”

So many questions, all the ones he didn’t want to answer.

“Why does it concern you?” He replied, tone harsher than he intended. Closer to a growl, filled with exhaustion as his jade gaze landed on her face. She blinked, probably never seeing such emotion from the poet before, but he couldn’t care, “Does me having emotions jar you so heavily? She is everything...and I am nothing. I know what my actions will do to her, but she deserves to be happy in the time we have. She deserves her hope.”

You deserved more than him. Better than him.

Trish could only stare at the ebony haired man, the breeze sending her blond hair waving gently to the side. He was never good at reading people, and he didn’t know her very long. But there was shock in her gaze, and... disappointment. Like his words had hit a heavy chord with her.  Maybe it was due to her being a woman, wanting to look out for you. And how could he blame her? Or Nico and Lady, for that matter? There was a purity to you, that gentle kindness and affection that filled a room. Trish sounded just like the other women just after glancing upon you. A motherly thing. Which seemed far too fitting, hitting him like a fist to the gut. Her expression made him feel glum, scummy. Like was being scolded by his—

Stop.

He gritted his teeth, pulling his arm away and wincing at the flecks of crumbling skin. He said nothing, but then again, he didn’t have to. Trish crossed her arms again, tilting her head to the side as she addressed him. What she spoke made his thoughts freeze in an instant, her tone almost accusatory.

“From what I heard of him... I didn’t think Vergil was capable of love.”

Well now. If hearing that name wasn’t a slap to the face.

V let out a low, bitter laugh, putting a hand to his forehead and leaning over a bit, bracing his weight on the cane. Something about the whole situation was ironic and amusing, in a very dark way. From what she heard of “Vergil”... of course Dante would have told others about his twin brother, why wouldn’t he? His words had been less than kind, obviously not praising his power-hungry sibling. Why did that sting? He had every right to paint a bad image of the man, dealing with all the things he had over the years. And V....he hated himself too, so why should Dante’s hate be any surprise?

You are a fool.

“So easily you forget,” He breathed, a bitter smirk on his lips as he met Trish’s gaze again, “I am his humanity. Contrary to what you have been told, Vergil is capable of emotion, and as for me... I can assure you I feel it heavier than you can imagine.”

V took a few steps closer to her, limping and slow. His memories as Vergil, his memories of you...he knew what Trish was thinking, and he could understand. But she could never comprehend what he was, what he felt, what he craved.

Still, he continued. His gait slow as he gritted out through his teeth, “I feel the self-loathing. The disgust. The pain. The regret.”

He stopped in front of her, panting as he observed her expression, that surprised look in her eyes as he kept his lips moving.

“The disgust you feel for him is nothing compared to my own,” He rasped, voice raw as his hand griped his cane so hard his knuckles were white, “And what I feel for her cannot compare. So, spare me the prattle—I know what Dante thinks of his brother, and he is entitled to those emotions. But neither of you could ever comprehend what she has done for me, the feelings she stirs. I do love her—I love Y/N with every part of my broken, brittle human soul. His human soul. And the idea of hurting her is far more painful than any words you could say to me.”

He turned away from Trish, caring not for the shock on her face as he started walking toward the tree once more. The conversation had exhausted him, drawing out the internal turmoil he already felt like ripping open a wound not yet healed. You were the balm on those wounds, and he had sent you after Dante. He only hoped and prayed Trish would remain silent, and let things happen as they were supposed to. Knowing everything he had hidden would crush you, hurt you, break you. And he couldn't bear to see it. He would suffer through the self-hatred, the despair and the hopelessness alone.

And you...he would give you all the love he could in the time he had, until he could give no more. It was all he could think to do, all he wanted.

Trish opened her mouth, sucking in a breath behind him like she was going to speak. V didn’t particularly care for whatever she was going to say, but the woman never got the chance.

Everything around them started rumbling and shaking.  

V gasped, stumbling and slamming his cane into the dirt to try and steady his already wobbly form, looking up at the tree causing the disturbance in shock. What the hell was happening? Trish grunted, stumbling as well when the earth began crumbling away, already on the verge of collapse due to the effects of the roots ripping apart the landscape. Something had happened. Something had happened with Urizen. V couldn’t discern what yet—it could have been Nero, Dante, or the tree--it was bound to reach its peak of blood consumption at any moment.

The idea of it being Dante frightened him, especially considering he had sent you after the demon hunter. He prayed to any being that would listen that you weren’t up in that tree without him, that you were safe.

The same couldn’t be said of him.

The ground underneath him shifted, falling away suddenly and sending him into a dead drop. He let out an alarmed shout, feeling Trish’s hand firmly grab his wrist before he could plummet into the abyss below. This wasn't good, this was definitely not good. He gasped, looking down before darting his gaze up to the straining blond. She was on her stomach, struggling to hold him while the rest of the ground around her began to crack. It was too much weight, both him and Trish combined. He didn’t dare summon Shadow, and Griffon was still gone. What was he supposed to do?

He was going to fall, Trish along with him.

(Your POV)

Faster, you had to go faster.

A feeling of foreboding filled you once you reached the edge of the crevice, traveling alongside it in a desperate rush to reach V.

The ground started rumbling, shaking pieces of debris tumbling down into the abyss. You gasped, gripping onto as much as you could and launching yourself along the gaping hole to avoid falling. You were suspending in midair for a moment, closing your eyes and focusing on everything around you. Body flipping gracefully, senses alert and taking in everything at once. The tree was causing the tremor, sending the edges of cracked earth shattering in places and falling. Unstable, already on the verge of collapse before this whole god damn mess.

What the hell was going on up there? You had only been away from Dante for a few moments, but it seemed like he was up to something up in the Qliphoth.  

Chaos was in control now, the dead husks of trees shaking and swaying before splintering to the ground. Your gaze whipped around, searching for anything to grapple onto with the tendrils, anything that would keep you upright. Bad, this was bad. You hopped between falling pieces of debris, heart pounding as you kept your Void gaze activated, searching for the whale oil. It was so close, so much so that it made your energy swirl in your abdomen and chest. V was nearby, but that was a fear in itself.

Everything was collapsing, and you were terrified of him falling into the abyss below without Griffon there to aid him. You had to hurry, propelling yourself along and arcing through a narrow opening between sliding pieces of the Earths plate. This was so dangerous, but you had enough time practicing on floating debris in the Void to be good at it. You wouldn’t be stopped.

It wasn’t until the horizon line was within your sights did you spot the blessed, familiar form of your poet. But even then, the relief would not come.

Your heart nearly stopped at the sight of him dangling over the edge of a cliff, Trish barely holding onto him by one arm. Everything seemed to freeze for a moment, you suspended in air, eyes ever calculated as you watched the cliff Trish was on start to crack. Ready to fall as well. Your brain was working overtime, looking at the distance between you and them, looking at the crumbling earth, looking at the drop below. Feather fall wouldn’t save you all in a drop like that, especially when it was so far down. The land was too unstable to grab onto them both and fling them to safety—there was nowhere to find purchase, no areas to latch in your tendrils. Think, you needed to think.

It was time to do something risky.

Neither V nor Trish noticed you, but that didn’t matter. You needed to be fast. You had extended your limits, and your energy was still pretty high all things considered. This was something you could handle if you timed it right and used your head—V wasn’t going to die here. You saw briefly that he was crumbling again, but you would worry about that later. Focus now. You inhaled as much as you could, letting it settle in your lungs and turn into frost as you propelled yourself over to the two, right as Trish began to fall.

You saw frustration and fear in her face, a silent shout stuck in her throat as she and V tumbled into a flat plummet. Faster, you needed more speed.  

You shot several tendrils out, following their path down in an attempt to grab them. You let out the huff of frost, meeting V’s jade gaze. His teeth were grit, eyes wide as he met your stare with a shocked one of his own. You doubted he would be able to process what was happening fast enough to really take it in, but that didn’t really matter in the moment. Saving him and Trish was all that filled your head, brain going into autopilot and power taking over. The seconds passed slower when a few tendrils managed to grab them, still falling and falling into the abyss.

You sucked in another breath, reaching your hands out to grab them even as you snarled in an inhuman tone, “Open the Void’s maw...!”

Your power burst out from your lungs, words filling the air like an invocation of their own. Icy cold, gripping your lungs and organs like clawed fingers as you expended a huge amount of Void power, an ability you hadn’t tried in a long time. The ability to step through the Void, letting it chose where to take you. Risky, difficult to pull off. But the only choice you had.

A crack snapped through the area, filling the surrounding space with the dull howl of the Void. You pulled Trish and V against you in the next instant, barely managing to grind out, “Hold your breath and don’t look...!” before a fissure opened in the open air below you all, swallowing the three of you like the inky caress of a black ocean.

Taking you into the Void.

You breathed in, staring out at the familiar, hollow darkness of your Deity’s home. Wind was blowing like icy fingers over your skin, the familiar sensation making your teeth grind after being away from it for this long. You wrapped your hand over V’s eyes, not wanting him to see the place so very few souls ever had to experience. The sight of it would never leave them. If they breathed in the air here, the chill would stay in their bodies for weeks, unable to be shaken by tea or hot showers. You had long grown used to it, but the few seconds suspended in air would be the only time you allowed Trish and the poet to be there.

You could tell they both listened, holding their breath and eyes shut in the brie moments of transition. You regretted putting them both through the experience, but it was the only ace up your sleeve. Where would the Void put them out? You had no idea, you only hoped it was close to the tree. Anywhere at the base, away from the crumbling. You doubted it would screw up your “mission” so royally by depositing you further away.

But that didn’t matter now. Saving the two with you did.

You saw another fissure open in the Void, ready to move you to a different space away from the place you all had fallen.blessedly, finally. You were counting the seconds but they always felt...too long here. Warped, incorrect. You feared the other two wouldn't be able to hold their breath much longer. Griping them closer, you prepared to exit the Void the way you came. But not before you caught sight of him.

He was watching you.

The Deity stood in the distance, suspended upside down on a piece of floating debris. Your eyes widened, catching his black-eyed gaze as your body froze. You felt like you couldn’t breathe for a moment, like a child caught stealing candy from a store. His eyes were so sharp, his hands clasped behind his back and body so still it was unsettling. But his lips were curved in a bemused smile on his handsome face—was he handsome? You blinked, but the memory of his face never stayed. You couldn’t have even been sure he was smiling. But he had been watching you, that much you were certain of.

Why wouldn’t he say anything? Why had he been so quiet for this mission? Seeing him was both a blessing and a curse, you cared not for his cryptic bullshit. Not now, not when everything was so crushingly hectic.

You wanted to say something, but never got the chance.

You spent ten seconds in the Void before it spat you all out, sending you tumbling out into the real world again onto hard ground. You yelped on impact, trying to cushion V and Trish with your tendrils as best as you could, but it was a hard landing for all. Trish rolled, groaning and gasping for air after holding her breath. V did the same, breathing heavily and laying on his side next to you. Fuck, that could have been bad. But you still weren’t out of the park yet. The transition from cold, hollow air to warm, reeking stench was jarring—you immediately gagged, landing on your hands and knees and momentarily registering that the ground was wet. Fleshy. Where the hell were you?

It didn’t matter in that moment. Making sure the other two were alright was the only important thing.

“V...!” You immediately gasped, pulling the poet up with your tendrils and holding him in your arms. He gave no resistance, his forehead cold and clammy when it rested on the side of your neck, “Are you alright? What about you, Trish?”  

You looked at the woman, relieved to see her sitting up on her own and rolling her shoulders. She looked a bit shaken, but not injured as she turned her eyes to look at you.

“I’ve been better,” She grunted, eyeing you warily before looking around, “What the hell just happened back there? How are we in the Qliphoth now?”

You blinked. The Void had deposited you inside the tree? You supposed that was a good thing, since it was the destination to begin with. But it didn’t shake your worry for V, smoothing some of his ebony hair back and sucking in a breath. The cracking had extended further, barely visible spider-webbing now on his face and those lips you adored so much. You hadn’t been gone that long—how had it increased this much? You were running out of time. And worse yet, you were willing to bet there would be plenty of demons in the tree. V wouldn’t hold out much longer, you couldn’t afford to waste time to rest.  

V opened his lips before you could speak, letting out a weak chuckle as he replied to Trish, “Isn’t she something incredible? She teleported us into the Qliphoth.”

Your heart thudded at his praise, tendrils wrapping around his body as you replied in a shaken tone, “Void Stepping. I would have done it a lot sooner had I thought I could manage it. I wanted to save my energy for healing you, but I've extended my reach enough to manage both."

Your energy flared again, but you could tell Void stepping had taken a big chunk. More than you could afford in that moment. But you would address that later. For now, you murmured the familiar words of “From the Void, Into You” and pressed as much energy into the poet as you could.

He immediately flinched, a low groan leaving him as the familiar sensation traveled through his body. You pressed your lips to his head, not caring if Trish saw you as you tried to soothe him through it. She was definitely watching, even as she pulled herself to her feet. It clicked momentarily that she was now dressed, the outfit pretty revealing too. You weren’t sure how she found such clothes where you had left her, but that was the least of your worries in that moment.

The crumbling barely left him.

You knew when you had to stop pushing the energy, cutting it off with frantic panic growing inside of you. It bloomed like a poisonous flower, spreading its thorny vines around your heart and squeezing like a vise. Your energy had practically done nothing. He was still crumbling, even on his face. It was only lighter now, but flecks of matter were still drifting lightly from his form. Like falling snow. Like ash.

You put a hand to your lips, trying to push back your panicked breathing as he finally opened his jade eyes again. His gaze met yours, his lips parted as he relaxed in your arms. Fuck, leaving him was the worst idea. There was relief in his expression, crushing relief and guilt as he stared at you. And... adoration.

It took your breath away. You pressed a kiss to his lips, that finally making Trish clear her throat, taking a few steps away to look around the area of the tree you were in. V let out a relieved sigh, his lips feeling dry and a little bit cold as he pressed to your warmth. Like you were water and he was dying of thirst. You mimicked his desperation, but you were at least kind enough to know not to get too invested with Trish there. And with so much at stake...you couldn’t afford to kiss him how you wanted.

“We’re running out of time,” You murmured, pulling away to help him to his feet. The kiss felt far too short after how worried you were, after how dire the situation had become. But V didn’t complain, only letting out a light grunt as you pulled him up, “We should get moving. I don’t know where in the tree we are, but at least we’re here.”

“I’d say we’re almost at the top,” Trish replied to your words, making you and V turn to look at her as she approached you both, “How did you manage to move us so far up?”

If you were already at the top...Urizen couldn’t be very far. Hope buzzed in your skull, making your heart pound so hard you were sure it would burst. There was a chance to stop him, to take back what he had stolen from V. The demon seemed big on taking things--stealing a part of V, ripping off Nero’s arm...so many deaths were on his hands and it needed to be stopped. If you could meet back up with Dante and Nero, a fight could begin and his life could be saved, right?

Not yet. You can’t afford to hope yet.

You instead focused on Trish. Her eyes were sharp, making you a bit nervous as you stammered in reply, “Er...I used my abilities to move us through a space between spaces...it popped us out in an area of its choosing, one that would benefit me most. This...is the area that benefits me most.”

If you had any confidence in your ability not to over exert, you would have done it sooner. You regretted not doing so, but Christ you never imagined you and V would be separated.

Trish put a hand on her hip, staring at you as V griped his cane, leaning on it as he summoned Shadow out again. The mighty cat looked thrilled to see you, letting out a pleased purring sound and rubbing your legs. It was a small comfort amidst the chaos.

The poet let out a low grunt, putting a hand on your shoulder as he told you in that low, honeyed voice, “We need to get moving. Are you close to exerting yet?”

You knew he was going to ask that.

You frowned flexing your fingers a bit as a few of your tendrils wrapped around them, “I’m good for now. I’ll eat while we walk. You should too.”

V shook his head at that, simply offering you a weak smile as he started forward. You lifted your hands, wanting to stop him when Trish put a hand on your shoulder. You blinked turning your gaze to her and feeling a bit...intimidated. She was much taller than you, wearing a revealing bust and black leather pants. A beautiful woman, and definitely not human judging by the aura she gave off. She seemed to be sizing you up, her gaze searching as it met your own stressed, worried expression. You weren’t sure how to read her yet, this new woman who was friends with Dante.  

“Leave him be for now,” The woman told you, pulling on your arm to tug you along. Walking and talking, then? You didn’t want to fall behind, so you kept in step with her, wishing you could run to catch up with the poet in question, “You and I haven’t been officially introduced. You know my name is Trish, yes. And I know you’re Y/N.”

You nodded hesitantly, not sure where she was going with the conversation.

She moved her lips closer to you, murmuring in a low tone, “And I can tell you’re not human. So, what are you? Some servant of a god?”

You sighed. Way too many people were wary of that here. But why lie now, when she clearly already partially knew the truth?

“I am,” You replied easily, seeing no point in hiding it as you stared ahead at V, “I’m a priestess. And I want nothing more than to get V to the top of the tree and help him to defeat Urizen. I swear I’m not up to no good, I just want to help the person I care about.”

The words came out almost pleading. Quiet. You saw V look back at you, a bit of worry in his gaze as it flickered between you and the scantily dressed female speaking to you. What was with that look? Trish definitely didn’t miss it, meeting V’s gaze with a challenging one of her own. The two seemed to have a small staring contest, confusing you even further as V paused his steps. What the hell was their problem, and why were they having it now of all moments?

Trish looked like she had something to say, but her eyes wouldn’t waver from V’s as she ground her teeth. The two didn’t seem to like each other, clearly having exchanged words before you met up with them. But you didn’t understand what they could have talked about to make this happen.

But Trish sighed, clicking her tongue and releasing you so she could quickly walk past V, her hair swaying back and forth as she did so. V let out a low, relieved breath, turning his face away from you and down to the ground.

What the hell was that about?

And even more alarming, you heard Trish mutter to V, low enough that she probably thought you wouldn’t hear as she slid past him.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Her tone was displeased, angry as she flung the low murmurs at him like daggers, “But know that anything that happens from this point on is on you.”

What the hell did that mean?

You kept your face blank and confused, not wanting either to know you heard her. But you had, and you wished that wasn’t the case. V was still hiding something, something bad, and Trish knew about it. The knowledge was like a knife to your gut, making pain twist around until it felt like fire burning you from the inside. Foreboding filled you now, that sense of hope gone when you saw that guilty look in V’s eyes again. No...he couldn’t have been lying about his chance at getting better, could he? The very thought made your stomach do painful flips, toiling and rolling. You felt nausea building, threatening to make you retch. When was the last time you felt this stressed?  There was no way to tell.

You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t stomach the idea that he was hiding something like this again.

You wanted to confront V, wanted to force the truth. But...that look in his eyes stopped you. That pain, the guilt, the sadness...he looked like hell and then some. How could you make it worse for him? What were you supposed to do? You wanted to cry, wanted to sit on the ground and bawl like a child. But that wasn’t an option. More than anything...you wanted to hug someone, wanted someone to promise you everything would be okay. But that wasn’t going to happen either, and the sensation wouldn’t leave you even as you walked forward, forcing your feet to move so you could catch up to V.

He needs you more than you need the truth.

You faked a smile, taking one of his hands in yours and giving it a squeeze as you tugged him along. You saw surprise in his gaze before you looked away from him, forcing yourself to keep your eyes forward as you walked. No more wasting time, no more waiting. His hand was too cold for your liking, his skin feeling strange now that he was crumbling again. You were so in love with him, achingly so. The fact that there was still something terrible lurking, something threatening his well-being...it made you more anxious than you would care to admit. You wanted to share these fears with V, but god it would only make things worse for you both.

But V still seemed to tell.

“...” He was quiet for a moment while you both followed after Trish, him panting a bit at the incline. He was limping still, but he seemed to be walking alright with the cane. But his tone was breathy, low and concerned as he asked you, “Are...you alright, my sparrow?”

You sucked in a trembling breath, trying to hold back every ounce of emotion. For his sake, as well as your own. You wished he hadn’t asked that.

“I...” You mumbled, tone low and hesitant, “I...I’m just worried. I feel like...something bad is going to happen.”

It wasn’t a lie. But you couldn’t elaborate. You couldn’t tell him you knew there was more to his condition than he was letting on, more to everything. And that was ripping you apart.

V sucked in a sharp breath at your words, his hand squeezing yours as tightly as he was able. You welcomed the physical touch, welcomed him more than anything. You just hoped to the Void and back that you were strong enough to keep V safe, strong enough that whatever he was hiding wouldn’t matter. You had pulled off miracles before—you were willing to break yourself to do it, to save him from this fate. The Void was mysterious and powerful, able to shape reality and time to its will and change fate itself. You might have to give up a piece to access that brilliance, but...what else could you do, in the state you were in?

V leaned closer to you, his breath shaken as he pressed his lips to your hair. Nuzzling to you, getting as close as he could without truly embracing your form with his familiar arms. Your eyes closed at the contact, a whimper born and dying in your throat before it could be released. He was killing you softly, burning you up inside. Your eyes stunned with tears that so desperately wanted to come out, but you couldn’t let them. He was so weak, so desperately weak and breaking. You were willing to hold him together as long as needed, but what if it wasn’t enough?  What if you were never enough? The idea slayed you where you stood, making you want to throw up it was so terrifyingly terrible.

V’s words to you pushed the dagger in more, his voice so soft and deep. What he spoke to you was both a blessing and a curse, mingled together in a painful potion that made your throat clench with bottled up cries.

“I love you, sparrow,” He murmured, his lips brushing your forehead and breath brushing your skin. His voice was so raw, painfully so as he added, “And I will keep you safe.”

Your breath hitched, threatened to come out in a broken sob. Fuck. You were coming undone once more, heart breaking into a million lovely, sharp edges.

All that you love, you eventually lose. Destined to taste the fruits of happiness but never have your fill.

It hurt, but you couldn’t show it.

How cruel. How unfair. To finally have someone who loves you and they are dying.

You couldn’t break, not now. He needed you to be strong, right?

A pitiful creature. You truly belong in the Void, don’t you child?

The whispers of the Void were in your ear, so loud and rising in tempo. They wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t stop.

Please stop. You wanted them to stop.

Your eyes teared up, threatening to spill over as you closed them. You leaned closer to him, your cheek resting on his arm as he released your hand, sliding it around so he could hold you closer. Christ, it hurt so beautifully much. It ached in your heart, your soul, every place it was supposed to until it filled you to the brim. Like a glass with water shimmering on the rim’s edge, threatening to spill like the tears on your face. It was too much, and it was not enough—it was more than enough to make you realize just how in deep you were, like you had plunged inside of his jade eyes while he was drowning right beside you. The only problem now was both of you couldn’t seem to find your way up. And that alone threatened to crush you.

God damn it. God damn it.

How could he kill you with the very words you had so desperately wanted to hear?

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136193/chapters/44161798

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Tagged: @silentwhispofhope @slightlylunatic @nightshadow4713 @just-call-me-no-name @efiicitia @raven-huntress

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 6: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A pine cone that resembles a bearded man’s face

A plaid kilt with a tag in the back that states the owner is “The Greatest Adventurer Who Ever Lived.”

A promissory note to Ms Lorthe Toureme, entitling her to “…three of the finest racing steeds of Vervagen Steeds & Tannery.”

A purple silk scarf, bearing the insignia of House Ortesia.

A quill pen which, no matter what color ink is used, writes in green

A red velvet drawstring pouch containing a dozen very small silver tokens, each with a happy face painted on them.

A roc feather fan

A rolled up parchment containing a handful of black hair, but no writing.

A rusted fork that gently warms any food picked up with it.

A scroll of complex formulae and charcoal sketches, depicting some manner of winged flying machine.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A pine cone that resembles a bearded man’s face

A plaid kilt with a tag in the back that states the owner is “The Greatest Adventurer Who Ever Lived.”

A promissory note to Ms Lorthe Toureme, entitling her to “…three of the finest racing steeds of Vervagen Steeds & Tannery.”

A purple silk scarf, bearing the insignia of House Ortesia.

A quill pen which, no matter what color ink is used, writes in green

A red velvet drawstring pouch containing a dozen very small silver tokens, each with a happy face painted on them.

A roc feather fan

A rolled up parchment containing a handful of black hair, but no writing.

A rusted fork that gently warms any food picked up with it.

A scroll of complex formulae and charcoal sketches, depicting some manner of winged flying machine.

A scroll titled: “The Rules and Regulations for Properly Attacking, Subduing, and Dispatching a Dragon of Any Solid Colour by Lord Pepping IV. Knowledgeable PC’s will remember that Lord Pepping was killed and eaten by a green dragon.

A seal stamp made of dark green stone that is always cool to the touch. The seal is a leafless tree.  

A sealed letter containing the deed to The Hunting Harlot in Port Judewater.

A set of a dozen silver nails.

A set of very accurate weights and scales.

A severed humanoid foot. It doesn’t bleed but moves as if it’s being tickled if touched.

A shard of glass. When looking through it, everything seen in ruins as if a great disaster has been brought about.

A sharpened feather

A sheet of tin rolled up into a scroll bound with platinum cord. The scroll must be unwound to be read, and reveals a chronological star chart, annotated in an alien language. If translated, the chart suggests a once in 433 year planetary alignment.  

A shrunken frozen head of an arctic tribesman. No matter the temperature it does not defrost.

A shrunken head of an unknown humanoid. It looks happy.

A silver hair pin.

A single bloodstained tarot card: The Seven of Swords (signifying betrayal and deception).  

A single, crystalline eye from a giant glass spider

A small bag containing the complete skeleton of a snake

A small black stone statuette of a grinning devil.

A small black stone, when placed in snow it gathers enough snow to it to form a fist-sized snowball.

A small cane box with the words “Eat Me” imprinted on small nickel plate set into the top. Inside is a small iced cake.  

A small coin pouch filled with ashes. Those who touch the ashes think of having children, or if they already have children, feel a dread that their children are soon fated to die.

A small drawstring pouch containing an exquisite, palm sized, crystal clear snowflake that does not melt.  

A small hand scythe. A strange force burns the hand of whoever holds it that has never harvested wheat by their own hand.

A small iron statuette of a dwarf, wielding an axe. It’s hard face is set with a murderous expression of cold fury.

A small lead model of a dragon in flight.

A small metal pot containing some extremely strong-smelling fermented fish of an unidentifiable type.

A small metallic rod that glows faintly and makes a whizzing noise when held aloft.

A small piece of green stone that foams in water and can be used as soap.

A small rock that was once part of an earth elemental

A small statue of an mind flayer made of bone, that unnerves intelligent creatures that look it in the eyes.

A small taxidermied imp, smoking a pipe.

A small velvet bag with a tiny padlocked draw chain. If opened, the bag contains the varnished skull of a human baby.  

A small wooden case holding a collection of pressed butterflies.

A small wooden statuette of an unfamiliar halfling-like creature.

A small, clear crystal shaped like a heart

A small, white marble carving of a small spider eating a larger one.

A smooth cylinder made from sandstone

A smooth grey river stone that briefly glows bright white every third day.

A square foot of black silk.

A stained scroll case containing an old chart revealing directions to the Lost Ruin of Sulgaard.

A stalagmite tip the size of a fist, that sometimes whispers it’s aspirations to be a stalactite hanging high above all to those who hold it.

A steel flask with a safety latch attached. A sloshing liquid can be heard inside. The flask contains a black, putrid smelling brine.

A steel flask with a safety latch attached. A sloshing liquid can be heard inside. The flask contains a delicious fey honey.

A steel hip flask filled with a fiery whisky.

A steel plated human skull.

A stone arrowhead. When laid under a person’s head as they sleep it causes pleasant dreams.

A stone carving of a furred humanoid creature.

A suggestive mermaid figurine carved from drift wood.

A surprisingly light, obsidian coin of unknown origin.

A tarnished gold anklet chain with three tarnished charms: a windmill, a boot and a torch. A fourth, gleaming and untarnished charm, is also attached: a sailing ship.  

A thick cotton pouch containing a powerful lodestone (Magnet). If the lodestone is within two feet of a compass, it produces false readings.  

A thin, square foot of iron with a hole in the centre and unknown text engraved on both sides.

A tin plated halfling skull.

A tiny opal jar filled with extremely fine, bright blue dust.

A tiny statuette of an emaciated, skeletal man that occasionally winks.

A tooth from a water drake that always has condensation on it

A toy wooden top that cannot be made to spin, but always remains balanced, upside down.

A trio of cloth arm bands. One labelled “Happy”, one labelled “Sad”, and one labelled “Orange”.

A two inch disk of ebony. One side of the disk is inscribed with three intertwined serpents. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the ebony tri-serpent is a symbol of the Six Eyes, a network of informants that sell their services to the highest bidder.  

A two-foot length of catgut rope with knots tied every four inches.

A two-foot tube of rolled paper.

A varnished case containing a string of garlic, two wooden stakes and a silver cross.  

A very small paper box which contains a tiny twig that disappears in a puff of smoke when taken out of the box, only to reappear in the box 24 hours later.

A war medal given to those who fought in the Goblin Wars over a hundred years ago.

A waterproof satchel containing a sea blue masquerade mask, with a slim wooden handle.

A wax seal matrix bearing the insignia of The Ebon Claw, a long dead thief.

A well detailed tentacle made of copper.

A well made violin that makes no sound when played.

A white burial shroud that gives an unsettling feeling to any creatures near it

A white veil with a silvered chain. The silvered chain is incredibly strong, and could be used as a garrotte.  

A wine case containing a bottle labelled Rowfred’s Finest Red, depicting a cheery bald fellow raising his glass with a sly wink.

A wooden model of a horse which has another, smaller wooden horse inside it.

A wooden witch doctor’s mask, trimmed with bright feathers and two horns made of the teeth of a large cat. The mask has three painted eyes and a beak instead of a mouth.  

A wyvern’s stinger

An ancient and ornate bronze oil lamp. It’s badly tarnished and in need of a thorough cleaning. From time to time, the lamp seems to creak of its own accord.

An antique crystal perfume dispenser with a hose and squeeze pump. The crystal reservoir is overlaid by a pewter octopus with human eyes. A green liquid can be seen inside.  

An apparently empty glass jar with a white wood lid. Any attempt to twist the lid loose is immediately met with a loud hissing noise, as if the jar is under extreme pressure.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

An ebony canister sealed with wax. The canister is filled with ash, in the middle of which are a pair of pulsating purple pods connected together by slick, black tendrils.  

An elven rattle made from a tortoise shell

An envelope, wax sealed with the mark of Lady Farris, the infamous Tax Collector of Weatherbrund.  

An intricate eyeglass shaped in the likeness of a yellow cat’s eye.  

An intricately carved wooden rose.

An intricately miniature version of a strange town contained in a snowglobe, every now and again lights flicker in the tiny houses.

An IOU confirming that a certain farmer in a distant land owes you three suckling pigs.

An iron horseshoe which makes a slight humming sound at all times.

An iron plated dwarf skull.

An iron rose of spectacular craftsmanship.

An iron slave collar with cruel spikes affixed to the inside.

An ivory stamp used for wax sealing letters bearing the heraldic marks of an ancient and forgotten ruler.

Half of a palm-sized geode that pulses dimly with purple light.

Half of a templar’s amulet depicting the sorcerer king Hamanu