They are only two words, but they feel akin to a slap in the face all the same. Vergil has never made it a secret that his demonic heritage provides him with a number of advantages over that of a human. In fact, he wears it as a point of pride to have been born a son of Sparda. And just as he hasn't feigned ignorance to his advantages, he's never felt the nature or spoken of his birth as though it was something he earned. Vergil isn't a fool. He knows that boils down to luck of the draw. He had no more control over that than he would over something like the weather. But if it were all a matter of his birth, if it was all down to luck and inheritance, and there had been nothing Vergil earned...
His mother wouldn't have died that day. He wouldn't have lost Dante and struggled to accept him again. He wouldn't have been absent for the entirety of Nero's life. He wouldn't have spent a decade as a slave to his father's enemy and his mother's murderer, and a little over a decade more in the demon realm with his crumbling flesh. He wouldn't have been forced and reduced to so little that he was a mere shell of himself or sometimes, at best, just barely surviving. There would have never been any struggle even once in his life if it were all down to that because why would such privilege allow for anything like that to happen? He would never have been so weak as to lose anyone that he loved, to have himself rent from him so violently, or to have known that bitter taste of defeat after defeat.
But even within the reality that his birth was not enough to prevent the violence and pain that's made up the fabric of Vergil's life: he would not have survived any of it if it was solely down to that alone. That much is certain. It was not his birth that caused Vergil to survive. It was him. His motivation and will to not just live but never to know weakness or helplessness, as he had before, developed his skills beyond mere technical ability, and into something that made him a formidable opponent to all that would oppose him. How else could he have pressed forward as he felt his life fading from his body, hardly able to walk or stand upright any longer?
Mizu knows little of any of it, of course. He's only been told of the helplessness that Vergil felt the day his mother died, and what a driving force that had been for him the rest of his life. And he's now seen firsthand what Vergil can do with and without a blade in his hands, the way he can read and respond to the flow of battle as naturally as he is able to draw breath. But what little Mizu knows doesn't matter to Vergil in the moment as he feels the dismissal of all that he is being boiled down to luck and something more akin to a cheap trick or tactic with just two words.
Vergil firmly slides his wardrobe door shut once more. He stands there a moment, his jaw tensing slightly and relaxing once more before he decides against it. He's learned to walk with his nightmares and his failures, accept them as part of himself. But he's far from comfortable with the notion of acknowledging them to someone else. Not even in his own defense. He simply shouldn't have to defend himself. His own merit and skill and continued existence should speak for itself.
It also shouldn't bother him that Mizu's opinion of his skills may be undermined by his nature as a half-devil. What's the opinion of a human who hardly knows anything about him? All the more reason not to defend himself against what feels an accusation. But it does. Bother him. There's no reason why Vergil should even bother sparring with someone like Mizu. What difference does it make to him if he has the skills enough to survive his quest for revenge? He owes Mizu absolutely nothing, and a human arguably has no business crossing blades with someone like Vergil. But Vergil has taken that time. He's found reward in it. He's found someone that he...respects. That he admires the drive and determination of, and the strength there is to be found in refusing to give up simply because the odds are stacked against him.
And that same person says that he cheats to have his skill.
Vergil wants it to not matter. To reduce Mizu down to what he is as he just did to Vergil. But it matters and he can't bring himself to truly do the same.
"If you wish to think of it that way, so be it."
Any semblance of the ease to which he spoke of Dante or offered his explanation has evaporated, but he doesn't sound angry or terse. He's noticeably withdrawing, not lashing out. So, Vergil is merely to the point and concise, firmly declaring that it doesn't matter as he rejoins Mizu. He nods to the wrappings messily rolled in Mizu's hands.
"Keep them. For your own practice or however else you see fit to use them."
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His mother wouldn't have died that day. He wouldn't have lost Dante and struggled to accept him again. He wouldn't have been absent for the entirety of Nero's life. He wouldn't have spent a decade as a slave to his father's enemy and his mother's murderer, and a little over a decade more in the demon realm with his crumbling flesh. He wouldn't have been forced and reduced to so little that he was a mere shell of himself or sometimes, at best, just barely surviving. There would have never been any struggle even once in his life if it were all down to that because why would such privilege allow for anything like that to happen? He would never have been so weak as to lose anyone that he loved, to have himself rent from him so violently, or to have known that bitter taste of defeat after defeat.
But even within the reality that his birth was not enough to prevent the violence and pain that's made up the fabric of Vergil's life: he would not have survived any of it if it was solely down to that alone. That much is certain. It was not his birth that caused Vergil to survive. It was him. His motivation and will to not just live but never to know weakness or helplessness, as he had before, developed his skills beyond mere technical ability, and into something that made him a formidable opponent to all that would oppose him. How else could he have pressed forward as he felt his life fading from his body, hardly able to walk or stand upright any longer?
Mizu knows little of any of it, of course. He's only been told of the helplessness that Vergil felt the day his mother died, and what a driving force that had been for him the rest of his life. And he's now seen firsthand what Vergil can do with and without a blade in his hands, the way he can read and respond to the flow of battle as naturally as he is able to draw breath. But what little Mizu knows doesn't matter to Vergil in the moment as he feels the dismissal of all that he is being boiled down to luck and something more akin to a cheap trick or tactic with just two words.
Vergil firmly slides his wardrobe door shut once more. He stands there a moment, his jaw tensing slightly and relaxing once more before he decides against it. He's learned to walk with his nightmares and his failures, accept them as part of himself. But he's far from comfortable with the notion of acknowledging them to someone else. Not even in his own defense. He simply shouldn't have to defend himself. His own merit and skill and continued existence should speak for itself.
It also shouldn't bother him that Mizu's opinion of his skills may be undermined by his nature as a half-devil. What's the opinion of a human who hardly knows anything about him? All the more reason not to defend himself against what feels an accusation. But it does. Bother him. There's no reason why Vergil should even bother sparring with someone like Mizu. What difference does it make to him if he has the skills enough to survive his quest for revenge? He owes Mizu absolutely nothing, and a human arguably has no business crossing blades with someone like Vergil. But Vergil has taken that time. He's found reward in it. He's found someone that he...respects. That he admires the drive and determination of, and the strength there is to be found in refusing to give up simply because the odds are stacked against him.
And that same person says that he cheats to have his skill.
Vergil wants it to not matter. To reduce Mizu down to what he is as he just did to Vergil. But it matters and he can't bring himself to truly do the same.
"If you wish to think of it that way, so be it."
Any semblance of the ease to which he spoke of Dante or offered his explanation has evaporated, but he doesn't sound angry or terse. He's noticeably withdrawing, not lashing out. So, Vergil is merely to the point and concise, firmly declaring that it doesn't matter as he rejoins Mizu. He nods to the wrappings messily rolled in Mizu's hands.
"Keep them. For your own practice or however else you see fit to use them."