10With his powers run wild after his defeat, the man called Vergil hurtled through time and space. He comes to rest in the kingdom of Arendelle, a land that time forgot. His arrival may be most fortuitous. With the usurper Hans of the Southern Isles banished to his homeland to await his family's judgment, peace has returned. Yet the young queen remains troubled by her past and the powers she never asked for.
The road to forgiveness is long and arduous. The queen and the demon shall walk it together, for a while at least.
Something far and away calls him back from his nightmares of servitude. It's faint, it might not even be there, but it is all he has. He claws his way through the darkness, and the darkness claws back. It tears at him until his flesh is stripped away and he can hardly move, hardly stand, until the eyes sear themselves into his mind and he screams with silent pain. The light that had been calling, the light that is not light at all, but eyes, three horrible red eyes; it burns like the fires of hell, burns him until there is only ash where his soul had been. At last they fade into a watchful malicious contentment. A voice as deep as a mountain bids him rise. Without thinking, he does, and the voice laughs inside him, yet the fire still burns, hotter than before. He wants to scream again, but the sound that comes from his mouth is not a scream. It isn't even human.
His breathing is fast and shallow as he comes to. The three dots of light that he had thought were eyes turn out to be nothing but candles on a tabletop. He struggles to sit up and finds that the darkness he had been fighting is instead a set of bedsheets, soft and well-made in more ways than one. He scowls in disgust at his moment of panic, then realizes what the feel of the sheets against his skin represents. The dark armor is gone. It was never really his, just a 'gift' from his master. He wonders for a moment what happened to it. It's no longer my concern. The sound of his own thoughts inside his mind shocks him. There is no stab of pain that used to swiftly accompany any potentially rebellious notions. There's just...nothing.
He falls back against the pillow, his wandering gaze searching the room for some idea where he might have ended up. Unlike the castle on Mallet Island, crumbling and rotted and haunted by the vanguard of his former master's army, this one appears orderly and well-maintained. The only nightmares here are the ones you carry with you...
His eyes dart towards the door. There are footsteps outside. He looks about the room again, more quickly this time, searching for the best place to stand to greet his host. As the footsteps draw nearer however, he's overcome by a sudden uncharacteristic desire to stay exactly where he is. And so he does, but not before testing the sheets for any weakness in the way they'd been applied to the bed. Perhaps once I find out who's been holding me here, I'll have managed enough strength for a quick escape...
The best laid plans of mice and half-demon-half-men gang aft agley, as an old Scotsman might have said. Whatever his plans are or might have been, he subconsciously (though very decisively) throws them out of the window by the foot of the bed when the door finally opens. A stunning young woman with hair as white as his and large sky-blue eyes crosses the threshold. Her heels click against the stone floor and he struggles to tear his attention away from her glittering dress as she comes closer. He finds his voice somehow, hoarser and more worn then the last time he can remember hearing it. "Where am I?"
"You're safe." Her voice is soothing, calms him though he struggles to remain on edge. "You're in the castle of Arendelle." The name conjures up distant memories of dusty rooms and dreary geography studies that vanish as quickly as they arrived. "I am Elsa; Queen Elsa." she corrects herself. "I still haven't gotten used to that..." In spite of himself, he's impressed with the matter-of-fact way she says it; not a hint of pride or vanity, just a simple fact. She brushes aside the curtain that hangs across the window and the last rays of the setting sun catch her dress, almost blinding him. She gazes out of the window for a long quiet moment, and he takes the opportunity to study her. She's a slender thing, almost too slender. The dress that captivated him from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her clings to her body tightly (though was that really all that had captivated him about her?). He tries not to think about what might lie beneath. An almost wistful look crosses her face as she looks away to the north.
He stares at her elegant profile just a little too long before he thinks to ask, "How did I get here?"
She looks at him cautiously. "You fell into the harbor three days ago." she says. "No one knows where you came from. When they pulled you out, you were...burning."
"Burning..."
"With this horrible blue fire. I had to come down and put you out myself."
"How?"
"What?" She seems startled. She hadn't meant to say that much.
"How did you put me out?" he asks.
"I..." She turns away, not to the window and the dying light, but to a dark and empty corner of the room. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Not even a hint?" he asks dryly. He sits up, puts his bare feet to the cold stone floor and tries to stand. He sways unsteadily, but takes a step toward her. His vision blurs suddenly. His heart feels as if it wants to burst from his chest, and he crumples to the floor. He thinks he can hear the queen gasp before it all goes dark.
It is still dark the next time he regains consciousness. He stares vacantly at the ceiling. He hears voices at the door, but he is too tired to focus on them. He hears her coming, hears her heels clicking against the stone more quietly than before. From the corner of his eye, he watches as she leans in closer. "Hello?" she whispers. He's too tired to answer, too tired even to reproach himself for the way his stomach flutters when he hears her. She's even more beautiful now, lips parted in concern. "Can you hear me?" she asks. He nods about a quarter of an inch. Her shoulders sag a little in relief, and she almost smiles. He wishes he could too.
She sits down beside him at the edge of the bed. "Who are you?" she asks softly. He lets his head roll to the side, away from her wide searching eyes. She lays a hand atop his. He's shocked at how cold it is, even through the warmth and fabric of the sheets. "That fire wasn't natural..." Was that hope in her voice? "Are you...are you like me?"
The coldness of her hand reminds him of who he is. A whisper of a name comes to his ears; a name he thought he would never hear again. He hardens his mind and heart and turns to face her. "My name is Vergil. I am a son of the Dark Knight Sparda. And I am nothing like you."