#especially the themes of generational trauma and one man’s unrelenting quest for vengeance

[muse-write]

Verlady Week Day 5

Prompt: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

@verladyweek

I see a Wuthering Heights quote, I use it. This turned into a little bit of a character study and a reflection of one of my favorite books, but still heavily focused on Vergil and Lady’s dynamic. It was so fun to write!

Lady had never had much use for reading. She had enjoyed it occasionally in school, but most of her time and focus had been on her gymnastics program. Reading, even for school, had been reserved for car rides shuttling her to and from competitions or when she couldn’t sleep before a big day.

Wuthering Heights had always been a secret favorite, and even now, she kept a battered copy of it on the stand by her bed. It was a secondhand copy bought for a dollar at a thrift store years ago and had an awful pink cover and no margins, but she flipped through it and read her favorite parts every now and then. Reading now was reserved for slow moments in Nico’s van on the way to and from missions, or rare moments of peace and quiet before she went to bed.

One line had struck her on her first read as a 16 year old—only months before her mother would be found dead in their living room, when Lady had been Mary, a student reading Wuthering Heights for her sophomore English class. “Whatever our souls are made of,” Catherine Earnshaw had claimed, “his and mine are the same.” Wuthering Heights had enchanted her then, the story of generations impacted by one man’s lust for vengeance, by one woman’s insane love for someone who didn’t deserve it. And then months later that enchantment was utterly destroyed, when Mary’s mother died at her father’s hands and a tower rose from hell and destroyed thousands of lives and she threw herself into the world of demons and devils and one particular tormented, depressed, charming demon-hunter.

And now his brother had joined that group, and it had been 20 years since Mary Arkham had picked up Wuthering Heights, and she was a very different person than she had been then. Lady—for she would never go by Mary again—did not think of that quote with the childish naivety of a student, but with a jaded edge of derision: toward Catherine Earnshaw and the terrible thing she had called love, toward Heathcliff and his obsession, and toward herself, who had had no idea what was to come.

But something made her think of it now, as she marched beside Vergil up the isolated hiking trail, following the last of their quarry. The escaped demon wasn’t a real threat, more of a nuisance, but it was best not to leave it to make trouble. In the lack of conversation and with no need to make a plan for finding what they were hunting (the broken branches, crater-like prints, and demonic slime were quite enough to tell exactly where it had gone), Lady’s mind wandered. Perhaps it was the landscape around them—the bleak plains stretching out below the edge of the mountain range, the overcast sky heavy with dark clouds, the chill autumn wind whisking across her cheeks—that put her in mind of her old favorite book. “Whatever our souls are made of,” she murmured, partly to savor the taste of the prose on her tongue, partly to fill the silence that had fallen between her and Vergil. They didn’t go on hunts often together without Dante or Nero or Trish as a buffer, though they were perfectly capable of remaining professional on jobs. At least, Lady was.

“His and mine are the same,” spoke up Vergil from beside her.

Lady glanced at him, a little surprised, but on further reflection, she supposed it made sense that he would recognize the line. “Have I found another fan of Wuthering Heights in the wild?” she asked him.

“I read it when I was a child,” he said. “I don’t know that I can say I was a fan. But I liked Bronte’s prose.” He lifted his eyes to their surroundings, and she wondered if he had noticed the similarities that she had. “I’m sure much of it was above my ability to comprehend then, and I haven’t revisited it since.”

“I have a copy of it,” she found herself saying. “If you ever want to borrow it.”

His eyes lighted on her, a little surprised. “Perhaps one day. Thank you.” They walked along in silence until he continued. “What made you think of that line?”

Lady shrugged. “The landscape, probably. I read that book back in high school, and that line stuck out to me then. I think I enjoyed the drama of it. The tragedy.”

Something close to a smile played around the corner of Vergil’s mouth. Lady almost laughed; if she had realized sooner that discussing literature with Vergil was one of the few things that didn’t end in threats of death—not yet, anyway—she would have brought it up sooner. “That’s why I enjoyed William Blake as much as I did,” Vergil mused. “The drama of it. I remember Wuthering Heights primarily for the setting, the Yorkshire moorlands rolling out beneath a dark sky, ghosts haunting old houses.”

“Maybe the ghosts aren’t really there,” Lady suggested, her high school English class coming back to her. “Maybe they’re simply psychological manifestations of trauma.”

Vergil grunted noncommittally, and Lady winced, remembering too late what she had heard about V’s familiars. Perhaps the ghosts of Wuthering Heights should be just that—ghosts, to plead with and die with and be done with, instead of memories of trauma and abuse and other things that were altogether too real, and far too recent in both their minds.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

It struck her then, as it never had before, how different Vergil was now to who he had been in any of his other versions. This was not the power-hungry teenage Vergil who had raised a tower from hell. Neither was it V, the crumbling shell holding together the dregs of his humanity with sheer willpower. And, most importantly, neither was he Urizen, who had imprisoned her in armor not so very differently than Nero Angelo himself had been. This Vergil fought with his brother and killed demons at his side and sat through awkward dinners with Nero and his fiance and discussed a book he had not read in 30 years with someone he seemed to hate.

Lady was not a foolish girl like Catherine Earnshaw, but neither was Vergil a Heathcliff. He was working—however falteringly—to make amends with his family and to right his old wrongs. And Lady could respect that, because even if it was the bare minimum, it was more than he had done decades ago.

There was a flicker up ahead, and she put thoughts of books and change and decades of simmering resentment out of her mind for now. They had a job to do. But when the job was over, maybe she could give a little more thought to this new Vergil.