Not much in Vergil was left of that little child. He remembered his childhood in shreds, a piece here, a piece there. After all, memories fade with time, the brain makes up what wasn't there and forgets what was. And considering how many times Vergil's mind was played with - the fact that he remained adequate was a miracle.

He was a quiet child that often ran away from his noisy brother to the library and rummaged among the shelves in search of a new book, then sat down on the windowsill and started reading. He didn't have many habits, at least he didn't pick his nose like little Dante; on the contrary, he had one cute habit. He liked to sit in the frog pose and almost always unconsciously adopted it once he sat down somewhere. Legs apart, hands neatly folded between them and holding a book - that was the scene you could most often see if you watched him quietly. Or just watch him.

Then he grew up, too soon. The time between battles for his life was barely enough time to sit down, and the stupid habit was forgotten.

But then things got better. He reconciled with his brother, moved to the office and there was a moment to sit down and just rest...

You carefully headed from the first floor, about to go to the kitchen for coffee, but you slowed down, observing something very cute. Vergil was sitting on a life-shabby red sofa, reading some book you had recently brought him from the human library. No ciphers or stories about the underworld, but despite that, Vergil was clearly interested. He took the frog pose again: he spread his legs, put his hands between them, holding the book in them, and leaned over it, reading the text with interest.

His back felt you looking at him, and he reluctantly broke away from reading, throwing a displeased look at you. When you simply continued to stare at him, a shadow of bewilderment and even annoyance was reflected on his face.

«What's wrong? Is my hair mussed or is there dirt on my face?»