Vergil's body did not return all at once.
First came sensation.
The cold slowly disappeared, the pain in his head receding from unbearable to something that still throbbed behind his eyes, the weight of his own limbs returning as though someone were rebuilding his existence layer by layer.
Then came form.
Bones.
Muscle.
Skin.
Energy.
Consciousness.
Everything was reconstructed in silence atop an enormous treetop, where thousands of golden leaves had gathered around him like an improvised bed.
The leaves were not ordinary.
They shone with a vivid gold, pulsing in a gentle rhythm, almost as though they were breathing alongside the world itself.
Vergil slowly opened his eyes and spent several seconds simply staring at the vastness around him.
He was at the top of Yggdrasil.
Or at least in one of the highest places a being like him could reach without looking insignificant.
And even so, that was exactly how he felt.
Small.
