He looks demonic, an ugly black armour and shrieks instead of a voice. V knows, now: the man inside is not a demon, no matter what he'd used to believe.
The memories make him shake. He steels himself; touches the other's cheek.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know it hurts. I can make it stop."
The man he was doesn't have much in terms of free will, but he nods.
V cries for both of them as he stabs his cane through the armour; the other man's heart—and his own.
Fitting; this merging of what Vergil hated in himself.