Eragon May Cry: Vergil Edition, a Devil May Cry + Inheritance Cycle Crossover fanfic

Eragon May Cry: Vergil Edition

"Speech" Thoughts

This is my first attempt at a story, and I wished to do it justice. Some may point out that it is heavily similar to the book, and they would be correct. I have been reading Eragon as I wrote in this story, to ensure that details that I deem important to the story will be included, and because I wish for the read to be as enjoyable as possible. Depending on reactions to this story, if any, I will continue to write more. Keep in mind the title: This is the Vergil Edition. Meaning, I already have thoughts for a Dante Edition running through my head. That will come after this story is finished, and I will be seeing it through to the end. My plans for the Eragon May Cry series will be Vergil, then Dante for the first book, and then by user request for the second. Depending on the reviews, Dante's Edition of Eldest may come before Vergil's Edition.

Thank you for taking the time to look through this. Some canon will be changed, and you may or may not like it. I will not be spoiling this story for you in these notes.

Disclaimer: One and only time this shall be done. If I owned Devil May Cry and the Inheritance Cycle, I would have made this happen already myself.

Chapter One: Am I... Being Defeated?

Darkness was all that could be seen. A blank, empty blackness. The flow of water could be heard and felt, rushing over his left hand, and his his left knee. The sound of the water rushing past him downstream breaking as it met a few rocks in the stream and the nearby banks of stone. The only sound he heard other than that were his breaths: ragged, exhausted pants from exertion of combat. Then more splashes were heard, footsteps. Not his own. A voice accompanied them. Slight cockiness, some exhaustion, and slight irritation were the tones his ears could pick up.

"What's wrong? Is that all you got?" A slight pause was given, a minuscule pant of exhaustion exhaled before the voice sounded again, "Come on get up, you can do better than that."

Slowly the hand in the water clenched into a fist. The effort slowly built up as his face turned into a grimace, his eyes narrowed in a glare as a snarl escaped his lips while he lifted his torso up. His body shifting with his legs to a slow combat ready stance. All of that was knocked off-balance as the ground around the two shook violently. His head lifted, his lips parting as his cold voice escaped in a warning to the other combatant. Ice cold blue eyes locked from their owner to the other's hidden behind a mop of white hair. Both faces were serious in their focus, their intent and drive.

"The portal to the Human World is closing, Dante..." a short breath of exhaustion escaped him once again. Quickly recovering, he continued his warning, "Because the amulets have been separated."

The enemy, his opponent, now named Dante, glanced down to his side as he spoke in a low tone, the hint of cockiness from earlier vanished into a more serious tone. "Let's finish this Vergil..." Dante's head slowly lifted, matching his own, his eyes dead set; his voice's tone lowered down, "I have to stop you, even if that means killing you."

Slowly, the man, now identified as Vergil, lifted his right arm, a massive Bastard Sword raised with a single hand at level, was given a flourish. He held the lifted blade out to his side as he began to step, his body leaned forward in a rush to his opponent. His opponent was already moving in a similar fashion with his own large sword, a Zweihander, its tip being dragged through the water and along the stone beneath it. Closer and closer the two became, until time seemed to slow. Vergil began to bring the Bastard Sword, named Force Edge, in an overhead swing. He studied and trained long enough in preparation to wield this blade, that it was not the best way to injure an opponent in a headlong rush. The damage would be more effective if brought in a horizontal slash across his opponent's torso. But that opponent needed to leave, to escape. He didn't belong in this realm, the Demonic World. This would be his only chance for Dante to leave, lest it would be too late. It was the eldest's job to protect the youngest.

Meanwhile, Dante had began to lift his blade from the water during the slowdown, the Zweihander, known as Rebellion, levelling to a wide, horizontal slash. The steps grew closer, the blades began to move with their wielder's arms. Two yells echoed out as the blades were drawn. A burning, ripped apart at Vergil's torso, his stomach had been split, he could already tell. The two ended several feet behind one another, a stream of blood following the slightly notched end of Dante's Rebellion, Vergil's wielded Force Edge held at his side in an uncompleted swing. Vergil remained firm for a few moments, his breaths shallow as he stood his ground.

That all fell apart as the burning feeling ripped through him, staggering forward onto his left knee once again. The Force Edge had begun to slip from his grasp, but his fingers quickly tightened around it. He was not letting it go. He noticed a golden chain in the water below him face, a scarlet gem gleaming up to his eyes. His left hand extended slowly to the amulet, clenching it tightly. Slowly, his torso rose once again, the Force Edge held loosely in one hand, before he willed it to vanish, another blade resting against his side, in its sheathe, a yellow sageo falling loosely at its side. A braided black and white Handle was visible before the golden guard, a faint image of an imperial dragon decorating it. The Yamato, Vergil's own keepsake from his father, just as the Rebellion was owned by Dante.

Slowly, Vergil's left hand rose, clenching the Amulet close by as he began to stagger as he backpedaled away from Dante, towards the end of the waters, the rush of water curving and falling behind him as he spoke slowly, with pride and exhaustion.

"No one can have this, Dante." Several gasps for breath were heard before he continued to speak, Dante's head began to turn to face him. He still stepped back, towards the edge of the falls. "It's mine, it belongs to a son of Sparda!"

Dante's eyes slowly widened in realization of what Vergil was planning, and began to rush towards his once more, only to be stopped by a lightning fast draw of Vergil's right hand, the tip of the Yamato resting at his throat. Vergil gave a tired smirk to his younger brother as he exhaled slow breaths.

"Leave me and go, if you don't want to be trapped in the Demon World." Slowly, Vergil's eyes left his brother, wandering over their surroundings as he continued, his face slowly returning to meet Dante's own, "I'm staying, this place was our father's home." At the last word, Vergil's foot finally found the edge of the falls. Pushing back slowly, he torso began to lean back. With a smirk as he began to fall, Dante's hand extended to save him, and was met with a swift cut across the palm. Slowly leaning back his head as his brother faded from sight, he let the darkness swallow him up, allowing him to fall away.

He came to awaken in the darkness later on. How much time had passed, he did not know. With slow movements, he turn his body over from his back, laid out upon cold, hard ground. He had taken quite the fall away from the running water. His forearms pressed against the ground, slowly pushing up his torso, allowing him to rise to his feet. A sharp sting was felt across his abdomen, where his brother's strike had cut across his torso. He would need to take great care not to exert himself for the time being, until he recovered. With a closing of his eyes, he focused on the hammerspace he had inherited from his father, his own armory. Within it, he felt the presence of the Yamato, his father's blade, the Force Edge, and for some reason, the silvery white outlined gauntlets of Beowulf he had wielded for a short time. He came across something he had overlooked before, his father's own set of demonic handguns, Luce and Ombra. They were a pair of of white and black M1911's, customized to his father's design, made to fire off small shots of demonic energy. He ignored these weapons, even if they were his father's. Handguns and firearms were not honorable weapons, blades were.

With a snap of the fingers in his left hand, a mix of black and blue light shimmered into existence. He felt the cool weight of the Yamato's sheathe resting in his left hand once again, the blade itself seemed to spark for a moment in recognition of its wielder before the light began to fade. The yellow sageo on the sheathe, normally used to tie the sheathe to one's waist, was left hanging loosely, just barely above the ground. Vergil began to move with his right arm curled near his wounded torso, his right fist clenched as a distraction of the pain travelling through him. As he moved, his left hand gripped the sheathe of the Yamato more tightly, a dark purple mist slowly travelled up his arm, then engulfed his torso. The demonic energy of his blade began to fill him, assisting him in his recovery, his ability to regenerate his wounds improving with every passing moment.

On and on he stepped, headed further into the darkness. The energy from the Yamato continued to sustain him, until he was back to full capacity. His right arm lowered to his side, moving in stride as he wandered the endless void. His icy blue eyes moved slowly across the darkened, blank landscape, focused on finding anything that could be used to his advantage, with little to no results, at first.

-Break. World switch to Alagaesia-

A tall Shade lifted his head and sniffed the air. He looked human except for his crimson hair and maroon eyes. He blinked in surprise. The message had been correct: they were here. Or was it a trap?

He considered his options, then said in an icy tone, "Spread out and hide behind the trees and bushes. Stop whoever is coming or die."

Around him shuffled twelve Urgals with short swords and round iron shields painted with black symbols. They resembled men with bowed legs and thick, brutish arms made for crushing. A pair of twisted horns grew above their small ears. The monsters hurried into the brush with grunts, slowing their movements down so their rustling of the bushes quieted and the forest was silent again.

The Shade peered around a thick tree and looked up the trail. It was too dark for any human to see, but for him the faint moonlight was like sunshine streaming between the trees; every detail was clear and sharp to his searching gaze. He remained unnaturally quiet, a long pale sword in his hand. A wire-thin scratch curved down the blade. The weapon was thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through the hardest armor.

The Urgals could not see as well as the Shade; they groped around blindly in the dark, fumbling with their weapons. An owl screeched, cutting through the had been put on their ends. Then the monsters shivered in the cold night; one snapped a twig beneath his boot. The Shade hissed in anger, and the Urgals shrank back in fear.. He would kill the one who had made the possible risk later. They were tools, nothing more.

The Shade forced back his impatience as the minutes became hours. The scent in the air must have been carried far ahead of its owners. Another gust of wind rushed through the forest. The smell was stronger this time. Excited, he lifted a thin lip in a snarl.

"Get ready," he whispered in barely contained excitement. The tip of his sword moved in small circles. It had taken far too much effort to bring this moment. It would not do to lose control now and screw everything up.

Eyes brightened in excitement for the Urgals', and the creatures gripped their weapons tighter. Ahead of them, the Shade heard a clink as something hard struck a loose stone. Dark figures appeared at a distance and advanced down the trail. Three white horses with riders were headed right toward the ambush, their heads held high as their coats rippled in the moonlight. On the first horse was an elf with pointed ears and elegantly slanted eyebrows. His build was slim but strong, like a rapier. A powerful bow was slung on his back. A sword pressed against his side opposite a quiver of arrows. The last rider had the same fair face and angled features as the other. He carried a long spear in his right hand and a white dagger at his belt. A helmet of extraordinary craftsmanship, made of amber and gold, rested on his head.

Between these two rode a raven-haired elven lady, whoexamined her surroundings with warily, byt with grace. Long dark hair framed her deep eyes, which glinted with a driving force. Her clothes were not as impressive as the others, yet her beauty was not affected by this in the slightest. At her side was a sword, and on her back a long bow with a quiver. She carried in her lap a pouch that she frequently looked at, as if to reassure herself that it was still there. One of the elves spoke quietly, but the Shade could not hear what was said. The lady answered with authority, and her guards switched places. The one wearing the helm took the lead, shifting his spear to a readier grip.

They passed the Shade's hiding place and the first few Urgals without suspicion. The Shade was already savoring his victory when the wind changed direction and swept toward the elves, heavy with the Urgals' reeking smell. The horses snorted with alarm and tossed their heads. The riders stiffened, glancing in alarm from side to side, then turned their mounts around and rushed away. The lady's horse surged ahead, leaving her guards far behind. Their cover blown, the Urgals stood and released a stream of black arrows. The Shade jumped out from behind the tree, raised his right hand, and shouted, "Garjzla!"

A red bolt flashed from his palm toward the elven lady, illuminating the trees with a bloody light. It struck her steed, and the horse fell with a squeal, plowing into the ground chest-first. She leapt off the animal with inhuman speed and landed lightly, then glanced back for her guards, watching in horror as the Urgals' deadly arrows quickly took them down. They fell from the noble horses, filled with arrows and covering the ground in blood. As the Urgals rushed to the slain elves, the Shade screamed, "After her! She is the one I want!" The monsters grunted and rushed down the trail.

A cry tore from the elf's lips as she saw her dead companions. She took a step toward them, then cursed and ran into the forest. While the Urgals crashed through the trees, the Shade climbed a stone that jutted above them. From his perch he could see all of the surrounding forest. He raised his hand and uttered, "Böetq istalri!" and a quarter-mile section of the forest exploded into flames. Grimly he burned one section after another until there was a ring of fire, a half-mile across, around site of the original ambush. He watched the ring of fire carefully, in case it should falter. The band of fire thickened, contracting the area the Urgals had to search. Suddenly, the Shade heard shouts and a coarse scream. Through the trees he saw three of his minions fall to the ground with fatal injuries. He caught a glimpse of the elf running from the remaining Urgals.

She fled toward the stone rapidly. The Shade examined the ground below, then jumped and landed in front of her. She skidded around and sped back to the trail. Black Urgal blood dripped from her sword, staining the pouch in her hand. The horned monsters came out of the forest and hemmed her in, blocking the only escape routes. Her head whipped around as she tried to find a way out. Seeing none, she drew herself up in resolution.

The Shade approached her with a raised hand, allowing himself to enjoy her helplessness. "Get her."

As the Urgals rushed her, the elf pulled open the pouch and reached into it, then let it drop to the ground. In her hands was a large sapphire stone that reflected the light of the fire. She raised it over her head, lips forming frantic words.

Desperate, the Shade barked, "Garjzla!" A ball of red flame sprang from his hand and flew toward the elf, fast as an arrow. But he was too late. A flash of emerald light briefly illuminated the forest, and the stone vanished. Then the red fire smote her and she collapsed.

The Shade howled in rage and stalked forward, flinging his sword at a tree. It passed halfway through the trunk, where it stuck, quivering. He shot nine bolts of energy from his palm, killing his remaining Urgals ,then ripped his sword free and strode to the elf. He swore revenge, spoken in a language only he knew. He clenched his thin hands and glared at the sky. The cold stars stared back, unwinking, otherworldly watchers. Disgust curled his lip before he turned back to the unconscious elf.

Her beauty, which would have entranced any mortal man, meant nothing to him. He confirmed that the stone was gone, then retrieved his horse from its hiding place among the trees. After tying the elf onto the saddle, he mounted the charger and made his way out of the woods. He quenched the fires in his path but left the rest to burn.

-Break. World switch to the Demonic World.-

At first being the operative phrase. Icy blue eyes caught a glint in the distant darkness, he felt a resonating from the Yamato, as if telling him, urging him to move. Vergil followed his instincts and moved, allowing his form to blur in a rush of speed, the Yamato guiding his 'trick' to the green glint. The glint began to fade, however, and in a moment of sudden inspiration, he lunged the light with his right hand outstretched, grasping onto it in a deathgrip. He felt as if his body was quickly being yanked, pulled, and torn as he faded with the green glint, vanishing from the Demonic World.

-Break. World switch to Alagaesia.-

Eragon knelt in a bed of trampledgrass and examined the trail of his targets. The prints told him that the deer had been in the meadow recently. Soon they would stop to rest. His target, a small doe with a limp in her left foreleg, was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far without being caught by any other wildlife.

The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted over the mountains that surrounded him, its edges glowing with light from the moon between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains which carried a foreboding mist along the valley's floor, almost thick enough to obscure his feet. Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows rested above his dark brown eyes. His clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife was sheathed at his belt,and he carried a wood-frame pack on his back.

The deer had led him deep into the Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended up and down the land of Alagaësia. Strange tales and men often came from those mountains, never with good tidings. Despite that, Eragon did not fear the Spine, as he was the only hunter near Carvahall who would track game deep into its crags. It was the third night of the hunt, and his food was half gone. If he did not kill the doe, he would be forced to return home empty handed. His family needed the meat for the winter and could not afford to buy it.

Eragon stood quietly in the moonlight, then headed into the forest toward where he was sure the deer would rest. The trees blocked the sky from view and cast darkness on the ground. He looked at the tracks occasionally, he knew by now where he was headed. He strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one, holding the others in his left hand.

The moonlight revealed twenty or so mounds where the deer slept. His desired target was at the edge of the herd, her left foreleg stretched out awkwardly. Eragon slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All his work of the past three days had led to this moment. He took a focusing breath and... an explosion shattered the night. The herd bolted.

Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as wind surged past his cheek. He slid to a stop and shot an arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by an inch. He cursed and spun around, already nocking another arrow. Behind him, where the deer had been, was a burnt circle of grass and trees. The grass outside the burnt ring was flattened. A wisp of smoke curled in the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius lay a polished blue stone.

More alarming than the stone, was the form of a downed man, lying facedown on the earth. Eragon let loose a slight gasp as he examined the man, a long, flowing coat of high quality covered the man's torso, split into three large coattails. There was some lightened design of some sort of lizard, perhaps a dragon of old, curling around the collar of the coat. There was golden trim along the edges of the coat, making Eragon question whether or not he had just stumbled upon a noble of some sort. The quality of his black tunic and trousers, and tanned riding boots could not have been without cost.

Then he noticed the man's hands, covered in the same tan as the riding boots, were fingerless gloves. In one, a sword was held in an obviously tight grip, but not alike any other blade he had seen before. A long, slim sheathe with an odd yellow ribbon trailed off, just below the hand's grip. A braided black and white handle was met by a golden guard, another one of those odd reptilian creatures was designed into the metal. In the other hand, was a golden amulet, with a rather large blood red ruby encrusted in its center.

Eragon watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved was the mist, and the downed man's torso, signifying that he was alive, breathing. Cautiously, he released the tension from his bow and moved forward. Moonlight cast him in shadow as he stopped before the stone. He nudged it carefully with an arrow, then turned to the downed man. Nothing happened, so he slowly picked up the stone.

Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that traversed it. The stone was cool under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval-shaped and about a foot long, it weighed several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have.

Eragon found the stone both beautiful and frightening. Where did it come from? Does it have a purpose? Then a more disturbing thought came to him: Was it sent here by accident, or am I meant to have it? If he had learned anything from the old stories, it was to treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution. But what should I do with the stone? It would be a burden to carry, and there was the stranger. He would not just leave him there.

Indecision ran through him, and he almost dropped the stone, but he couldn't. At the very least, it might pay for some food, he decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into his pack and strapping it across his chest. He then turned to the downed man, slowly kneeling next to his form. Tentatively, he pressed his hand to the man's shoulder, shaking it slightly in an attempt to wake him, hoping to garner a reaction. Unfortunately, there was no response. With a slight sigh, he gripped the man's wrist, slowly pulling up his torso, leaning it against his own. The man's torso was firm, but lighter than it should have been. He gave a grunt as he slung the man's arm over his shoulder, and began to travel out of the Spine, back to his home in Carvahall, hopefully, Gertrude, the town's healer, would be able to help the man.

Criticism is welcomed, suggestions as well. I already have planned out how this (and the Dante Edition) of the story will go. I hope to see you again.