Another demon put to rest.
Dante stepped into his trailer, shaking his boots off at the door. It had been a long night and he was happy to be home and to settle in by himself. He peeled off his musty leather jacket and tossed it carelessly among the discarded beer bottles, wrappers, and cigarette butts littering the floor. Reaching for the light switch, he flipped it on and then swiftly off again- too bright right now. It wasn't a necessity anyways; he didn't have any trouble seeing in the dark.
He shuffled through the mess towards an old sagging dresser. A shredded muscle tank hung from one of the battered drawers; there were several more inside, all equally frayed and dirty. They smelled heavily of mildew and smoke. A porno mag fell in pieces as he ripped through the other contents. No, no, no. Not it, he gave a grunt of dissatisfaction and slammed the last drawer closed. A grimy ash tray toppled and crashed loudly, splintering into jagged fragments across the floor. He heard a startled voice from outside, someone had momentarily noticed the racket despite the music and rides of the carnival.
"Where the hell is it?" he grumbled to himself, crouching down to look beneath the dresser. Tilting his head down to eye-level, Dante made a mental note to buy a mouse trap when he spotted droppings and what looked like teeth marks on the cable wires. With a grimace of disgust he reached into the crevice up to his shoulder, groping blindly through the trash. He was sure he put it here... at least, he thought he was sure. Then just as he was pulling out, he heard a faint 'clink' as he brushed past something cold. Recognizing the sound he strained for it, finally hooking his fingers around a metal handle.
"There you are!" he said, breathing a sigh of relief as he inspected the case- it was his first aid kit.
He brought himself back up carefully, dodging his way through the clutter over to the trailer's lone table and chair. There was a massive Big Gulp brand cup there, half filled with what appeared to be grape soda; sadly, it was flat. Dante swept the table clear in one clean hand movement, setting down the box delicately. Inside were your typical necessities. Thread, needle, gauze, whatever. It also had a ton of things no normal first aid kit would have.
For him a small scrape or scratch was meaningless, and even the occasional impaling was more irritating than painful. Sometimes he'd have to deal with a curse or a venomous bite; something he couldn't sleep off. Holy water usually did the trick in a pinch, or one of Kat's magical salves- god knows what the hell was in them- but at this point he judged they would be of no use. Shoved in one corner was another curiosity, swaddled in gauze to protect it from jostling. Inside the bundle was a black ceramic jar shaped like an antique vase, the lid carved into the face of a lioness. He set it down carefully, keeping it away from the edge of the table.
He took off his gloves and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as he raised his arms. On his left side was a long thin cut, a perfect sliver from a certain silver sword. It burned tremendously. Up until now he had been managing the pain rather well, thinking it would heal with time. But this wound almost had a mind of it's own. Purposeful, angry. At this point it was clear it wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Worse still it was ruining his already pathetic social life, and distracting from what few pleasures he had. Namely, partying and strippers.
He wondered briefly if Vergil was having the same issue with the blows he'd been dealt. Their last encounter started off friendly enough, witty banter (mostly on his brother's end) and him throwing a few well-aimed warning swings with his sword. As usual, things got ugly, and the bout quickly escalated into another to-the-death style struggle. Dante shivered, recalling the chill in the air as ice crept over everything in the arena. Vergil always looked calm, but this facade made the outward environment change drastically.
At least -I- didn't have a "temper tantrum" and set the grass on fire, he thought with a wry smile. As he pulled off the lid, Dante saw a pale, unnatural glow emanating within. He winced at the brightness and briefly waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, then looked inside at the flickering blue flame. It danced lazily from side to side in it's container, wafting to a breeze that didn't exist. He didn't know it's origin, but he had found it one evening while exploring an unknown corner of his parent's old manor. He also didn't understand how it worked, but it was good for soothing Vergil's particular brand of torment. He picked up the small flame in his open palm, and blew on it gently. It grew and whirled up through the air, slithering up his arm towards his elbow.
Now came the hard part.
He looked down at the wound. It was clean and precise, definitely his brother's work. A pink flap of flesh hung neatly over the worst of it. Old blood mixed with sweat and dirt, smearing his skin and staining his jeans; new blood was continuing to flow in bright trickling streams.
He pursed his lips, bracing himself. After some hesitation he placed the burning hand over the open wound. He pressed into it hard, growling at the discomfort. Simultaneously hot and cold, the flames licked at the edge of the wound and sent ripples of pain through his entire body. His fingers trembled as he worked meticulously upwards from the bottom of the gash, the wound cauterized shut in the trail of flames left behind. He grimaced as he reached the middle, the deepest part. As it lingered over the angry wound, Dante squirmed in his seat, tapping his foot in agitation. Anything to distract from the awful sting.
It was over in less than a minute, though it seemed an age had passed. Dante gasped desperately as the wound finished sealing, a white scar left in its place. He let his head slide down onto the table, trying in vain to catch his breath. One arm dangled limply, the other still clutching the afflicted area. The flame was starting to grow dim now. It no longer burned but instead left a soothing feeling, a calming sensation that made him feel suddenly drowsy. He twisted his head around to look at the bed situation.
Empty.
After another minute he climbed up from his seat and shakily crawled into bed, collapsing on a patchwork pile of covers before curling up in the center of the lumpy mattress still cradling the jar. He turned it over in his hands, running a thumb over its features, he admired the craftmanship as he studied the lion's face.
As he pulled away from the jar's mouth he was surprised to hear a minute mechanical noise. The mouth had opened ever so slightly, and within he could see the folded corner of a scrap of paper. He tenderly slid it out, uncrinkling the seams and flattening it on the bed. It was a note of some kind.
"I sincerely hope that you never have to use this, and it pains me to think you may need it some day. Please take care of your brother, and love him despite your differences. I love you both more than I have words to write, or room to write them. Love is unconditional, but it is also about compromise, remember this and you will never be alone."