Never in the Grave

There was little you could have done…you were thought to have died when you did not return. Now a hundred years have passed, and no one is left for you. Without them, you always said that you would be worthless. You were locked away, sealed, imprisoned. You tried so hard to get out…and look what greets you…

Tombstones. Three tombstones. Eva Sparda. Dante Sparda. And the third...the third...His family. Gone. There was nothing left. Eagerly, the lone figure bent down to try and search to see if there were any notes under the tombstones. There was nothing. None of them had passed on the name of Sparda.

He sighed heavily, his ragged silver hair falling across his silver eyes. He had dressed in all black, to appear inconspicuous, to blend in with the shadows. He had never thought that when he had emerged back into the human world from his long imprisonment that his black attire would turn out to be his mourning clothes.

He sat down heavily, looking down at the offerings left by old friends. Old withered roses lay still before his wife's grave. The wind picked up suddenly, blowing his hair from his eyes like white ribbons, blowing the dead flowers away, scattering the dry petals, like ashes in the wind.

He couldn't understand what this aching pain in his stomach was. He had taken on the form of a human to live in the mortal realm, yet he had never experienced a feeling such as this. A feeling that everything had been taken away from him, a feeling that he would never recover from the wound hidden deep in his chest.

Even as he stared at his family's last resting place, he could not bring himself to believe that they were gone. He was his child, she was his wife. A hundred years had passed, and while Eva, a mortal woman would not have been expected to live, he had anticipated that his son would still be there when he made a return.

Almost as though acting on an instinct, he placed one hand on Dante's tombstone, staring at the harsh grey slab of stone. It seemed unfitting. When he had last seen him, his son had been an angel, a beautiful angel. With silver blue eyes, and the same platinum hair, his five year old son had shown all the delicate and sensitivity of one so innocent, so pure. A grey slab could not represent what Dante was, and had always been in his father's eyes.

Even while he had been locked away in an icy prison, the thought of returning to his child had preserved him and had ensured he had survived. Dante had always shown love towards both of his parents. His other child however…well…that was a different story entirely. He never cried, never demanded a thing, would always regard them even at such a young age with a fair amount of suspicion. His emotions were guarded, he would skulk in the shadows and refused to join in with any family activities.

Sparda remembered the one time when Eva had requested that they go on a picnic. Dante had immediately become excited and practically hopped around his parents in a giddy show of high spirits. Virgil however, had remained aloof and distant.

Even to this day, Sparda remembered that he had never seen a glint of warmth in his son's eyes…

He sighed miserably, wondering whether Virgil was still alive or whether he had perished as the rest of his kin had done. The hand that lay over his deceased son's tombstone suddenly tingled. He pulled his hand away and frowned as the sensation stopped. He blinked down at his hand, and found to his surprise that it was unmarked in any way. Curiously, he replaced his hand on the tombstone.

The sensation returned, travelling up his arm, into his body, down into his very heart. He could clearly hear his son's voice. He instinctively shut his eyes, and could see his son's face.

He had changed, as all things had changed. His hair had grown longer and unruly, his face hard and impassive, all innocence from his eyes had long ago disappeared. In his eyes, Sparda recognised the spirit of a warrior, the spirit that ran through his own veins. In his eyes, Sparda recognised the same ideals of justice that he himself held close to his heart.

'Dante…'

The phantom figure of his son smiled, momentarily cold, but then warming as he recognised his aura.

'Father?'

'…'

'You're…not here. I always thought when I died…I'd see your face again.' Sparda heard the raw pain in his son's dead voice. He was not a part of this world now. He was simply a spirit in a different plane. A spirit with a voice so it seemed.

'…What happened?'

'Murdered. I didn't think I'd go out like that. I always thought I'd go out taking several demons with me.' Sparda kept his hand firmly on the rock, chewing at his lip.

'Who did it?' He asked. Dante's smile suddenly disappeared, his phantom eyes darkening somewhat as he shook his head slowly. 'And how can you talk with me if you're…' Sparda's voice petered out. If he said the word, it would make it real. He couldn't say the word. He wouldn't say the word. He didn't want to believe.

'Dead?' There was a humorous edge to Dante's voice and a small wry smile played across his son's face. 'Come on…you might as well say it. My mother always told me you were one to face up to reality.'

'…But this? This is my greatest fear…' Sparda whispered. Dante shook his head slowly.

'I only had one chance to reach out and talk to someone…My time has ran out.'

'What about Eva?'

'She used her chance to talk with me…now I use my chance to talk with you.'

'I'm glad then…that it was me.'

'…Good bye, Father.'

'Dante…'

There was no answering voice. Dante had left him and had finally gone to rest in the peace that he had deserved as a demon hunter.