Nymphetamine
(part II)
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"Cold was my soul.
Untold was the pain
I faced when you left me
a rose in the rain…"
- "Nymphetamine" - Cradle of Filth
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The Underworld was known for its darkness. Pure absolute darkness, the kind found between diamond stars and planetoids, the kind beneath the soles of the feet. There, there is no light, no distant shimmer drawing rough outlines in gray, allowing the eyes to adjust, given enough time, when pupils were stretched to their limit. The only moon had died long ago, replaced by a sky of swirling black and gray and brown, a toxic sky of impenetrable clouds, offering forth a steady sprinkle of acidic moisture that coagulated between the rocks and in shallow craters, the homes of poisoned insects.
This darkness was of the blind kind. A hand was never seen, even if it was so close as to brush a nose. Only spectres seemed eligible to navigate the dark corridors, though dead they were; castle death traps and solid stone walls would do them no harm or hinder.
But Sparda was not a ghoul or ghost of any kind. A demon he was, but he was still mortal to danger. Even he was not so bold as to tread the castle's winding hallways and steep pitfalls and weight-sensing booby traps without a source of light to reveal them first. Tucked away in his pocket, nestled safely beside leather holsters and violet velvet, a blue-hued Luminite spread a lake of silver light around his feet. A nifty little gem it was, and with its help, locating the throne room he'd barged his way into countless times was a simple feat indeed.
Strong arms pushed open a set of towering doors, their ancient hinges squealing like dying cats. The chamber within was flanked by marble spires, allowing false light, originating from where he didn't know, to slant through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off moisture and dust particles like microscopic diamonds. Sparda walked the crystalline floor, every solid footfall echoing monstrously in the silence. He stopped every so often, when fine ears pricked up of their own accord, listening to the faint cackle-laugh of a blade-swinging reaper or growling phantom, before deciding they were far enough away to prove unthreatening and walked on.
At the rear of the chamber, towering like a god over its people, sat Mundus' prized statue. Features chiselled to perfection, round eyes hollow, a third in the centre alluding to omnipotent vision of hidden truths and personal emotions.
The eyes remained still, not a shimmer or flicker to assume any life, but Sparda could feel the dead gaze pierce through him, a stirring of something prodding around in a place it had no right, touching with iced talons the deepest recesses of his mind.
"What are you searching for, dear king? Whatever it is, you shan't find it," he said smoothly, in a tone that implied general curiosity, like two strangers conversing over a drink at the pub. "I have no secrets for you to expose; I have lived honestly enough. There are no emotions, or loves to enact upon, or use to your advantage. And cannot I play upon your own. There aren't any, of that I am certain. Therefore, we are on equal playing field."
A smirk crossed his lips as the discomfort faded.
The ground shook with the force of an earthquake, and the dark knight stumbled only briefly before righting himself to stare straight into the gray eyes of the statue. Mundus' voice, the rumbling earth itself, caused his teeth to chatter in his skull, and his ears to ring.
"Long have I awaited this day Sparda. You are a cold one indeed, to kill your comrades without so much as cringing."
Sparda yielded with a roll of his shoulders. "Yes, that is quite true. I am a monster, wicked and cold. Though, no more than you."
"You admit to it; why then, would you dare to face me? Victory is an impossibility, and yet you seek it," called Mundus' voice from within the stone structure. "Indulge me: what do you intend to do once you hold my power within your grasp? A tyrant defeats a tyrant. What difference does it make if you are king or I am."
"Ah." A single gloved finger rose as though to prove a point. "But I have no desire to become king. Honestly, that was my objective initially. The Underworld, your kingdom, is in ruin. A stretch of darkness as putrid as that sludge pile you call 'Nightmare'. Repulsive, witless and I speak the term lazy rather lightly. I wished to re-create this world, return it to its former glory. But not anymore."
"What, pray tell, is your aim now then?"
"The human world," he said easily. "I wish to preserve the human world, seal the gates that bind this universe to it, and avoid any further decay that has seeped through the border. Until recently, I was not even aware of my demon brethren, the ones who crossed to the other side with the only intent to terrorize the living. As callous as I may be, I do not tolerate cowardice."
The chamber erupted again along with the dark one's malicious thundering laughter. Loose stones fell from the ceiling, coating Sparda's silver hair and stained coat in a thin layer of dust. He brushed his shoulders indifferently.
"What does any of that have to do with me?" Mundus asked shortly after.
"Hell is the home you have given us; liberty and freedom to do as we please to one another. Those rules are restricted to this world alone, no other. To infringe upon the rights of others, to steal their treasures and their lives for enjoyment, when it is no secret they are of a weaker race, is unacceptable, yet you let it happen. And it happens because demons are no longer satisfied with their own world. With ultimate power, I can seal the gates and spare the humans."
"Then work with me."
"That I cannot do. Goals must be achieved by the one who sets them. Besides, your ways are spoiled."
A demon, a demon like Sparda, sympathized with the humans? The very thought was laughable, if not uncharacteristic. It could, and most likely was, his visions of demons spoiled, and thus, this foolish attempt to aid the weak was to eliminate those he despised. Perhaps, it was merely fun to him, a game to stave off boredom, and seek pleasure in tormenting his fellow demonic kind.
No matter. A rebellious child, nobility or not, one of strength or one of weakness, was a rebellious child. And those who did wrong deserved to be punished. Sparda's little revolution would end here today, his payment: his very existence.
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to be continued…
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Notes: I always forget to write a disclaimer. So, for future, let me say, I never have, nor will I ever own the rights to the Devil May Cry franchise. Sparda, Eva, Dante, and whomever else was originally from the game are property of their rightful creators. I am merely using them for the purpose of this non-profitable story. There. Tis done.
I'll admit, I suck at action sequences. Therefore, unless I get reviews saying they really want to see a fight scene between Mundus and Sparda, I'll likely just skip over it. Oh, and hopefully Eva will be making her debut soon. Thank you to all who reviewed. Comments mean so much to me.