Chapter 16

"So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten-thousand shields and spears…"

Her voice was soft and unwavering, lyrical to the point of song, it floated to him on a warm breeze and Dante felt the peace of waking in a place that, he knew innately, was safe.

The demon hunter couldn't remember the last time that he had known peace, that he had not been in pain. Yet he also could not recall the sheer agony, the weakness that he had felt moments before, as though the concept of pain and suffering had simply been erased from his memory. It was the simple warmth of waking up drenched in sunlight, thoroughly rested and without a hint of nightmares. The pure scent of camomile and lavender floated to him on an unobtrusive wind.

He hadn't yet opened his eyes; Dante didn't really feel the need to and he didn't know how long he lay there before the beautiful voice quietened. Somewhere in his mind he understood that the woman was waiting for him to stir. But he didn't want to, he wanted to stay blissfully unaware of anything forever and he feared that as soon as he opened his eyes the illusion would shatter.

"Dante," the voice was soft, comforting. It reminded him of fresh baked bread and warm summer evenings, the glow of candlelight. Memories that he had long forgotten rising unbidden within him and yet none of them hurt. They remained tangible - not shrinking away, as his fond memories often did, into the hollowed-out shadows of despair.

When Dante finally did open his eyes he saw the soft glow of sunlight and felt suddenly the cool brush of grass beneath his bare skin. On the horizon the sun burned in the afterglow of daylight, casting a heat that soothed him as he took in the surroundings without a hint of confusion.

A garden perhaps, or a meadow? A sight that the Son of Sparda was not used to in the slightest – and with it came an overwhelming feeling of respite, of safety. A tree stood not far from where he lay, propped up on his elbows in the long grass, and from an overhanging branch a makeshift swing was tied. That was where the woman sat, golden hair shining in the last embers of the day, her lithe body clad in a pale, flowing, sundress.

Was this a memory or a dream…? Dante couldn't recall, but as Eva turned to look over her shoulder at him, her hair the colour of golden wheat, and a soft smile playing on her lips he realized that he didn't much care.

"You're awake sleepy-head," Eva said softly, her eyes glowing with mirth. "I thought you would miss the sunset."

Dante swallowed hard; a fleeting bittersweet emotion had lodged in the back of his throat. "Mother."

"Come on Dante," Eva gestured for her youngest son to join her. "Come sit by me and tell me what's on your mind." Eva turned, delicate fingers grasping the rope of the swing, her bare feet brushing the grass beneath her as she stared out across the green fields which shone like an emerald ocean in the golden light.

Dante obliged, moving slowly as though a sudden movement might make the world slip away. He got to his feet and walked to his mother, sitting down in the grass at her side a hand rested on the wooden planks which served as the base of the swing. Eva reached out and absentmindedly ran her fingers through her son's hair, gently combing out the knots which had formed in his unruly white locks. Dante closed his eyes again taking deep long breaths and tasting the honey in the air.

"I don't want to leave," he said finally, the words escaping him in a sigh.

Eva looked down at him fondly from her perch. Her eyes were soft, not a hint of sadness in their cerulean depths, only love and a hint of pride.

"I don't think that's true," she said finally, resting her hand on his broad shoulder. It felt safe to sit by her as he had done when he was a boy. Her presence was calming and her touch seemed to heal every part of him. He didn't want to talk about it and yet here they were. "I know it's not true Dante, because you are my son."

He turned to look up into her eyes beseechingly because more than anything he wanted permission to rest, to stop fighting, to stay…

"Mother," his voice was faint, choked by emotion. "I have given everything. I have lost so much…"

"And what have you gained? What is there still yet to gain?" Eva replied, her voice firm as she looked into her son's eyes. Her silken hair slid over her shoulder; Dante watched the way it caught the dimming sunlight.

In any other version of reality Dante would have laughed at her comment and cracked a joke, but not with her.

"I failed you, I… Vergil…" Just let me rest. It was so safe here, so warm and beautiful and free of pain. Yet he knew what she was trying to tell him, and it meant that the feeling could not last. Just a little while longer…

"If you leave him now then he will truly be lost," Eva said softly and Dante understood plainly that she spoke the truth. Yet an unpleasant feeling uncurled in his gut, something akin to hatred – it was faint, dulled by the purity of this place, but still there.

"But too much has happened," Dante protested. "He's not my brother anymore-"

Dante could see pain well in his mother's eyes and felt wretched, but how could she expect him to mend that bond? How, after all the ways that Vergil had sought to sabotage any semblance of brotherly love there was left… had used it to his own twisted ends… The hurt of being used and betrayed so cruelly stung more than any wounding blow.

"Mundus has defiled your brother's soul," Eva whispered and she too now sounded pained. Despite the beauty of the world around them the evil that haunted their lives had slipped in through the cracks.

"And before that?" Dante asked, because despite everything he couldn't do what she asked of him. "You know he has tried to kill me more times than I can remember."

Eva gently but firmly grasped her son's chin in her delicate fingers and raised his face until their eyes met. Dante felt compelled to look at her, he could not turn away. She no longer appeared in pain, her eyes warm – she looked at him as though she were speaking to a child who hadn't quite grasped the ways of the world.

"He is your brother," she intoned, her voice firm. "We do not get to choose our family my son and you both have many wounds to heal. Although you will not admit it, I expect you realized a long time ago that you cannot cut him out. You are not demons try as you both might to be one… if you lose him you will lose yourself as you almost have done before."

The sun had almost set, the fiery sky had turned to glowing embers. Dante felt that time was slipping from them, that this perfect moment which could have lasted eternity would not hold. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he was not the man she thought he was and neither was Vergil, but he could not. There was no refuting her words, there was no denying that the only thing which prevented Dante falling into a pit of despair was some foolhardy hope in the good of the world. Had Eva appeared merely to remind him of that?

"I miss you," his voice shook and he felt tears fighting to escape. He didn't want to cry, not in this place of peace, not in these precious moments he had with her. Eva's hand left his chin to wipe away a tear as it traced the shallow curve of his cheek. Dante shut his eyes and another tear escaped, he breathed out a shuddering sigh and rested his head in her lap. He felt her reach out and idly stroke his hair.

"Dante, my love," Eva's voice was gentle, warm. More than anything he wanted to stay with her where he felt loved and safe. "Devil's never cry. My human blood runs through you, and I am proud of it. Remember that."

"Mother-"

"I will see you again."

Dante wanted to fight, wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all, but he couldn't. Somewhere in his heart her warmth had seeped in and it filled him slowly with an emotion that dared to hope. He felt the sun set rather than saw it and then he opened his eyes.


Laughter – the King of Hell's laughter rolled steadily throughout the ninth circle of Hell echoing like thunder. The three glowing orbs which signified Mundus' presence crackled with shrill demonic energy.

Sparda had watched the scene unfold before him with a sense of disbelief. After all the horrors he had experienced in Hell he had never expected them to culminate in this. The Dark Knight could not help the demonic roar of grief which tore from him as his youngest son hit the ground and then went still. Nor could he help the wild rage that raced through him attempting to force him into his demonic form. Sparda's skin glowed with purple energy, his human flesh rippled with scales and leathery hide his eyes flashing a fiery red - but the form would not hold. The chains that bound him worked quickly, absorbing and discharging his devil trigger.

Panting and heaving around the blade lodged in his chest Sparda's head hung forwards. He spat blood, felt bile rise into the back of his throat. The raw edges of his flesh which parted around the broadsword tore open and bled fresh bright blood.

He let out another strangled roar the demon inside him berserk and refusing to relinquish its hold. It would not allow Sparda to compose himself into the human form that he had mastered many hundreds of years ago. Mundus had succeeded in executing the ultimate revenge for Sparda's betrayal. It had been hundreds of years in the making and Sparda had ultimately brought it on himself. Was it not he who left his wife and children vulnerable? The light of his beloved Eva lost to the world forever, torn from his sons and setting in motion a chain of events which led to this… his eldest so consumed with lust for power that he had been corrupted and defiled by the King of Hell. And Dante…

Sparda had watched the younger twin stumble back, the blade driven up into his heart, had watched him drop like a sack of grain and seen the woman – human he sensed and wondered vaguely how she could possibly have made it into the depths of Hell alive – run to his side.

Now Vergil stood impassive watching his brother die and the scene was almost too much for Sparda to bear witness to. What had gone so terribly wrong that his boys, who he had last seen as happy rambunctious children, had become this? Of course, Vergil had been under Mundus' control – or at least Sparda hoped desperately that he was – and yet the hatred from Dante had been palpable. This ran deeper than the Demon King's hold… something had happened between his sons which had torn asunder any bond of brotherhood. Sparda has absorbed all of this as the horrific scene played out before him and now that it seemed that all was lost, that he would never know the men that his children had become.


The sudden shock of grief was a gut-punch unlike something Lady had ever experienced. She closed her eyes and tears spilled from beneath her raven lashes. There was some vain and desperate hope inside her that when she opened them again he would be alive. That she would not be in the Mundus's throne room, smelling the stench of lightning and blood with her best friend dead in her arms. But when her bi-coloured eyes opened again the scene was exactly as it had been before. Mundus' laughter roared through her mind, the pure evil energy in the room made her want to vomit.

Stupid – that she and Trish had thought they could make a difference, that she herself had even dared to come back. Lady didn't think that she had the strength to stand, the whole place was toxic to her. She understood with every certainty that she too would die here, but maybe that was poetic; after all, she would have died on Temin-Ni-Gru without Dante, a large portion of the human race would have.

Lady heard the flare of lightning off to her right, knew somewhere in her mind that Trish and Theo had begun sparring and waited for a killing blow, but none came. Lady knew that if she stayed still long enough she would most likely be wiped out as collateral damage.

Intermingled with Mundus' laughter and the fray behind her she heard a roar of pain; it was broken and fraught with grief. Lady glanced to the figure chained to the throne on the raised dais, took in the sword and barbs and understood somewhere in her addled mind that the man could only be one person. After all, how many whitehaired demons could there be? Speaking of whitehaired demons…

Her dazed mind snapped back to the elder twin like a boomerang. She wanted to kill him, but she didn't want to leave Dante's side. Had the situation been less dire Lady would have laughed at herself. Foolish to think that she could take on a son of Sparda, especially one corrupted by the power of the King of Hell himself.

Vergil stood impassive; eyes fixed on his twin's lifeless body as though he were not taking in anything else. With a surge of rage Lady scrambled to her feet, she swung her bazooka into her hands and levelled it at the eldest son of Sparda.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

Vergil did not speak, his eyes slowly travelled from Dante's body to Lady and her weapon. The look he gave her chilled Lady to the bone, there was no life left there.

Mundus laughter reached a crescendo then reverberated around the lofty chamber as he spoke. "I have not found humans this entertaining in millenia. I almost feel it is a pity that one of your whelps met his match so easily."

Lady felt the King of Hell surveying the room before him, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as his gaze passed over her. Despite his lack of a corporeal form she knew that Mundus took in everything – if he had taken human shape Lady was certain that he would be grinning.

"And what is this? My own creation turned against me? I always knew it was a mistake to use her likeness – those piteous human emotions have obviously taken hold." Mundus sounded like a father chastising his child. "At least Nelo Angelo has followed orders."

"Following orders won't do him much good after I launch him into next week," Lady hissed. Her finger itched on the trigger. How she wanted so desperately to blow Vergil away. After he had lied to her, to Dante time and time again. Devils never change and they could never be trusted.

Vergil cocked his head, the movement uncanny, almost robotic. "What are you waiting for?"

Lady didn't know, her finger itched on Kalina-Ann's trigger. She heard all around her the crackle of electricity, the thundering road of demonic energy. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that she would die in Hell, but if she could take this smug son of a bitch with her then at least that was something. After all, Vergil was still human. Even with Dante dead their powers were still trapped in that dagger…

Her addled mind continued to work, but everything was moving too quickly. Then the huntress heard something that she had never heard before in all of her years slaying demons and facing the stuff of nightmares, a demonic roar so full of rage that her whole body shook; tremours ran through her and ice speared down her spine. Lady felt some deep-rooted instinct to flee and her grip on Kalina-Ann slipped as she felt the world rock unsteadily beneath her booted feet. Whether the room really was spinning or if her human body could simply not handle to be stood in the cross-fire of such potent demonic energy she couldn't tell.


There hadn't been a plan. As soon as the question had left Trish's lips she had seen the realization spread across Lady's features. The raven-haired huntress had been so set on saving Dante that she had let all that rage and determination run away with her. The plan had devolved into a suicide mission after Trish had determined that the only place either of the son's of Sparda could be was inside Mundus' throne room.

Trish had been adamant that she return with Force Edge and, although Lady had balked initially, she finally gave in. If there was no one at Devil May Cry to protect the weapon then what did it matter anyway? If Mundus wanted the sword that bad he could just send another lackey to retrieve it. Better to have Trish take the weapon and keep an eye on it. Although Lady still had reservations about the demoness she realized that it was irrelevant to the current predicament. If Trish turned traitor so what? Lady was outgunned and outnumbered either way.

Mundus had been so distracted with tormenting Sparda and his sons that Trish had been able to open a portal directly into his throne room, something she would never have normally risked. Sparda's presence in the throne room was not a surprise to Trish. She had known for most of her existence that the Dark Knight had been kept here, as close as Mundus could keep him. Trish had even been made to visit him once as a tormentor, but mostly her presence had been reserved for Vergil.

Although Trish had initially been drawn to where Dante and Vergil fought, as Lady had, she was interrupted by a blow from Theo that sent her reeling.

"I always knew you were too weak to handle this," the yellow-eyed demon hissed as she sprawled backwards onto the harsh marble ground of the throne room.

Trish spat blood and grinned her blue eyes flashing as she stood to her feet. "And you're too pathetic to find your way out from under your master's thumb."

Lightning flared from the demoness' fingertips, Theo dodged faster than a human eye could see, attempting to close the distance between them again. Trish was prepared to engage the demon when she heard Lady's pained cry and it was enough to make her look, to see Dante collapsed in a pool of his own blood. Then Theo was on her again and it was all she could do to dodge a blow, grab his wrist as it sailed past her head and let electricity shoot through her fingertips.

The demon yelped and recoiled, but Trish knew that it wasn't enough to put him down, not by a long shot. Theo was sadistic and relentless and more than anything Trish knew that he hated her entirely. The weight of force edge against her back was reassuring, but as Trish heard the King of Hell's laughter wash across the throne-room like a tidal wave she felt a sudden surge of despair rising in her. Dante was dead or dying, Sparda remained in chains, Vergil appeared completely overcome by Mundus' control… and that left her and Lady fighting against odds that heavily outweighed them.

"Why are you fighting for them anyway?" Theo hissed as they circled on another. Trish's left hand crackled with yellow lightning, her right moved up and back intending to draw force edge if Theo gave her the opportunity. The sword was too large to wield one handed and that would mean getting in close, but with Theo's speed that was more difficult. "Do you really think anyone could care about you? You're just like me – where did you get the arrogance to think that you are any more than a soldier?"

Trish let out a bark of a laugh "like you can talk about arrogance?"

Theo lunged for her and she hoped back, letting out a flare of sparks as a warning. He was backing her slowly towards where Vergil stood with Lady valiantly attempting to face off with him. Trish didn't know how much longer this could go on for – or how much longer Mundus would allow it to continue. In fact she felt her own strength waning, glancing at the huntress she saw that Lady was almost at breaking point; it was impressive that a human had survived this long at all in the ninth circle of Hell. It was over and the thought clawed at the back of her mind until it turned to a deafening scream. We're going to die here. She wholeheartedly believed it, and ironically it was only in the last day or so that she had decided that she wanted desperately to live.

The aggression in Theo's attacks was devastating, forcing her into a defensive stance to back up - Trish knew that every bit of ground she gave him only hastened her defeat. That was until a deafening roar reverberated around the chamber. This wasn't Sparda, or Mundus', it was a sound filled with power and rage.

Red light flared across the room in a fireball that lit the pale marble walls with a blood red glow and a dance of hellish shadows. Trish saw Theo raise an arm to his eyes to shield them from the brightness of the blast, her ears ringing from a thunderclap so loud it shook the room around them and threatened to rend the vaulted ceiling in two. Heat washed over her with the second wave of pulsing demonic energy and she turned, ears ringing, blue eyes wide in disbelief.

Vergil and Lady were sprawled on the marble ground, she could see blood blooming from the huntress' brow where she had struck the concrete, her face pressed into her arms to shield her eyes from the flashes of demonic energy. Although Trish knew that Lady was made of strong stuff for a human, she hoped that the huntress would have the sense to stay down. The raw unabated power flowing through the chamber was not meant for mortal comprehension. Vergil meanwhile, was shaking his head, eyes squinted against the blazing form that stood before him as he backed away slowly from the demonic creature that had once been his twin.

Dante stood, his devil trigger transformed into one of glowing, armoured scales, the joints wreathed in fire, his wings spread behind him glimmering with splintering heat that radiated along jagged lay-lines from a focal point at the centre of his chest. His eyes were blazing pits of lava and horns curled from his head into deadly points. Each breath he took jettisoned steam and sparks from between jagged fangs, his fingers tapered into sharpened, wicked claws. The sheer and brutal power flowing through Dante tore a final splintering roar from his demonic form as he stumbled forwards, chest heaving, serrated claws balling into fists. The sound was bone chilling, a strangled inhuman yell of rage and pain running across vocal chords that were not built for a human tongue.

Embers spewed from each joint as he moved, spurts of flame escaping with each deep, ragged breath. The demonic presence was palpable even amongst that of Sparda and Mundus; a young, raw and untamed fire that threatened to go nuclear, that was barely contained by the physical bonds that shifted and flared under the pressure of such sudden immense power. The chamber was silent save for the sound of crackling embers and hissing steam.

"Well isn't this entertaining," Mundus hissed, but the demon king's voice had lost some of its good humour.

"Mundus," Dante ground out, the name barely audible amidst the demonic growl, his voice dripping with fire.

Trish glanced to Theo; under different circumstances she would have been amused that the cocky little bastard appeared stunned for what was possibly the first time in his existence. Theo had never appreciated the true power of a Sparda, had thought his twin sons beneath him because they were only half demon. Trish knew better, she had been a part of breaking Vergil and the pure unrelenting assault which had been required to do so.

Everything was moving in slow motion, but as Dante devil triggered Force Edge, still sheathed at her back, vibrated with a strange harmonic power. In that instant, when her demonic instincts were heightened it suddenly became so clear to her why Mundus had wanted Force Edge. The question had been ticking away in the back of her mind, bothering her, but now it came to the fore and without hesitation she drew the broadsword in both hands, hurling it at Dante with all her might.

"Dante!" She called his name, hoping that he was not too far gone to understand her intention, praying that if he was his demonic instincts would take over.

The mantle of Dante's glowing helm turned towards her. He raised a flame-wreathed arm and caught the sword deftly by the hilt in one gigantic, clawed hand. He appeared to regard her for a second and then before she could even blink he had flown past her in a ball of flames. Faintly Trish was aware of the smell of burning hair and leather. For one horrible second she thought that he was aiming for her, but then he had passed and she heard a strangled scream followed by a sickening pop and the brutal crack of bones shattering. Trish almost didn't want to look, but she did; Theo lay in a crumpled heap, jagged claw marks had rended his torso almost in two, running diagonally from the crook of his left shoulder to where they had struck hip-bone on the right. His guts spilled, sinews of flesh and bone clung desperately together, demonic powers attempting for one brutal second to heal, but he was a rag doll – made of too many broken parts and an ocean of blood. No one could survive that. His yellow eyes were glazed and his inhumanly perfect features were fixed in an expression of surprised horror, splattered with blood and gore.

Dante stood over the demon who had tormented him, one clawed hand dripping in blood. Another inhuman roar escaped from his parted jaws, but this one sounded satisfied, hungry. Trish let out an involuntary shudder. Her own demonic instincts told her to flea; although she was no weakling the room was now filled with unmistakable, godlike power and the destruction that would be wrought by the inevitable battle would be catastrophic.

Dante turned his blazing eyes to the three glowing orbs a deep and guttural yell escaping from his glowing jaws in a spurt of flame. Trish understood that this was a challenge in the demonic tongue; that Dante was done playing and prepared to fight to the death. The sound was so full of rage and bloodlust it sent shivers through her; she knew Mundus' power, knew that it was immense and despite the potency of Dante's now fully-demonic blood she was still afraid that he would lose. Mundus still had an advantage; he had spent millennia practicing control, he could build worlds and rend them in two and if Dante even gave him an inch, hesitated for a second… It was beyond her now, she knew, and ultimately the best she could do for her and Lady would be to get them both out and back to the human world as fast as possible. Regardless of what happened here, even in the best case scenario there would be blemishes on both the human and demon worlds for years to come; a lot of trash to clean up.

Off to her left she heard Vergil wince as he stood shakily to his feet. He was looking at where Yamato lay and Trish understood that the elder twin was calculating whether he could make it to the blade before his brother. You proud idiot, she thought, because if Dante even sensed a challenge now she doubted he could control his demonic instinct to remove it. And Vergil remained human, an insignificant being to Dante at this moment, even with the elder twin's impressive skill-set. It was a dangerous game and one he was bound to lose. Dante's demonic form continued to throw out heat and pure demonic energy. He was like a star about to go super-nova and Trish understood that he wasn't totally in command of this new and unfettered power.

Vergil's first tentative step echoed throughout the room and Trish felt blazing heat as Dante flew past her again, this time on a collision course with his twin. With his free hand Dante grabbed his elder twin by the throat and slammed him down onto the marble ground roaring in anger. Trish watched, understood with a sense of dread that Dante could have killed Vergil in an instant, but he was holding back – that he wanted to make his twin suffer.

Vergil gasped, the air thrown from his body, his skin blistered by the burning heat of his twin's grasp and the acrid sting of his smouldering breath. With a rising sense of panic Vergil realised that he couldn't take a breath, felt that he was being crushed under the weight of Dante's vice like grip and the haze of heat which engulfed him. Mundus' hold had dropped back, the pain had awakened his mind from the dreamlike state of being that was Nelo Angelo and he gasped, choking, trying to draw a breath, feeling that at least one rib was cracked, compressing his diaphragm.

"Dante," he choked out, eyes swimming with tears. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but he knew that his brother would kill him if he didn't try something – and quite possibly would anyway. "Please…"

What came from the jagged maw of his twin's demonic mouth was a cruel laugh that bubbled up like lava. His head shook a little, Vergil thought it was in disbelief although it was impossible to read his twin's expression. The burning pits of his eyes were pure hellfire and hatred. If Vergil had had time to be proud he would have hated feeling so weak, instead he looked into a face of pure rage and power and found himself searching for any sign of his twin. Dante leaned his head closer, the burning heat radiating from his demonic hide blistered Vergil's skin. The elder twin closed his eyes against the assault, the stench of sulphur and ash was stifling. A scream of pain was torn from his throat as Dante's blistering grip tightened; he felt blood fly from his parted lips in a red haze that splattered the edges of his mouth. Vergil choked on the copper and the stench of his own burning flesh. He was going to die here, a pathetic human death. His empty hands clawed uselessly at the ground trying to get away from the overwhelming heat and the agonising pain.

Dante felt pure rage pouring through him, coursing like lava through volcanic veins. He wanted to wring the life right out of Vergil, the look of panic in his brother's eyes, the fear he felt rolling off of his twin in waves was almost palpable and he felt himself feeding on it, felt his bloodlust heighten with every laboured breath Vergil took.

"Dante!" the horrified voice belonged to Lady. It registered somewhere, but he didn't care – she couldn't possibly want him not to kill Vergil after everything that he had done to them both.

As Vergil writhed against the cold stone ground beneath him, his fingers bloodied as they scrabbled uselessly attempting to find purchase. He shifted, his singed undercoat fell open and the shimmer of intertwined gold and silver chains caught Dante's eye. Even in his heightened state of demonic rage it was enough to make him pause. He growled low in his throat, the human part of him, whatever was left, suddenly at war with the demon energy that threatened to engulf him.

"Vergil, Dante," the voice was soft and faint and far away as though it came to him through a long dark tunnel, but at the end of it he could feel the light, the same safety that he had existed in only moments before this rude awakening. "Happy birthday."

And it was enough, whatever it was – a memory or something more – it was enough, because in a second he had loosened his grasp and instead of choking the life out of his brother. He snatched the perfect amulet from his twin's neck, holding the jewel in his palm, feeling Force Edge sing in his other hand. Dante stood slowly and backed away from Vergil, who lay sprawled against the ground, desperately trying to draw in a breath. He raised the perfect amulet to the light, feeling Force Edge pulling desperately at the jewel with a strange demonic gravity. He dropped the jewel, but instead of falling the amulet circled Force Edge's blade. The sword sung with demonic power, the shine of light flashing off of the sharp steel growing in intensity until it seemed that he held a pillar of white, glowing energy and not a sword at all. The amulet was all but engulfed in the brightness; the sword changing in his hand. The light shifted from brilliant white to blood-drenched red – he felt the very molecules of the blade shift in his grasp, the blade broadened and lengthened, curving on the inward side. On the outward one a spine of bones tore through the steel from hilt to tip, binding Force Edge in organic matter. With a shockwave that blasted outwards the light evaporated and in his hand Force Edge had transformed into a deadly scimitar imbued with the full force of Sparda's power.

"Finally a worthy challenger - and again I must face a Sparda - strange fate isn't it?" Mundus growled, the three red orbs sparking with bolts of demonic lightning.

Dante turned his head to stare up at the three red orbs and let out a responding roar. To the human ear it was a demonic scream of layered voices rumbling and spilling from the demon's throat, tinged with singing metal. To the demonic one it was a clear and defiant challenge.

Mundus laughed, the sound was low and evil, rippling around the chamber and mixing with the reverberations of Dante's deafening roar. "You may have Sparda's power, but I believe I have the upper hand?"

The chamber began to shake, chips of stone shifted and fell from the vaulted ceiling as a glowing white beam gathered between the red orbs. Despite Dante's demonic form he was unaware of what was about to happen, had not seen the full extent of Mundus' abilities. Trish had, she recognised the grinding vibrations as Mundus charged up a deadly blow.

"As exotic a collection as it would be I only have the chains to keep one of your bloodline captive," Mundus growled the light between the orbs intensifying. "How valiant of you to volunteer to take your father's place."

Even as Dante's demonic mind tried to piece together Mundus' threat Trish was sprinting with cat-like agility across the throne room.

"Your father has been weakened over the ages," Mundus growled, the light intensifying, the room trembling with building demonic energy. A beam of light fell on Sparda where he sat chained to the throne of ice, it appeared like a laser-sight, a threat and a challenge from the King of Hell who did not seek to hide his intended target. In fact, he wanted Dante to understand the implications perfectly.

Dante froze, he had barely been aware of anyone in the room who wasn't a target of his own aggression, but now he saw that Mundus intended to use his father against him. Was it possible that he could kill Sparda? His father had been weakened by decades of torture, his bonds keeping him incapacitated and drained of demonic power. Dante's gaze fixed on Sparda and an almost uncontrollable rage flooded his veins. Sparda's face was ashen, his lips painted with fresh blood, how dare Mundus do this? How dare he threaten them now? Dante turned back to the source of Mundus' voice and growled low in his throat, baring a mouth full of serrated fangs. He was ready for battle; Mundus was delaying the inevitable.

"Don't even think about it," Mundus admonished, "blink and he dies."

But Dante had no intentions of staying put, his wings twitched and flared behind him and his whole body tensed ready to launch himself at Mundus and tear through the façade that he hid behind – one that Dante could sense so clearly now that his powers were returned. He leapt forwards, but even as he did so red spikes shot from the demon King's position and impaled him mid-air, sending him careening backwards. Dante's clawed feet skittered over the polished marble, then sank in, leaving deep grooves in the pale stone and sending up sparks. He somehow kept his grip on the sword in his hand even as he doubled forwards, his free hand grasping at one of the spikes which had run through his chest.

Dante shook his head, mind reeling, the attack had been unexpected, and he hadn't had time to dodge. His mind was so hyper-focused on Sparda, on dethroning Mundus once and for all, that he hadn't anticipated the trick. Now his body burned with a demonic fire even deeper and harsher than his own, spreading out from the three points where Mundus' barbs had pierced his flesh. He panted heavily ejecting streams of red and yellow sparks.

His ears were ringing, but he thought that he heard someone cry out. Drawn by the shout, a very familiar woman's voice, he glanced upwards and for a second all that he saw was pure and brilliant white light. Then Trish's body slammed into his full force and he was knocked sideways. This time he did lose his balance sprawling on his side, his body working to absorb and remove the demonic spikes that had immobilised him. Confused he turned to see what had hit him and saw Trish caught in the brilliant white glow of light. Her eyes closed, for a second she almost looked serene and then she fell, landing limp and lifeless where he had stood seconds before.

Dante let out a roar of inhuman rage, the barbs disintegrated as power flared through him. He spread his wings and flew forwards, picking up height and speed until he smashed into the three red orbs at the centre of the room and in a ball of red and white light, disappeared from existence, taking Mundus with him.


A/N: So I seem to get the itch to carry on writing this fic once a year or so? That has to stop - and by stop I mean that my updates need to become more frequent. The irony is that the first part of the fic I ever dreamed up was the confrontation that took place over the last few chapters and that when I came to it the whole thing was such a struggle to get out that I have often wondered if I will be able to keep my word on finishing this. I think a strange combination of things led to that issue and as I've said before this hasn't exactly come out how I wanted it to, but it is done. I had to keep the Trish bit in... I felt that it was important to her character - but then it is very boring to just word for word rewrite something that happened in the game, it does kind of impede the natural writing process.

Also amusing to me is that in this bizarre headcanon of DMC1 I have created (for the sole purpose of reuniting Dante and Vergil because I couldn't quite live with them never being reunited) Nero is now running around somewhere aged around 5 as I didn't intend for Dante to actually be as old in this as he is in DMC1...

But gotta remind myself that the best is yet to come, because ultimately the slog of getting through everything means that there will be plenty of angst and hopefully some semblance of an ending in the next few chapters.

Many thanks for staying tuned, it means the world.

- Luce