Chapter 17

Lady raised her arms to shield her eyes as the light which filled the room threatened to blind her and pure, raw energy tore through the air like a thunderclap. Her ears rang and spots of flashing red and gold danced behind her closed eyelids. She didn't know for how long she sat half-conscious and all but deafened and blinded, then slowly her senses began to come back to her and she understood that whatever had happened Dante and Mundus had left the chamber, possibly even left this plain of existence.

She lowered her arm, the skin felt scorched as though she had caught a particularly bad sunburn. Next to her she could hear Vergil's ragged breaths, as he coughed wetly struggling for air. The sound made her sick to her stomach; she had watched Dante in full demon form ready to crush his twin to death as he begged for his life and she had cried out because she wanted Dante to stop, because she couldn't bear the pure rage that she had seen in him. Despite Vergil's cruel betrayal she knew, for all his bravado, Dante wouldn't have been able to live with murdering his twin in cold blood. Lady shivered; Dante had been all consumed by his demonic power, none of his humanity left – it was frightening to see him succumb to it so easily, as her father had.

The huntress glanced behind her, trying to make sense of what had happened following the moment she had watched Dante die. Theo's mangled corpse lay in a pool of blood, barely recognizable as anything close to human. Trish was sprawled between them her golden hair fanned out around her perfect face; her eyes closed. She wasn't breathing, she almost looked peaceful. Lady felt emotions rise unbidden, tears caught in her throat and she choked them back. Was this it? She felt lost and alone and frightened. Even if Dante survived and came back, would he still be Dante? Was he lost to her forever? Lady tried to push the thought away, but it continued to haunt her – the room wreaked of pure demonic power, a metallic taste that hung in the air and tainted her tongue.

"Girl."

At any other time Lady would have resented being called 'girl' and would have made sure that anyone who even dared to call her that would come to regret it. Now she turned back blankly, turned, and properly took in Sparda's face for the first time since she had entered the room.

"Help me," Sparda's voice was beseeching, she heard a deep sadness in it. Moving almost in a dream she clambered to her feet, glancing at Vergil who watched her through glassy eyes. His mouth twitched and for a second she thought he would speak, but he merely took a shuddering breath, his eyes sliding shut. Lady was very aware that he was dying and that she couldn't help him; she was also aware that it was far too easy to walk away from him, even with those eyes and that face that looked so much like his twin's.

Instead she turned her back on Vergil and walked slowly across the room to Sparda. She was dazed and disorientated. Time was running both too slow and too fast; she felt as though she had been dragged through a hurricane, battered and beaten and now unable to feel anything but numbness.

Sparda was a gruesome sight, sat chained to his throne of ice, dried blood and gore caking the spikes that criss-crossed his bindings. His struggles throughout their recent ordeal had drawn fresh blood from his wounds and rivulets of the crimson liquid ran from the corners of his mouth. As Lady approached the foot of the dais where his throne sat – a mockery of kingly honour – she heard him breathing wetly, understood that the broadsword piercing his chest was run right through, tearing lungs that were in a never-ending process of attempting to heal.

Lady suddenly felt young and small. Here she stood in the ninth circle of hell, an area reserved for betrayers of the most heinous kind, staring into the face of a demon who by all rights held the power of a god. She couldn't imagine the torment that he had experienced over the time that he had been chained there. Although she was loathe to admit it the thought was beyond her own mortal comprehension.

Lady shivered as she approached the icy throne, stood before Sparda and looked into his face, but did not make a move to reach out.

"I'm human," she said softly, the words felt like an apology as she looked into his pale blue eyes; eyes that were so like Dante's it was almost painful.

The hint of a smile painted Sparda's bloodied lips, "I know."

"H-How…?"

"The sword," Sparda replied ignoring her question. He motioned his head downward slightly as though she might have missed the huge broadsword cracking his sternum.

Lady's brow furrowed. "Will it kill me?"

Sparda locked eyes with her, they were honest and pleading. He understood her fear that his bonds were spelled in some way to hurt or kill anyone who tried to free him. "I don't know."

Lady nodded slowly, looked behind her, at the bodies laying strewn across the room, one most certainly dead, the others on their way there.

"Doesn't really matter if it does right?" She said with a wry smile.

Sparda looked at her quizzically, perhaps not expecting such recklessness from a human woman. He watched as she moved forwards, hesitated – but only for a second – then thrust out her pale hands and gripped the hilt of the broadsword in a white-knuckled grasp. When she wasn't vaporized instantly she added her other hand and heaved with everything that she had. Lady heard the sickening sound of cracking bone, the squelch of rending flesh and guts. Sparda gritted his teeth, nerves aflame as the blade shifted in his abdomen, but barely budged. Lady continued to pull, her face set, determined, but the small movements were brutal and agonizing.

Eventually Sparda cried out, spittle and blood flying from his lips. Lady yelled herself in frustration as her grip on the sword slipped and her aching hands refused to regain their hold.

"I'm sorry," she hissed, pulling back to wipe sweat and blood out of her eyes. She felt woozy and faint, even with the demonic ice of the throne before her she was too hot. Lady rested her hands on her knees, taking deep long breaths as she fought down the urge to vomit.

"Not… your fault," Sparda ground out, he pressed his head back into the cold ice of the throne behind him, mercifully his head was free to move in that way without straining the chains that bound him.

After a moment that, for both, felt as though it stretched into hours Lady returned to the task, grasping the blade as tightly as she could and pulling with all her might. She made agonisingly slow progress, once again feeling inadequate and weak. Never in her life had Lady felt that her humanity held her back, but now she so desperately wished that she could stand a chance against the forces at play in the depths of Hell.

"You're their father?" she asked on one of the many breaks that she had to take – although it wasn't a question, not really.

"Yes," Sparda nodded, voice rasping, thick with the blood that drew itself from his lungs into his throat.

"My father used to tell me stories about you," Lady explained matter-of-factly, she glanced into Sparda's face and let out a bark of a laugh. "The Legend of Sparda – I never believed it – a demon who rebelled against his own kind for the sake of us humans?" She rubbed her hands together, her callouses bled, the flesh of her palms dried and cracked beneath the torn leather of her gloves. "And here I am," she took a breath, grasped the sword and heaved, then paused, "saving him."

Sparda regarded her, his expression quizzical, suspicious.

"You think I'm crazy?" Lady asked raising a dark eyebrow, her bi-coloured eyes glimmering.

"No ah-!" Sparda grunted as Lady yanked on the sword's hilt again, determined to complete her task. "Just wondering how I know you."

Lady cocked her head, pain flashed through her mind, an image of her own father's eyes, a chamber that reeked of blood. "I think you might have sacrificed my great great great grandmother… or aunt," when he looked even more confused she shrugged her shoulders, "Temin-ni-Gru."

Sparda nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Ah – the eyes."

"Yeah."

"It wasn't something I enjoyed doing," Sparda said and his voice sounded ashamed, filled with very human emotions that Lady hadn't expected. The irony that the legendary Dark Knight Sparda was actually apologising to her wasn't lost on Lady. She almost found it charming, the way his eyes were downcast and his brow furrowed. It seemed as though he actually cared about whether she believed him or not.

"I'm not holding a grudge," Lady said matter-of-factly, brushing his apology aside. She thought of her own father's eyes, of the death that had cursed her bloodline. "No one gets out of this business without some collateral damage."

"It was necessary to seal the worlds, I had to… for humanity's sake," Sparda replied. He had always felt a strange shame when speaking to human women, as though they could see right through him. There were humans who worshipped him as an altruistic saviour, who had sacrificed his own power to seal the gateway between the human and demon worlds. But had anyone ever asked him to do that? Did anyone speak of the sacrifices that had been made which were ultimately not his to make? The countless deaths of both humans and demons on both sides… and Lady's ancestor, the most devoted, most innocent… Even after all this time Sparda still remembered her face, the eyes that were so like Lady's own, filled with both hope and sadness; she had accepted her fate unflinchingly, but that hadn't made the light leaving those eyes as Sparda watched (because he had owed her that much) any less horrible.

Lady didn't reply, but continued to work. She was exhausted, but also understood that Sparda was the only one who could get her out of here, who could possibly save Vergil… she didn't spend time wondering whether she actually wanted him to live. That was a dilemma for another time. Right now it was all about survival. Where Dante was she didn't know, another dimension perhaps? Even if he did come back, if he could come back, was he even the man that she knew anymore? He had consumed so much demonic energy, so quickly. Lady didn't want to admit that anything in the world really frightened her, she saw the stuff of nightmares on a daily basis, but seeing Dante so consumed by demonic power – that terrified her.

After what seemed like an eternity the sword came free of Sparda's chest, the last foot or so of the blade pulled away so easily that Lady almost dropped it on the Dark Knight. She summoned the last of her strength and staggered backwards awkwardly, her shaking knees unhinged and she sank to the ground, the blade clanging against the raised platform where Sparda's mockery of a throne sat.

Sparda let out a grunt and then a deep sigh, drawing in the first full breath that he had been able to in what felt like millennia. Although it would be a slow process he could feel his body attempting to heal. The chains still bound him, sapping demonic strength, but the trap was finally broken and it would only be a matter of time before he built up the strength to break free. The question was, how long did they have?

Lady looked up at him through a mess of black hair, her brow was covered by a sheen of sweat, her bi-coloured eyes were exhausted and ringed with dark circles.

"Thank you," Sparda said softly, testing his still healing lungs as they knitted back together.

Lady shook her head, too tired for words, and made a move to stand, but her legs refused to hold her.

"You should rest," Sparda said, aware that the huntress felt her task was not complete.

Lady stared at him blearily. "The chains…"

"I'll manage," Sparda replied. He flexed against the criss-crossed bonds, feeling them weaken as he tested their strength. It would be slow though, painfully slow, at a time when his sons needed help.

Lady shoved the hilt of the broadsword unceremoniously from where it had landed in her lap – the thing reeked of rusted steel and demonic blood – and leaned forwards, resting her brow against the cool marble. She was determined to finish the job, but she needed a moment. Being in hell was like trying to breath underwater, or inside a vacuum; the atmosphere was toxic and choking, her sense of equilibrium was off and the ringing in her ears grew with each shuddering breath. Passing out now was likely to result in certain death and she fought with every ounce of her will to remain conscious.

Around the thrum of her own heartbeat in her ears and the buzz of unwelcome unconsciousness she heard the chains that held Sparda rattling as he tested them. The sounds were slowly blurring together, sliding downwards into a yawning darkness when she heard something different. Her brow furrowed against the cool marble… footsteps? And then, unmistakably, a voice –

"Need a little help?"

Lady raised her head slowly, uncertain if what she was hearing was real or if she had already passed out. She turned to glance behind her and couldn't help the smile that spread slowly across her lips.

"Trish?"

Trish stood at the edge of the dais looking down at the exhausted huntress. Although the demonic woman was also too pale, exhaustion plain in her eyes, she was most certainly not dead. Lady couldn't hide the broadening expression of relief on her face.

"The one and only," the demoness replied jocularly. She crouched so that she could rest a hand on Lady's shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "You really are one tough cookie aren't you?"

The corner of Lady's mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile. "And you're not dead."

Trish snorted, returning the grin, "I suppose I'm not."

Trish turned to glance up at Sparda. The Dark Knight was watching her warily, clearly distrusting the woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to his late wife. Not a complete clone, because Trish's hair appeared slightly darker (not sun-bleached like Eva's), longer, her eyes harsher and without the knowledge that Eva had possessed. Not exact, but damn close.

"I'll take over from here," Trish said, patting Lady lightly on the back. She approached Sparda slowly, almost afraid, remembering all of the things she had done to betray him and his family and knowing that as soon as he was freed the Dark Knight might choose to cut her down anyway, if for nothing other than being a twisted insult to Eva's memory. Trish knew things about Sparda instinctively, some from her time spent with him and his eldest son, but it was also something beyond that. It was as though she had been born with a pre-existing knowledge. She knew the legend, had intimate knowledge of his family – of Eva – that she shouldn't have had. Although she didn't know much what to make of it, this knowledge gave her a bizarre insight into the Dark Knight. Trish knew that he was powerful beyond measure, that his time spent with humanity had tempered some of his demonic nature… she also knew that he would show no mercy to those who crossed him.

"I'm sorry if this hurts," she said as she reached out with a delicate hand and grasped the chains about Sparda's wrist. Lightning flared through her fingertips and, although she focused on controlling the electricity into the weak spots that made up Sparda's bonds the conduction was inevitable and yellow sparks spread quickly along the lengths of Sparda's bonds. The Dark Knight tenses uncontrollably, gritting his teeth to force back a cry.

Trish winced, knowing that despite Sparda's strength she was clearly causing him pain. It took what seemed like ages, but she finally felt the metal breaking down, heard as fissures formed in the spelled chains and began to crack like splintering wood beneath her fingertips. She paused a moment, to allow Sparda respite and to regain her own strength.

Although Sparda was panting he raised the arm where Trish had touched the chains at his wrist. Blood welled anew where the barbs bit into his pale flesh, it was a deep rich red, almost black compared to human blood. Sparda's fist was clenched, his knuckles white, he lifted his arm an inch from the throne, strained and almost appeared to have lost his battle, then with a roar he pulled free, his fist flying upwards shards of iron flying as the chain shattered.

"Stand back," the Dark Knight growled as Trish moved forwards to help him and she obeyed, understanding that he wouldn't accept any further assistance from her if she offered it. The knowledge hurt her somewhere inside.

After a few moments of struggling and tearing at his bonds, Sparda broke free. He stood and stepped forwards, splintering the chains at his ankles. The demon's bare torso heaved with exertion, the wounds that criss-crossed his skin healing rapidly now, only the gaping wound that had rended his chest left a lingering angry scar that, itself, was fading.

"Sparda," Trish said and hesitated, watching him cautiously as the man surveyed the room. Despite Trish's own height, Sparda stood taller than her, taller than his sons, his shoulder's broad. The power that emanated from him was building rapidly, demonic energy palpable in the air.

"Trish." Sparda stepped forwards, one hand outstretched and for a horrifying second she thought he might attempt to kill her, but then the Dark Knight's hand was on her slim shoulder. His blue-grey eyes stared deeply into her own sapphire ones. She saw the rage and power barely restrained beneath their depths. "If you want to repay your debt to me… to my family, then save my son."

Trish blinked, her mouth moved soundlessly; there was no question as to which of his sons Sparda was referring to. Trish had passed Vergil on her way to the throne, had seen in his eyes that he knew he was dying.

Before she could speak Sparda was gone, a rocket of purple energy soaring upwards and disappearing into the aether beyond. Trish assumed that Sparda's demonic power went beyond that of her comprehension. Although Sparda's power did not extend beyond the corporeal as Mundus' had he could maintain his human façade without thought. Perhaps it had been the trade off for binding his powers in Temin-Ni-Gru all those years ago. Trish wondered at the irony that she was a demon without a demonic form; that she had been created in this human body that was not a disguise, and although she had the ability to manipulate her own appearance (something she had gained knowledge of during the torture of Sparda and Vergil) she was bound to this resemblance of Eva.

Power, intangible and yet the singular driving force in the demonic realm. Vergil had been intoxicated by it, but Trish knew that his hunger had been driven initially by far more human emotions – love and betrayal. Now Sparda had put his faith in her, Mundus' puppet, to get Vergil and Lady to safety. Another irony on top of the ever-increasing ironies. She turned to glance back to where the elder twin lay, sprawled on the ground of Mundus' throne room and was surprised when she heard Lady speak.

"Let's go save this idiot then," Lady said, her voice tinged with bitterness and exhaustion.

The huntress stood on aching legs and trudged to where Vergil lay, limned in a halo of blue silk and blood. Trish was oddly grateful of her support and followed silently.

As Lady walked her foot scuffed some of the debris that littered the marble flood. She glanced down slowly, saw the glitter of her necklace beneath her booted foot and bent to pick it up. For a second she held the blood-red tear drop to the light, her mind dazed and working. Vergil had taken it from her of course, she remembered that, but why was it here? Had Dante believed her to be dead? She sighed – not that it mattered now – and pocketed the jewel, continuing to where the elder twin lay.

Vergil was unconscious, his lips smattered with blood, his skin a deathly pale. Although Mundus' hold on him appeared to have shattered when Dante had reawakened Lady could still see the dark veins standing out against his flesh. Lady felt a mixture of emotions as she regarded Vergil, his face so like Dante's when those eyes were closed, when all the cold and pride had left him. Her hands clenched; her lips curled downwards in an expression of disgust. She hated him, after beginning to believe that he could at least be trusted against a common enemy Lady felt the sting of his betrayal, knew that Dante hadn't just been stung by that barb, but run through with it… Dante shouldn't have to kill his brother because it would destroy him, but that didn't mean that she couldn't take that burden for him, leave Vergil here in hell to rot. But of course, who had caused those mortal injuries in the first place?

Lady sighed and ran a hand over her closed eyes. It was too much, all of it, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

"I'll grab my bazooka," she said resolutely, turning to Trish. "Then we're getting the hell out of here."


The battle was hard won, but it was over. When Sparda came upon his son in a wasteland of sulphur and stone Mundus had been beaten into ashes. Although his demon demanded vengeance it also swelled with pride. In his demonic form Sparda landed beside Dante where he kneeled in the dirt. His son had not shifted out of his devil trigger and even now, despite what had been an intense and gruelling battle, Sparda could feel the waves of pure power rolling off his son.

He placed a clawed hand on Dante's shoulder and his son flinched, hand tightening on the hilt of the Sparda blade. Dante had been too consumed in exhaustion to recognise that another demonic presence had entered the vicinity. The area wreaked of demonic power and destruction and soon it would call to the bloodlust of other demons, Dante had known this instinctively. He had also known that part of him didn't want to leave the demon world. Brewing in his gut there was a strong desire to stay, to fight off anyone who had been loyal to Mundus until the Underworld recognised him as King. The thought was terrifying, but also enticing. He was strong enough to rule, and why shouldn't he? He would have been a better ruler than Mundus ever had been.

And it appeared that a challenger had already arrived. Dante turned a eyes, blazing with hell-fire, on his father and although some primal part of him recognised Sparda's demonic form, another part told him that even if this demon was blood he was also a threat to Dante's newly claimed right to rule.

Sparda recognised the conflict in his son because he too had fought it down centuries ago upon his defeat of Mundus'. But Sparda had always been fully demon, had been given a millenia to learn to control these demonic impulses. Dante was young – in both human and demon terms – and this new unfettered power could quite easily engulf him. Sparda spread his wings behind him and gave a warning growl. He was weak, but Dante was close to exhaustion. If Sparda had to he would beat his son into submission and drag him out of hell himself.

It turned out that he would have to. Sparda had hoped it would not come to this, but Dante whirled, rising lightning fast, the sword coming up in an off-handed swipe that caught Sparda off-guard – but only for a second. The Dark Knight leapt backwards, spread his arms, claws outstretched goading his young, volatile, offspring. Dante roared and lunged at his father, the movements were haphazard and reckless and Sparda whirled to the side as Dante charged. As they passed Sparda thrust out an arm and grasped Dante's sword arm, sinking sharp claws into fiery flesh until the limb was almost torn in two.

With a scream of pain Dante dropped his sword and Sparda flung him forwards with a force so strong that Dante ate dirt. For a second he skidded against stone and grit, stunned, then Dante rolled over, intending to jackhammer to his feet, but Sparda stood over him, demonic eyes glimmering and the sword raised to point directly at his son's throat.

"Enough," Sparda hissed and stepped forwards. Dante lifted his chin instinctively to avoid being impaled. He glared into his father's eyes with his own fiery red ones that burned with hatred and bloodlust. His clawed fingers dug into the dirt below him and he bared serrated, glowing fangs in warning.

"Dante you can fight this," Sparda growled, but he sensed that his son was losing the battle. Dante was wounded, hurting and exhausted and those were things that rarely went well with controlling demonic impulses.

Although Dante was overcome with demonic power he understood quiet clearly that his adversary did not want to kill him. Foolish. It was all the invitation that he needed. He let his wings flare out behind him in a vortex of flames and an inhuman scream tore from his mouth. Sparda was blood so he was allowing him one final chance to back down before Dante tore him in two.

Sparda didn't hesitate; he understood there was only one way to overcome this kind of stand-off and, before Dante could attack he lowered Sparda and ran his son through with the sword.

Dante let out an ear-splitting shriek, fire and blood flew from his torn flesh where Sparda had impaled him. His ribs cracked, muscles tore and tendons ruptured. For a second Dante struggled then went still his spine shattered as Sparda drove the blade through him and into the ground below. Dante's head lolled uselessly in the dirt, his mouth wide expelling streams of steam and sparks. His clawed hands scrabbled uselessly, one raising as though to grasp the blade, but unable to make it more than a few inches from the ground before falling back.

"I'm sorry," Sparda hissed, panting harshly as his son let out a string of feeble cries. It was horrible to watch Dante in such torment and know that he had inflicted it, but it would at least, buy him some time to sort out this mess.

When Dante stopped moving completely and Sparda sensed that his son had slid into unconsciousness he finally pulled back, heaving the blade from the ground, ignoring the urge to vomit as Dante's bones cracked. As the blade withdrew Dante slid back into human form, the last of his demonic strength being used to heal the wound that had nearly torn him in two. Despite the recognisable human visage Dante's naked flesh skin shone with bright, forked veins of burning, fiery, red. Even almost depleted the demonic energy was too much for Dante's half-human body and the cracks were already showing.

Sparda grimaced then dismissed his sword, kneeling by his son's side and gathering him carefully into his arms. He looked down at the human form he now held. Despite the disturbing patterns that adorned his son's flesh and the power he still felt radiating from the boy Dante suddenly appeared terribly small and young in his arms. Grief rose unbidden to Sparda's mind, grief for his wife, for the peace that had been stolen from his family – that he had known all along he could not give them and that Eva had accepted in the name of love. But where had love got them?

The Dark Knight closed his eyes as tears rose unbidden to them. He didn't even know it was possible to cry in his demonic form, it was something he had rarely succeeded at even as a human, had envied humans their ability to express emotion, to feel and love so effortlessly. But now those emotions rose unchecked and as he opened his eyes again a tear did escape and slide down his cheek.

"Eva, my darling, if ever I needed you it would be now."


AN: OK so I skimped on any kind of Dante/Mundus battle scene, because you've seen it before right? Just imagine Dante a lot more growly and angry :) Thanks for sticking with me guys! Now it's just going to be a total angst fest (like it wasn't before?) :D

I hope everyone is staying safe and happy during the holidays, this time of the year is always when you remember what is most important after all (like DMC and writing... and angst :))

-Luce