Disclaimer: I don't own Devil May Cry.
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They grew so quickly.
She'd helped with babies before, her aunt lived nearby, so she had a rough idea of how things should go. They were one, and looked older than that.
She knew how much time was passing now. Sparda had given her the freedom of the house and grounds, and oh it was a joy to see the sky, to be able to take walks that weren't from one side of her suite to the other, the pacing of a captive animal.
She felt like a lioness in the zoo, part of some breeding program. Was humanity the endangered species? She'd gotten him to tell her the whole story (searching for something to tell if it was true or false). He spoke like he had been there, telling a story that wasn't quite like any of the myths: wouldn't a liar stick to what she knew and had believed? At least what she had heard?
He remembered more details than a human would, after two thousand years.
He spoke of his victims, how towns would be ashes and corpses after his army passed, dragging off the survivors to be eaten later.
He told her this was accepted among his kind, that by their standards he was not a war criminal. But by human standards… and it was humans he had sinned against.
To betray his lord was his penance. He had (she wanted to believe, for the children) saved humanity. But he had still done horrible things. He mostly spoke of them either eyes averted, glancing at her, or looking into her eyes with honesty that made her hurt for him.
He wanted forgiveness, she realized. And they had not given it. He couldn't ask it of the dead: the survivors had not given it. Now, the world had forgotten, not forgiven his crimes. She had heard he was a lone knight, not one of Mundus' highest generals. A traitor.
So, he saw in her… one he had done his worst to. But she still lived. He wanted her forgiveness, felt that it would allow him to leave his guilt behind at last.
She might, one day, acknowledge it had been necessary. Only after she had seen the world saved by her children with her own eyes.
But she didn't have it in herself to forgive him.
She didn't want to be the kind of person who enjoyed taunting, causing others pain: what she had done to stay by the children had given him hope. And it cut at him, she could see, his mind knowing she wouldn't forgive him but his heart (and she knew he had a heart) wanting it.
He'd promised never to sin again and yet he had. He'd enjoyed it: it was his true nature. He was a beast, no matter how handsome and kind he acted. But sometimes he seemed as young and as lost as her. Sorrowful, ashamed.
She didn't want the children to know the shame of their birth. So she never showed her hate in front of them, tried to keep it crunched down in a little ball, until he told her they wouldn't wonder about the target of the hate they sensed, fed on. She pretended she had no animosity.
He didn't take advantage of it to kiss her, or anything, claiming it would support the pretense she wanted. She would have felt better about watching him suffer if he had.
The children called them Mommy and Daddy and never knew they had separate bedrooms.
Vergil.
Dante.
Her children.
She wanted to believe something good had come of this, she wanted them to grow up happy… she wanted to escape and raise them to never know they were not human. Vergil would kick his legs idly while he sat, and Dante liked to make noise when he was happy. Little annoying things that convinced her there was human in them. Despite the fact they looked so much like their Father.
Sparda had said if he hadn't had her he would have left them in a safe room somewhere, dropping animals in, until they were old enough to train. That was apparently how devil babies were raised. But that would be bad for humans. So she sang them songs (Dante loved that), and read them books even before they understood language, and hugged them even though she feared they would bite her.
Their faces lit up when she came to feed them, or to play, and they crawled, then walked, than ran to her.
They also rejoiced at his appearance. He seemed to favor Vergil, the elder, and Dante wasn't jealous, but came to her instead. She spoke harshly to Sparda about making Dante feel lesser, and he stopped. Vergil seemed to know this was her fault, and glared once, but couldn't stay mad when she hugged him, Dante making way and going shyly over to Sparda to be pet.
Sparda would rub their heads instead of hugging them, though he echoed her in kissing them on the cheeks. They closed their eyes and snuggled against him when he did that, humming happily.
She eventually realized that wasn't humming, but purring.
They were like a family, it was oddly domestic. Only she wasn't cooking or cleaning, the invisible servants did those things. And there weren't the things marriage implied, like love or sharing a bed. No, they were a family. There were children, they would be a family for them.
Sparda brought presents, and Eva was allowed television now. She wondered if this place would survive if there was a nuclear winter. Perhaps man was more dangerous to man than even demons were.
She clung to the threads of her faith, but… was that she still had faith, or that she wanted there to be a god? Wanted there to be a chance everything could be made to work out for the best? That he could give her the strength to forgive, as she knew the teachings told she should do. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Would she be forgiven for becoming tainted if she could forgive Sparda? Or… she didn't know anymore.
Not that she had known before, but she'd had faith. She'd still had the children baptized, but it hadn't reassured her as much as it should have.
Sparda was glancing at her now, concerned, and she hoped he'd stop before the children picked up there was something wrong. What right did he have to be concerned for her? He'd gotten the children he claimed he needed so badly.
And yet, he was. He coddled her, almost, giving her the best of everything. To seduce her, make her forgive him? That as well, but he didn't want to hurt her anymore. He was in love with forgiveness, not her. And that stung. Did he see her at all? Or was she just a brood mare and his chance at redemption? She'd wanted to help redeem people once. Now she needed that help herself. This had… tired her. She felt all worn out, burnt up.
Had to smile, for the children, and it was easy to smile at them. They were her chance, she knew somehow. She would save them, even if she couldn't save herself. No, even if it didn't save her she wanted to save them. She wanted them to be always able to smile like this, so innocent and happy.
They were resting their heads on Sparda's lap now as he read them a story and she paged through a book, not really seeing it. Vergil was blinking: needing a nap but not wanting his parents to go away. Dante was more awake, entranced by the tale.
They looked so angelic.
If only she had… or he had waited, convinced her (but he had known he couldn't convince her), or… if only this was real.
"Eva? Are you all right?" Sparda asked quietly. She jumped, startled out of her reverie by the sound of her name. The children as well were looking at her now.
She smiled weakly. "I'm fine," she assured them. "Just tired. I think I'll take a nap. Vergil, Dante, you should nap too. Put them to bed for me, Sparda?"
He nodded. "As you say." He picked up the children after setting the book aside, a bookmark so they could pick up in an hour or so.
"But Mommy," Vergil protested, "We were just getting to the part where he meets the Green Knight again!"
"When you're not so tired you'll be able to listen better, Vergil. You don't want to doze off and miss any, do you?" This was so ordinary. It made her heart feel like it was breaking. She loved them, and living this lie… had to keep the truth from them. She couldn't bear for them to look at their beloved parents and see… No, they never would.
Sparda's guilt meant he might let it out. She'd made it very clear she'd hate him forever more if he did.
Dante had asked how they met once. She'd said it was mushy stuff and he wouldn't be interested, and that dissuaded him. They didn't ask about family other than their parents. Sparda never talked about his either. Did he even have a family? She wasn't going to ask. If he was a fallen angel than he didn't, but if demons and devils were like the creatures of earth, only different, than he had to have come from somewhere. The picture that came to her mind was something like a beehive, since he looked like an insect, but she quelled the thought, as it led to unpleasant places.
"I guess not," Vergil agreed.
He gave her, and the children, everything they wanted but he couldn't buy her forgiveness. He didn't seem to… really understood why she withheld it. Well, if rape was just fine among demons, like he had said, then he just didn't get it. He never would. And as long as he though he was justified he would never be truly sorry, truly regret it, and until then he didn't deserve to be forgiven.
But forgiveness wasn't supposed to be about deserving it, it was a gift to yourself. Leave justice to God.
"I'm not tired," Dante objected since Sparda was taking them both to their room.
If his kind of devil had souls, which he said they did, then when they died… what would happen? Did he know? She didn't ask that either. Tried not to think about it at all, it made her angry, sad, tired and she had to stay cheerful for the children, they were so unhappy when she was unhappy.
Luckily they believed her when she said she was all right. Was suppressed rage and pain normal for demons?
"You will be soon, Dante," Sparda told him. "Sleep now, and then you can listen with Vergil."
"Okay, Daddy."
It never would be for her children.
She put the book she hadn't read away and left the room, walking slowly to her new rooms. She hadn't wanted to stay in the suite Sparda had imprisoned her in one more day, if she had the option.
She'd told him that and she was on the opposite side of the castle now.
She shut the door and leaned against it, feeling relieved. This was her space: no one else was allowed her, Sparda or the invisible servants.
There had been a box of chocolates and a vase of flowers on the table by her door. Fresh flowers every day: even when she'd been imprisoned.
It enraged her, because those (and jewelry, which she had refused) were the gifts a husband who had offended his wife gave, and she knew he saw her as that on some level, by instinct and how he had been raised, though he knew better. He wanted to comfort her but how could he when he was what she was scared of?
Sympathy for the devil.
She wished things were different, she wished the pretence was real, but it never would be.