AN: Thank you for all the kind reviews, everyone!

A few questions came up about the setting, so I guess I need to clarify. Yes, Vergil and Dante are of DMC3 age, which is... I think... 18 years of age(?). Sparda is at least a few thousand years old, and I'm guessing Eva is somewhere in her 40's.

As for the twins, since they didn't actually grow up together in this story, they don't know what pisses the other off... yet. On the other hand, yes, Vergil is not a murderous psychopath in this story. Would Sparda raise him that way? I think not. Dante... Well, Dante's pretty much Dante. :p He's the easiest character to write about.

CHAPTER TWO

Dante jolted awake with the sudden urge to puke. A pair of strong hands grabbed him just in time and turned him over the edge of the bed, allowing him to heave into an awaiting bucket.

"Let it out," a voice said quietly, "The poison is still running its course."

"I don't need HELP!" Dante shoved the unfamiliar hands away and struggled painfully back into bed. Bewildered, he patted himself and suddenly discovered that he was as naked as the day he was born, dressed in nothing but his mother's amulet and fresh bandages he could not remember applying himself. His bed was in a modest chamber with sandy stone walls and torches at every corner of the room -underground, perhaps? A castle?

Shit, Dante thought, The last time I was in one of these, I was being jumped on by spiders.

The other occupant of the room, however, was decidedly not a spider.

Tall, strong and human in form, he had Dante's face and everything on it, from his eyes to his lips to the tall bridge of his nose. His skin, however, was paler and his limbs marginally leaner, probably due to a very different diet and lifestyle than the sun-soaked city Dante had lived in. Instead of letting his white hair hang in front of his eyes, the newcomer had slicked them back in a loose sweep that brought out the stern angle of his eyebrows and the noticeable furrow between them. His eyes, so much like Dante's own and yet inexplicably different, flashed a steely, silvery-blue from under dark lashes. The strange glow within them reminded Dante of the radiant shine that demon eyes had in the dark, but he had never seen it on someone as humanoid as the person beside him.

The hunter's own pupils dilated with disbelief. "You're not real," he croaked after a long moment of silence.

His companion didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, he merely cocked his head and raised an elegant eyebrow. "If I said yes, will you lie back down?" His voice was unmistakably like Dante's but was pitched at a slightly different timbre, like an imperfect match.

Dante obeyed on reflex, but all the color had drained from his face. He could see a large red amulet hanging from the other man's neck -the very same that hung from his own.

"Vergil?" he croaked, working his tongue around a name that felt unfamiliar after all these years, "Shit, is that you?"

This time he rewarded with a small smile. "Ah, I see you remembered. We feared that you had damaged your head in the fight with the wolves." That said, Vergil stood, went to the door, and called for a servant to alert Sparda.

Since when did he have servants? Dante wondered numbly. And what the hell is he wearing? He couldn't remember the last time he saw someone wear a vest or a fluffy cravat like that, though he had to admire the fact that the pants were sewn from some slain demon's skin.

Catching on to Vergil's last words, he stiffened. "We?"

"Of course. Father and I." Vergil raised his other eyebrow as he came back to Dante's side, sliding elegantly back into the plush chair by the bed. "You do remember Father, don't you?"

Hurt by Vergil's tone, Dante scowled and brushed aside the question. "The fuck, man. I just… didn't… You know. I-I didn't think I'd see you two again." He swallowed. "Ever."

There was an awkward pause.

Vergil's face was placid, but there was a visible droop in his shoulders. "You weren't supposed to," he answered quietly, "Father sensed danger and we came to help, but... the wolves got there before we did." He trailed off.

Dante felt hot new tears well up in his eyes before his brother even stopped talking. Of course. Now he remembered. That was why he was here, why he was weak and sick and feeling like the world had just ran him over. He closed his eyes and swallowed harshly against the bitter taste in his mouth. "Why didn't you come earlier, huh?" he whispered, his voice tight but rising, "Why the FUCK didn't you get there earlier?"

Vergil's pupils dilated and his eyes flashed with icy frigidness. "Mother and Father are mated for life. We had no warning except for the fact that he sensed her death," he explained in a deathly calm tone, "We didn't come to save her, Dante, we came to save you. Not even Father could be fast enough to save her."

Even in death, Eva was beautiful.

Sparda marveled at how kind the years had been to her. Although aging had been an unfamiliar concept to him long ago, he was used to seeing generations of humans waste away and die before his eyes.

Eva's body showed signs of wear, but not nearly as many as he expected. Her limbs were strong and toned from years of battle, but she remained impressively curvy despite giving birth decades ago. Childbearing hips, Sparda thought fondly, remembering when that flat abdomen had been swollen with his children. His wife's face was bare but elegant, with only the faintest signs of wrinkles around her once radiant eyes. Her long, luxurious hair was still a brilliant gold, with only a few strands of grey hair mixed in with the blond ones. Running a hand through the thick locks, Sparda wondered dimly how his sons might've looked if they had inherited their mother's hair. Magnificent, maybe. Definitely more human.

He knew Eva would've been horrified by his train of thought. "I don't care what they look like," she had told Sparda shortly after giving birth, "They're ours and that's all that matters." She had smiled then, her eyes full of delight despite her weariness. "Besides, they'll be dashing with white hair. They'll thank you in the future."

The memory pained him. Eva had been his mate, his constant companion, the mother of his children, and a brave human whom defied all logic when she chose to be with him. His kind had slaughtered her people since the dawn of time, and yet she loved him, stayed with him, and bore him sons.

He could not have asked for a better mate, and yet… he had failed her. When she needed him the most, he wasn't there.

The demon's breathing was ragged as he dragged one long, gloved fingertip over the elegant curve of her cheek. How long as it been since he last touched her? A decade was a blink of an eye for a demon as old as he, but he could hardly imagine how unbearably long it must have felt for her. For their sons.

The demon couldn't cry, of course, but that didn't mean he didn't mourn her loss. Turmoil stirred in his belly like liquid lava. His senses tingled with the overwhelming urge to kill something, to destroy the demons that took her from him by ripping them to shreds with his own claws. Had he been in his true form, he would have taken his pain out on anything nearby, on the flimsy human furniture that he had laid so carefully against every wall.

But Eva didn't deserve that sort of mourning. She deserved quiet, serene grief, the kind humans would have given her if she hadn't already been married to a demon. It didn't feel... right to touch her body with claws and fangs that were so different from her own. The least Sparda could do was give her one last caress by human fingers, one last kiss by a human mouth.

"You bastards!" In an fit of blind rage, Dante lunged toward Vergil, his outstretched hands trying to secure themselves around the other's collar. Unfortunately, his plan didn't go quite as planned. The bed gave way to nothingness and he flopped gracelessly on the floor, moaning from the sudden pain that ravaged his body.

Vergil was out of the chair and beside him in an instant. "Foolish," he scolded, his hands remarkably gentle as he pulled Dante up and checked to see that his bandages haven't come undone. He quickly heaved his sibling back into bed and tucked the sheets firmly around him -the gesture was more commanding than affectionate. "Don't strain yourself," he scoffed, "I don't want to have to bandage you again. You've already lost more blood than you should have."

Dante was dizzy and bewildered. He had just tried to attack his own brother -wasn't Vergil the least bit angry?

His twin seemed to have sensed the question and fixed him with an unamused stare. "I don't fight people who are ill," he snorted dismissively, "You can throw all the temper tantrums you want, but you'll heal faster if you don't. Understood?"

When he didn't get an answer, he gripped Dante's chin in a surprising tight hold, forcing their eyes to meet. "Do you understand, Dante?" Though not angry, his tone was unquestionably stern.

"I'm not a child," Dante snapped, fighting against the hold on reflex.

"So don't act like one," Vergil replied just as quickly.

Wills clashed briefly between them but Dante didn't have the strength to hold it up. Defeated, he shifted his eyes to a point over Vergil's shoulder and was rewarded by his twin removing his hold on his face.

"Will I be able to see her... her body at least?" the younger twin mumbled, his voice cracking around the words. He suddenly seemed dull, lifeless, and as pale as he had been when they first found him. Those damned tears were back again and swam across his vision, brimming at the edges of Dante's eyes despite his every effort to hide them.

Vergil hesitated; the sight of tears made him terribly uncomfortable. How long had it been since he himself cried? He couldn't even remember the last time. Ever since he was a child, he had spent most of his life surrounded by beings that incapable of producing tears. Sparda himself had told him that "devils don't cry." Yet here Dante was, sobbing softly for a mother whom Vergil barely remembered.

The sight was so... human.

Disconcerted, Vergil paused for a moment longer before placing a hand on Dante's shoulder in an awkward but genuine attempt to stop his tears. "I will take you myself." He paused. "Later."

The wraith slid up to Sparda with silent, ghostly steps. "The Young Master says that the boy has awakened," it whispered in the demon tongue, its faint voice hardly more than a frigid breath of air.

For the first time in hours, Sparda tore his eyes away from the prone body of his wife and fixed his servant with a tired, dull stare. "I will be there shortly," he responded in kind, his human voice strangely warped around the harsh syllables.

"Yes, Master."

Vergil prided himself on his keen senses, but if there was one thing he could never hear, it would be his father's footsteps. Millennia of running away from Mundus had made Sparda a master of stealth -unless he wanted to be caught, any hint of the demon lord was near impossible to find.

The creaking door was the only warning Vergil got.

"Father," he said in greeting, instantly standing from his chair.

Sparda looked tired, but his son wasn't sure if that was an illusion of his human morph or something else entirely. "How is he?" he asked, motioning for Vergil to sit again as he made himself comfortable at the edge of the bed. He rested a hand on Dante's head and relaxed marginally at the touch, as if relieved that the boy would not disappear under his fingertips.

"He was awake for a few minutes," Vergil reported, "Then he... cried himself to sleep."

Sparda sensed the hesitation in the other's tone and looked up at him with an unreadable gaze. "Let him cry. It's good for him."

Vergil looked away. "I did."

Picking up on the sign of discomfort, Sparda shifted his eyes back to his younger son and decided not to press it. They were all mourning, he knew, but it would be some time before Vergil realized that he was, too. He still as so much to learn about the matters of the heart, the demon sighed sadly to himself.

Vergil always took it upon himself to be as demonic and powerful as possible, to make his father proud -Sparda was proud, but he also knew that some part of his son had been buried away in the process and he was at a loss of how to bring it back. Humanity had always been Eva's department, not his. Using every tactic he knew, Sparda had tried his best to get Vergil to interact regularly with the villagers nearby, but for the most part his son remained solemn and unapproachable. Even the occasional demon hunters they met treaded around Vergil as if he was a dangerous and untamable animal. Vergil didn't seem to mind and was happiest when he was left alone, but Sparda knew that the boy's human side would have problems developing without the influence of others his own age.

"Poor child," he sighed, making it uncertain which son he was referring to. He absently stroked the top of Dante's head. "How many gold orbs did it take to stem the bleeding?"

"Fifteen," Vergil snorted with an arched eyebrow. "Did you know it would take that many? What on earth was he living on?"

"Pizza, probably," Sparda guessed with a faint smile. At Vergil's baffled silence, he added, "Your mother loved it, too."

At the mention of Eva, Vergil's eyes shifted uncomfortably. It was a tiny motion, but Sparda's sense missed nothing.

"You haven't seen her yet," he stated, not in a harsh way.

Vergil flinched nonetheless. "I haven't had time," he answered carefully, "Dante..."

"He's sleeping now. I'll watch him for now; you can go if you wish."

Vergil hesitated but took the hint. "Yes, Father."

Sparda made a mental note to check on Vergil after an hour or so, though not before he memorized every pore and scent on Dante's body. His demon senses tingled with joy as he laid his forehead against his son's and breathed in every little hint of the boy's life that he had missed over the years. Contrary to humans, demons recognized each other primarily by scent; this way, individuals of one species could look remarkably different but still relate to each other in pitch-blackness, a helpful ability when your home was Hell.

On a primal level, Dante smelled (unsurprisingly) like Vergil, but the elder twin also smelled of stone and wind, whereas the younger smelled… well, like smoke. He smelled of the city that he came from, of all the pizza and french fries and the other tasty foods that he liked to indulge on. Most of all, the scent of his mother still lingered on his skin, as if she never stopped smothering him with kisses and hugs up until she died.

The thought brought a fresh stab of pain to Sparda's insides, but having Dante there lessened the sharpness of his grief. In losing his mate, he had gained another son. It was a cruel but fair trade.

Leaving Dante to his well-deserved sleep (provided the wraiths would alert him the moment the boy awakened), the demon lord crept quietly through his castle and back to the icy room that had been set up as Eva's mausoleum. He expected to see Vergil gone and off doing some other business, but he was pleasantly surprised to find his eldest son kneeling, motionless, beside the marble tomb that had become his mother's final resting place.

Brooding again, Sparda thought fondly. Vergil had always been an insufferable brooder. Even as a toddler, his parents often caught him staring off into space, pondering about some great wonder of the world while Dante ran around in circles in the background.

"Are you well, my son?" the demon asked softly, seeing the familiar jump in his son's shoulders from his sneaking up.

Vergil turned in surprise and instantly stood. "I thought-"

"Dante's a grown boy, he'll be fine." Sparda's eyes twinkled as he motioned for Vergil to stay. "If you're that worried, you could go check on him yourself."

Vergil wrinkled his nose as if the idea of 'worrying' was entirely unfamiliar to him. He turned back to his mother and heaved a soft but audible sigh. "She really is as beautiful as you said she was."

"That she is." Sparda raised an eyebrow and stepped up close. "You honestly can't remember her?" His shoulders drooped with pity. Not for the first time, he wondered how much happier Vergil would have been if they had simply stayed as one happy family.

Vergil shook his head after a moment of hesitation. "I've... dreamt of her. Singing." Dante, too, he added silently, though he often mistook the other's voice for a faulty version of his own.

"Ah." Sparda studied Eva's face intently. "No wonder. She always sang to you more."

Vergil started. "What? Why?"

The edge of Sparda's lips curled. "Dante always fell asleep first, that's why. You... were fussier. You'd never fall asleep until she finished an entire song, and even so she'd have to invent up a few more verses to make you happy."

The stricken look in Vergil's eyes was heartbreaking. He took a shaky breath and rested his fingers against the edge of the tomb, just short of touching his mother's skin. "Why are humans so weak?" he breathed, as if it was Eva's fault that she didn't survive.

"Not weak," Sparda corrected gently, "Short-lived. There's a large difference where your mother is concerned."

Vergil opened his lips as if to say something, then hung his head and remained silent.

Sparda watched him carefully before he rested a hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "We all miss her," he said, just so Vergil wouldn't have to say it.

AN: Not the most exciting of chapters, but I had fun writing it nonetheless. XD I'm still having a hard time defining Sparda's personality, but I THINK I've fallen into a nice niche for how I'm going to write Vergil. As for Dante's sudden rages... I contemplated dropping them, but I think it's a good display of how human he really is. We all lash out to the nearest person/friend/stranger when we're upset about something else entirely.