The Devils Cry Part 2-3

[eiahmon]

Title: The Devils Cry Part 2 Chapter 3
Author: Eiahmon
Category: Devil May Cry
Rating: PG-13
Submitted on: July 21, 2005
Disclaimer: Devil May Cry and it’s characters and situations are the sole property of Capcom. I am making no money or profit off of this fanfiction and no copyright infringement is intended. On the other hand all original characters and situations are mine so please don’t run off with them without my knowledge or consent.
Summary: A year after the events in “The Devils Cry”, things in the Sparda family have calmed down, well, as much as possible with them at any rate. But when strange things start happening, including a reappearance of Alastair's dreams of the unknown castle, they realized that they still have a long way to go.
SPOILER WARNING!!!: Spoilers for all three Devil May Cry games.

3.

Dante sat quietly at his desk, absently cleaning the Sparda. The small portion of his father’s soul that resided in the sword had been quiet lately, something that Dante found a bit worrying. The sword was only quiet when something big was getting ready to happen. The sword had been quiet in the few weeks before Alastair’s conception - that had been a fiasco of the first order - as well as just before her birth. The sword had also been quiet right around the time that Dante figured his son had to have been conceived, and it was quiet around what would have been the day he was born. It was quiet a week before his brother had escaped the Underworld as well, though that would be the last time it would be silent for the next year. When Vergil had come in close contact with the sword after that, Dante had felt love and concern flowing from it, which had made Vergil do something that had surprised his younger twin.

Vergil had cried.

Dante had put the sword down, after shooting it a suspicious look, and reached out and awkwardly wrapped his brother in a hug. Vergil had laid his head against Dante’s shoulder, life in the Underworld seemed to have knocked a few inches off of his height, and sobbed for nearly an hour. That had been what had finally broken the ice between them.

Things had gotten a little easier after that, though by no means had things gone back to normal. Two months after Vergil had returned to the human world, Dante had given in to his son’s pleas to allow the older man to live with them. Things had been very awkward for awhile after that. The younger Vergil had been thrilled to have his father so close, while Dante had been wary. Alastair had stayed out of it.

Dante had not completely trusted his brother’s intentions. The various murder attempts that had happened over the years had not been forgotten, nor had they been forgiven. He had watched his brother like a hawk for the next six months, expecting some kind of attack from him. He had not relaxed his guard, even when it became clear to him that Vergil was in no shape to fight anyone. Even when Alastair had acidly pointed out to him that he was being an unreasonable jerk, he had not relaxed his guard. He was not going to trust his brother, and that was that.

Of course, he was not going to admit to himself that he was a little jealous of his brother. Well alright, maybe he was more than a little jealous. He had had the younger Vergil for sixteen years, ever since the boy was three years old. And then his brother had come in and stolen that. Okay, maybe “stolen” wasn’t quite the right word. But with his father to pay attention to, the younger Vergil had quit spending so much time with his dad. He went out on fewer jobs with he and Alastair, and he spent most of his time at home, studying. Dante ignored the rational part of his mind that pointed out that Vergil spent so much of his time studying because he had missed nearly a year of school, and he had to catch up or flunk out. He also ignored it when it pointed out that Vergil had only met his father once before in his life, and that he might like to get to know him. But what could Dante do? He could hardly throw his brother out of the house. As soon as he was beyond the safety of the wards that Rachel had put up, Mundus’ lackeys would pounce on him and take him back to the place that he had fought so hard to escape, and this time, he would never leave it alive.

He felt a warning flare from the Sparda, and he smiled weakly.

“Don’t worry Dad.” he said “I’ll take care of him.”

He sensed something that felt like a You’d better. from the sword. The blade clean and free of gore, he laid it down on the desk and looked over to where Alastair was seated, kicked back in her chair, dozing, the Alastor across her lap. Looking at her, he was once again amazed at the strange events that brought her to him.

Alastair’s conception had been a scheme by Mundus to bring the Sparda family back under his control as well as cause some problems for her father. Mundus had believed that Dante’s human nature would make him gullible and therefore vulnerable to a trap. He sent one the female demons from the Valters (VAHL - tehrs) family to seduce him and get him to impregnate her. She had succeeded in that part, as Dante was always game for a little lovin’ since his demonic blood made him resistant to sexually transmitted diseases, and he could lay with whomever he wanted to without any danger. But as soon as Alastair had been conceived, the stupid woman had done what her kind were noted for: she boasted that she had got one over on him, and that Lord Mundus had great plans for their child. Dante had only rolled his eyes in exasperation, and had clamped a plain gold bracelet on her wrist, then had lain back and watched to see her reaction.

Now to end the line of Sparda once and for all.” she had said triumphantly "Lord Mundus will reward me greatly for my service. Once this child is born, he will raise it like his own and use it to destroy the filth that has infested the Sparda family!"

“Whatever, baby.” he had said with a smirk “You do what you gotta do. Meanwhile, if you’ll get off of me, I have to go relieve myself.” Easily pushing her off of him, he had got up from the bed and gone into the nearby bathroom. He had been able to sense her gathering her power, or, at least, he had sensed her trying to. While he had taken care of business, she had screamed in rage and tried to flee the apartment. But the bracelet on her wrist corresponded with wards that Rachel had put around the apartment right after she had created the bracelet, and the demon got bounced back away from the door everytime she tried. So she had tried jumping through a window, but she only bounced off of the glass.

When Dante emerged from the bathroom, she had screamed at him, demanding that he release her.

“Sorry, babe, no can do.” he said “And you know, getting all angry like this can’t be good for the baby’s health, so why don’t you settle down and enjoy your stay.”

She had only cursed at him in the demonic language.

“Such foul language you use, babe. Now don’t worry too much, you’ll only be here for the next nine months. Once the kid is born, I’ll take the bracelet off, and you can leave.”

The next nine months were the longest of Dante’s life. The bracelet kept Sirce - it had taken three months to get her name out of her - from leaving the apartment unless it was a life or death situation, or doing anything that might harm her, and as consequence, the baby, but it didn’t stop her from getting on his nerves. It would compel her to eat if she tried to starve herself, but it didn’t stop her from throwing food at him. It would prevent her from attacking him physically, but it did nothing to stop her from attacking him verbally. And that was something that she relished doing, using every means possible to attack his parents, his brother, his beliefs, and his heritage. Everytime she opened her mouth, he had to remind himself that she was carrying his child, and he couldn’t harm her. After the baby was born, however...

Alastair had been born on the night of August 12th. Her mother had tried to stall her delivery as long as possible, but the bracelet had compelled her to follow Rachel’s instructions. Besides, as Dante had pointed out to her, the sooner the baby was born, the quicker she could leave. Sirce had cooperated after that.

Dante had then heard what he had never thought to hear - his newborn daughter’s cry. Rachel had expertly cleared her nose and mouth, cut the cord, wrapped her up and than handed her to her father. Dante had been struck dumb by the complete and utter trust in those blue eyes, the same color as his father’s. He had stared in wonder while Rachel had seen to the little one’s mother.

“There is one last thing before I remove the bracelet.” Rachel’s question had brought Dante out of his reverie. He had looked up from his daughter to see his godmother regarding Sirce with a stern expression. “Do you wish to hold your daughter.”

“Just take this damn thing off.” was all Sirce had said in response. Rachel had nodded and removed the bracelet, and Sirce had walked out of Devil May Cry without a backward glance at the child she had carried for nine months. Dante had told Alastair of the circumstances surrounding her conception and birth, but he had never mentioned that little fact. The fact that her own mother had not wished to hold her. Three days later, Sirce’s mutilated corpse had been dumped on the steps of Devil May Cry. Apparently, Mundus had not been pleased at his servant’s failure.

“Dad?”

Dante jumped, startled. He looked up to see Alastair, still leaned back in her chair, regarding him with an odd expression.

“Are you thinking about my mother again?” she asked “You got that look on your face.”

“No actually.” he said “I was thinking about your brother.” Alastair nodded and started to doze again.

Well it hadn’t be a total lie. Thoughts of Alastair’s birth always turned to thoughts of Vergil’s arrival. So see, he had been thinking of his son.

Alastair had been seven when Dante had left her with his godmother to watch while he went to work. As he had approached Devil May Cry, he had sensed a eerily familiar demonic aura inside. Suddenly wary, trying to remind himself that his brother was dead, he had stormed in, sword drawn, guns ready, to see...

... a child, lying on the couch, looking at him with confused sapphire eyes, holding a familiar sword in his hands.

He had nearly dropped the Sparda in surprise. When he pulled himself together, he had cautiously approached the small boy, keeping his sword up and waiting. The boy had certainly looked like a defenseless child, but Mundus was getting creative in the things that he sent to his nemesis to catch him off guard. He had even ignored the pulse of exasperation from the sword in his hand; he would not relax until he was sure that this was an actual child, not some trap. In the end, he found himself grinning sheepishly at the boy, who was sitting up on the couch, looking around the office with wide, confused eyes. The child didn’t make a sound, despite all of Dante’s efforts to start a conversation, and he was starting to get annoyed.

“What’s your name?” he had growled in the end, tired of the questions.

The boy had immediately sat up straighter at the direct question and had said clearly:

“Larcersa Sparda.” To say Dante had been startled would be a gross understatement, and he had to resist the urge to smack himself on the forehead. They boy’s hair should have tipped him off to his parentage, though who the Sparda parent was for him was the question that Dante was afraid to answer. It was then, when he knew that he had not fathered this child, that the nagging voice in his head began to challenge him on his belief that his brother was dead. It had nagged him harder when a paternity test had revealed that he was not the boy’s father, but his uncle. Still he had played it off as if he was the child’s father, and he had only just now learned of his existence. It wouldn’t be until twelve years later, when Vergil was fifteen, that Dante would tell him of his true parentage. Vergil hadn’t seen the least bit surprised about that, and when asked why, he had simply said that something in his blood and power had told him so.

Of course, Dante thought, his thoughts jumping back to the present, jealousy on his part hadn’t been the only problem they had faced. His brother’s memories were in shredded fragments, even more so than Dante’s were. While Dante had forgotten only his childhood before the death of their mother (And even then he could remember some things.), Vergil had forgotten virtually everything. He could only barely remember their parents, and large things, such as the Temen-ni-gru, were vague pictures in his mind. He didn’t remember Mallet Island at all.

But those memories resurfaced in his dreams. Three or four nights out of every week, Vergil would wake screaming in horror at images that only he could see. Calming him took hours, mostly because, in his panic, he would push away anyone who tried to comfort him. He hated to be touched and would often react violently against anyone that did so, especially if he was still caught up in one of his nightmares. Then there were the times when, instead of screaming, he would be found sobbing into his pillow. When asked why he was crying, he would always answer that he didn’t know, that he couldn’t remember what he had dreamed about. On at least two occasions, Dante was startled out of his sleep when a still half asleep Vergil crawled into bed with him and fell asleep there. Dante wasn’t sure if Vergil was even aware that he was doing it, or if he thought they were still children. They had climbed into each other’s beds for mutual comfort several times while they had been growing up, and when that hadn’t worked, they had climbed into their parents’ bed. Dante had been surprised that his brother had fallen back on old habits, but he assumed that it was because he was dreaming of their childhood, and he was moving on autopilot when he sought out his brother’s bed.

The worst part was Vergil’s ever present fear, and he was afraid of many things: being recaptured, meeting Luxian face to face again, being rejected by his brother or son, losing his brother or son. The thing he feared the most though, was that he was not even Vergil Sparda. Dante could understand this fear; Mundus’ ability to create copies of real people was something that he had seen first hand with Trish. And it was the thing about Mundus that disgusted him the most. Not having any memories to fall back on, to prove to himself that he was indeed Vergil Sparda made things worse, though Dante was certain that, even if he did have all of his memories intact, Vergil would still be scared that he was a construct. He tried to help his brother with this fear, but he really had no idea what to do, and Rachel told him that it was something that Vergil would have to work out on his own.

The phone rang, jolting him from his thoughts. Kicking the desk, he caught the receiver easily and turned his attention to making some money.

“Devil May Cry.”

It was a living after all.

******

Talthos lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling above him. He was getting quite bored of looking at the black obsidian, but he was too weak to roll himself over, and that other demon, his son he thought, was nowhere in sight. Gods, he was so tired.

He had no idea how much time had passed since he had awoken. No one would tell him, and he could barely speak to ask. His voice was nearly gone from years of disuse, and once again, no one would tell him how long he had been under. It frustrated him, though his frustration never lasted long. It was too tiring. He sighed and wearily turned his head to the side, opting to stare at the wall instead. Exciting, more black obsidian. Oooooh, he was going to faint from all of the excitement.

He heard footsteps and struggled to raise his head and see who was coming. The cold metal collar around his neck prevented him from reaching out with his senses to do so. Hell, he couldn’t even tell if the footsteps belonged to a human or a demon! It could be someone coming to kill him, and he would be helpless to defend himself. He waited tensely to see who it was.

He relaxed and let his head fall back to the pillow when he saw that it was only... only....? What was his name again? Oh, he hated this! He couldn’t retain information to save his life, and he just knew that that damn spell he had been under was responsible. He growled in annoyance as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but his wasted muscles would not respond. Seeing his distress, the other demon came up to him and gently turned him over on his side. Talthos - he thought that is what his name was anyway - moaned in relief as his weight was taken off his back.

“Do you require anything, Father?” the demon asked. Luxian, that was his name, Luxian. Talthos made a small whine of distress, trying to show his discomfort, wondering why the other demon’s sensitive nose hadn’t yet picked up the smell of the urine that soaked the bed. Luxian’s nose twitched, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Father.” he growled “You must learn to control this! I am growing weary of cleaning up after you!”

Talthos whined again. He didn’t know what the younger demon was complaining about. He wasn’t the one who had lain in a puddle of urine for hours since he had been last checked on. The skin on his back and buttocks burned, and he only wished to be clean and dry.

 

And off of this bed would be nice too.

Snarling in annoyance, Luxian picked him up and carried him off to be bathed. Once he was clean, he drained the water and let Talthos shiver from the chill as he cleaned up the bed. The elder demon didn’t understand why his... son? was being so harsh with him. He couldn’t help it that he couldn’t control himself. And even if he could, he couldn’t even roll over by himself, much less stand and leave the bed. So what was he supposed to do? Maybe if Luxian checked on him once in a while instead of leaving him to stare at the ceiling for hours and hours, they wouldn’t be having this problem.

A few minutes later, the younger demon.... What was his name again? He wished he could remember things for more than a few minutes. Talthos struggled to remember what the younger’s name was while he was dressed and dropped back onto the now clean bed. He whined again; he didn’t want to be left alone for hours again!

“You have to stay in bed, Father. You are too weak to get up. Lord Mundus’ orders.”

He whimpered. Who was Lord Mundus’, and why did he get to decide when he got out of bed? He realized that he was pouting, and he didn’t really care. He wanted out of this bed. The younger demon tucked the blankets around him and walked towards the door. Talthos wanted to cry, to scream in frustration, to do something other than lie around. His anger and distress were ignored as the other demon walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Chapter 2 -- Chapter 4

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