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Devils never feel pain. Well, not in this way, they can feel the pain of flesh burning, tearing, ripping, but not the deep cutting pain in his chest, scouring through his nerves like acid, through his shoulder and down his arm, ending at his ring finger…. Or did the pain originate from his finger, and then into his chest? Because on that finger was a slender gold band, a ring connecting him something he valued above nearly everything. Sparda freezes at the sensation. It’s a warning, but of what?
The answer may lay in what he holds in his other hand, dangling, choking, and yet still cackling. He’s heard rumours of hell gates opening up bearing a familiar three pronged symbol, and demons bearing the same sigil. And now, after weeks of searching, he’s finally gotten the culprit in his grasp. But why is there pain?
The three headed demon is down to one functioning head, the left snake one has been decapitated, the right lion one has had his jaw shattered, leaving the central goat one practically giggling in the Dark Slayer’s face.
“Heheheh” it wheezes before it coughs up black ichor, “It seems the Master’s plan has come to fruition, and I” another cough “am honoured to have played my part in your destruction”
“Enough with your riddles!” Sparda barks, “Where is he!”
“Your betrayal was enough to keep Him contained, but thanks to your laxness, His servants have found out your greatest weakness.” Its eyes close in pleasure, “I will die knowing that you will lose everything….” it lets a final neighing shriek of delight, before Sparda dispatches the wretch.
Devils never value anything other than their own lives. In the Underworld, each demon looks out for what is most important, themselves. Even when they submit to another demon, it is in order to preserve their own safety, or to gain an advantage against another.
But Sparda knows exactly what this abomination is speaking of, and as the fetid corpse dissolves into ash, he realizes he’s walked into a trap. He’s been led on a wild goose chase (humanity has always found charming turn of phrases, he’s realized), and unfortunately, he’s not going to be the one to pay the price. He needs to get home as fast as possible. But he’s been led so far, that even by flying at supersonic speeds will take him a few hours. If only he had Yamato….but alas, he had given it to his eldest on his eighth birthday, as well as Rebellion to his brother (and of course, they had begged to take it to show-and-tell the next day, much to their mothers exasperation.) So as he reforms into his true state, and unfurls his wings, all he can do is pray to any Divinity that is willing to listen, to keep what he treasures most safe…
The burning pain continues until he’s around halfway the way home, and then the pain abruptly stops, replaced by ice cold. This doesn’t make Sparda feel any better.
*****
Devils never panic. When faced with unexpected circumstances, they automatically react in set patterns, analyzing their opponents and situations, and how to maximize it to their own advantage. No emotion is used, it is all instincts.
He arrives, in the middle of a destructive thunderstorm, to a home that is ablaze, despite the rain. Winds howl and thunder roars, but it’s not enough to drown out his screams of rage. There are a few remaining demons scuttling about, and he slaughters them with the finesse of two millennia of skill. But what of his wife, his children?
He braves the flames and rushes inside, screaming his wife’s name, his sons’ names, but the crackling fire obscures even his sight… surely they must be safe, surely they must have escaped…
And there he sees her, surrounded by runes of protection, keeping the flames at bay. Red and black and gold cloth, cascading like a fountain… except she’s not moving. He rushes forward, to find her collapsed, her eyes open in fear, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her long slender neck, something he used to find beautiful about her, where he placed the perfect amulet of silver and gold and ruby, is at an unnatural angle. Even so, he turns back into his human form, and places two trembling fingers on her jugular, hoping for some movement… There. Is. Nothing.
Devils never value their mates. To a demon, a mate is just a necessary inconvenience to reproduce. Thus, they choose their mates based on who is the strongest, (but not too strong, one does not want to submit to a mate, but not too weak, for the progeny will inherit that weakness). And after the deed is done, both go their separate ways, although sometimes, a last battle, often to the death, happens.
Sparda cradles his beloved wife in his arms, rocking her lifeless body back and forth. She was the light in his life, a beautiful sunbeam that scattered the clouds of his soul. Her voice, clear and sweet, could lull even the insomniac Dark Slayer into a deep slumber.
And now, she was gone, never to smile at him, nor to comb her long fingers through his hair, nor to kiss his nose, nor even to tell him how much she loved him. It was all his fault. He had sworn on the day of his marriage to love and protect her, and he had failed. He’d become too confident, too relaxed, and she had paid the price…
All he could do now was avenge her death. Perhaps it was in Mundus’s plans, but Sparda knew what he must do; rip open the barrier between the worlds and take his revenge against the so called ‘God-Emperor’. He’d either cast him down, or die in the attempt. His demon blood demanded it.
But there was still a matter that stopped him from going on a rampage….his sons. He looked around, terrified he’d find their bodies, but all he could see were the shades of corpses of lower level demons. Each smelled of magic, or gunpowder, signifying that however she had died, she had made it as hard as possible for her enemies. But one corpse, located at the doorway didn’t have the smell of either...it smelled of the blade of Rebellion. That could only mean that little Dante had been here, hopefully attempting an escape And as Sparda attempted to follow the trail, he could only hope that his youngest son had escaped.
Devils never feel terror. They can inflict terror on humans, and in some circumstances, they can feel dread in the presence of particularly strong demons, (Sparda has caused that to infinite numbers of lesser demons) But fear, or terror? No, a demon cannot feel it.
Sparda runs through the driving rain, torn between screaming for his sons, and keeping silent, afraid that it will lure them out, easy pickings for the demons. He’s terrified that they’ve already been killed, or worse, captured. He knows the lengths Mundus has gone to subjugate anyone who has defied him (the Nobodies were once somebodies, before Mundus performed his tortures on them), and what better way to punish his former second in command, if he could not take him himself?
Lightning illuminates the muddy path, showing the corpses of yet more demons, these ones fresher, and not cut by Rebellion. These ones were cut cleaner, if still a bit amateurish….obvious work of Yamato. He stills, straining to hear over the wind, rain, and thunder, and his ears pick up three sounds.
First, Dante’s terrified voice, “How much farther to the safe house?”
Secondly, Vergil’s, hissed “Shhhhh, you idiot! They’ll hear us!”
And thirdly, to Sparda’s horror, the soft sound of what seemed to be blades being sharpened. He takes his true form, striking from the shadows to find the Death Scissor at the base of a tree, skulking for what had to be the twins. It doesn’t even have a chance to fight back, as he dispatches it with one swift slice. All it could do was shriek in protest as it dissipates into mist, its mask all that remains, before it is crushed under his heel. He faces the tree (an old oak that he planted nearly a century and a half ago, when he first built the now burnt out manor), and in the flash of lightning, he sees his boys, both soaked to the bone, flattening their distinctive hairstyles to the point that they’re no longer distinguishable. Although, Sparda can tell it’s Vergil, simply because he attempts to wield Yamato confidently.
“S-stay back!” his eldest says to him, obviously terrified. Dante, equally petrified, clutches his brother’s shoulder. It breaks the Demon’s heart...his sons, while aware of their father’s identity, have only seen his true form rarely. So he retakes his human manifestation, and calls to them.
Dad!
Father!
Both sons run towards him, and he holds them close. They are both safe and unharmed, praise be, and he picks them up, to take them to the safe house, a place that will, be a sanctuary, if only temporarily.
“What about mother?” Vergil questions, and for once, the proud and eloquent Sparda is left speechless. How to tell his sons that their beloved mother will never sing to them, never kiss them goodnight, never tell them how much she loves them?
“Vergil…” Dante says, and their father knows that the younger boy was there when his mother fell, perhaps in order to save him. Does Dante feel guilty? He should not… It is his father who is to blame.
“We have no time, we must move” he says, clutching both sons as he speeds through the forest, leaving the hellscape behind.
Devils never care for their offspring . The males usually leave after mating, and the females almost always abandon their young as soon as possible. If they perish? Then they were weak, and not worth worrying about. That is the way of the Underworld, the weak are winnowed and the strong are considered rivals.
Sparda sits in the cushioned chair in the small cabin, Vergil leans on his left side, Dante, his right. Both have been changed out of their cold wet clothes, toweled off, and now, hours after midnight, they’ve both finally passed out, clutching their swords, as if they are teddy bears. Their father remains awake, alert to any dangers. But, as the storm finally subsides, he senses no danger and allows himself to relax, and to think of the future. Obviously, it is too dangerous to stay here, they must flee. But to where? Sparda has accumulated residences and properties over the centuries, in various states of repair (Fortuna sounds tempting, but he has always been uncomfortable about living in an area that reveres him as a god) He needs to find a place with a good school, yet large enough where he and his boys can live in comfortable anonymity. His sons need new sets of clothing, footwear, books (for Vergil), and toys (for Dante). And Eva….
He needs to go back in the morning, no matter the danger, to retrieve what he can, and to give her an honest burial. She deserves that at least. She’d deserved so, so much more, but he’s failed her. He will have to bring her sons with him, to keep them safe from danger. They would never leave his protection ever again. He must keep her legacy safe, to honour her memory, to give himself a purpose.
Despite the rain finally stopping, he feels wetness on his cheeks. A leak on the roof? Or maybe he had forgotten to dry off his own hair….
Because as everyone knows…
Devils never Cry.