Chapter Text
Innsmouth. Three weeks later.
Though she is young(ish), most of her family is not. Her hybrid nature means she has a 95-year-old cousin who ages like a mortal and an uncle that remembers what the last Ice Age was like. Said uncle has been mistaken for her brother several times.
Her grandfather was born when all the world’s continents were still in one piece.
He used to tell her about the Permian-Triassic extinction. During those times, the now landlocked Siberian Traps were just off the coast of Earth’s single sea. He was there when they first began to rumble, and the eruptions would be continuous for the next two million years. The ash and carbon dioxide choked the sky, acidified the sea, and killed over 90% of all life on the planet.
Her family is made up of prehistoric killers. The Deep Ones are among the Earth’s first apex predators, and they’re one of the few species that have survived every extinction event their planet has thrown at them. Asteroids, global cooling and warming, demonic invaders, gods falling from the stars—they’ve seen it all.
The Great Dreamer makes them look like infants.
What’s half a billion years to a being that remembers the Big Bang? Her grandfather had the arrogance to call himself ancient in front of a Great Old One that considers time a new-age concept.
That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons, even death may die.
She dies and she dreams. The deep cocoons her, swaddling her with Mount Everest’s weight in pressure and freezing temperatures. In his house in R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
“Deformed spawn.”
Insults are a luxury only he can hurl. Being considered his spawn, even deformed, is a greater honor than many have gotten and a testament of her strength.
“Almighty Father. Where did my elder sister die?”
“Ythogtha lies in the Abyss of Yhe.”
She knows. His offspring’s underwater tomb is not far from the Grand Palace of Y'ha-nthlei. He was the one who infiltrated her grandfather’s dreams and demanded he make him a new ‘sister’ with the Great Dreamer’s blood.
At least, that was what her grandfather claimed. His word was as trustworthy as a paper mâché bridge.
“I want my sister.”
“You have no elder sister.”
“I will say her name.”
She floats in front of a single red eye. It fills her entire vision. Still, she asks her questions with only a moderate amount of care. It’s a spawn’s job to be annoying, after all. Especially one barely out of ‘infancy’.
“Ythogtha lies in the Abyss of Yhe.”
Her mouth twists. The eye flashes. Heat pours off it, burning her skin. Her blood aches.
Fine then.
“Is the Dark Knight Sparda dead?”
“Yes.”
“Does he dream?”
The eye is no longer indifferent. It’s speculative and plotting, burrowing around in her head. She hides nothing. When the Great Old Ones wake, her family will be the Ones to end them. Outsiders won’t be dragged into their battle.
“Yes.”
Something bumps her shoulder. She’s ripped out of the deep and startled awake.
An annoyed Sparda stares down at her. She groans and carefully rolls over on the two plastic chairs she had put together.
“Go away,” she mutters. “Brain hurts.”
Vergil yanks the chair supporting her legs. She yowls loudly, kicking at him once she’s stable. He isn’t miffed, and he gracefully sits in her stolen chair.
“Where do I begin? The fact she knew about my child or the Holy Knight she has in this…cylindrical tank.”
She glares at him, tugging her cardigan tightly around herself. “I told you, I didn’t know about your child.”
He sends a fierce look back. “Lying wench.”
“WENCH???”
“Lying, sadistic WENCH,” he loudly projects into her mind. She nearly slaps him for purposefully making her headache worse. He takes mercy on her and uses his larynx for once. “You met him. Strangely, he doesn’t remember you. What a mystery.”
“If I knew he was yours, do you honestly think I would’ve let him go back to Fortuna with a piece of the fucking Yamato?”
“If you found amusement in it, yes,” he deadpans. “Your kind feed off misery and chaos, do they not?”
She doesn’t need to. Hybrid benefits. Full-blooded Unseelie, however, are textbook energy vampires. Any emotion will do, but they have an instinctual tendency to gravitate towards negative emotions. Seelie prefer to feed on “light” emotions like happiness, love, and things of that nature.
Vergil’s misery is a sweet, potent one. Sipping on it makes her head spin. Sometimes she indulges.
“I am a piscivore,” she primly replies. Vergil doesn’t buy it, so she keeps the conversation moving. “But Credo has been a difficult subject. Even more difficult than you.”
“Do not insult me,” he snaps back, crossing his arms like he was genuinely offended by the comparison. “He hasn’t so much as twitched.”
Sanctus’ death lifted the psychic veil over Fortuna’s isles. She sniffed out the Captain of the Holy Knight on Ceres halfway to madness and plotting his revenge against Nero. Now, he floats comatose in a deprivation tank. She had fallen asleep waiting on one of his samples to finish a cycle in the lab’s centrifuge.
“It’s not his power. It’s the shitty alterations. Our makers didn’t care for us, but they cared about our stability and effectiveness as weapons. His cells are deteriorating at an astonishing rate. The Gold Orbs are helping, but I can’t keep pouring resources into him.”
“Then stop. Put the creature out of its misery and concentrate on a cure.”
She'll get to it. The other chimeras she recovered are deteriorating at the same rate, and she’s not particularly interested in continuing to research artificial interspecific hybridization. There’s enough of them walking around already.
“We should be close. All we need is a stabilizing agent, and they’re upstairs synthesizing it.”
The Gold Orbs alone can revert infected matter to its original state, but spontaneous combustion and/or sudden calcification is a guaranteed side effect. Happens within 5-10 hours of exposure. She is so glad they tested on plants first.
“Then this will all be over in a matter of…?”
“Days, I hope. How’s your kid doing?”
The corner of his lip tilts upwards. “Adjusting well. He is a lethal warrior and remarkable gunsmith. He also believed there were nine continents and had an hour-long argument with me over it. We’re looking at GED programs.”
Royals aren’t supposed to have witch cackles, but she’s always been a pretty shit royal. At least Vergil seems entertained.
“Technically—”
“Whatever sunken continents you know of don’t count.”
Fair. “Well, if you ever decide to look at universities, I’d say you’re guaranteed a spot here. If you put—"
Her mouth slams shut before she can begin the next syllable. Fuck. She nearly slipped up.
I need sleep. Real sleep.
“If you name me on your references, you should be fine,” she amends. “Just um…let me know beforehand.”
Vergil’s mind pulses with a restrained but formidable rage. Images of Nero exhausted and battered flash over his eyes. His hands are bloody and gripped tightly around the spine of the man who tried to kill his child.
“What have you been calling yourself? Reese?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve been nameless. I guess I should’ve made the switch to ‘Reese’ but…I don’t know. It just feels like I’m letting them win when I call myself that.”
He stands and opens a portal with Yamato. He leaves without saying a word.
She stares at the empty space bewildered. He didn’t even give her a chance to read his mind.
So complicated—
The air crackles, and a portal opens in the same spot. Two figures are tossed through. Both are dark-haired, bewitching Unseelie. They’re bound with enchanted iron chains, their mouths have been taped, and their clothes are in tatters.
Vergil calls Canary to his hand—hold on, when did he figure that out—and gives the blade to her. “I wanted to postpone my apology until the cure was complete, but circumstances presenting, I’d rather do it now.”
Dumbfounded, she stares at her daughter’s weapon with a slack jaw. “…I thought the Gold Orbs were my apology.”
“Those were a necessity. This is my apology. Do you accept?”
She nearly laughs. How could she not accept it?
“Yeah,” she can barely get words out. Her throat is so tight it might be closing. “But Canary was a gift too. You keep those.”
Vergil carries a softness she’s only seen in his own distant memories, and he brushes her tears away with a gentle hand. Her husband is lost in a jealous fit he shouldn’t be having, angrily yanking against his chains.
The petty bastard kisses the top of her head to make her husband that much more furious. She feels him smile against her skin before he pulls away.
“Then consider it a loan. Finish your war, Princess. Rest.”
Why?
The question sits on the tip of her tongue. Is it because he’s a father now? Was it because for a brief, harrowing moment, he nearly knew her pain? Does he despise the Unseelie sovereigns because they remind him of monster that tried to take his child from him, or does he despise them for what they did to her?
She doesn’t ask, and Vergil slices another portal into the fabric of reality before she can go looking for answers. She’s left in an empty room with her children’s powerless killers.
She spins the snarling sword in her hand and stalks towards the pair. Vergil’s misery may be sweet, but she knows theirs will be even sweeter.
And she wants her fucking name back.
The Southern Ocean. Two weeks later.
Death marches have a certain flare to them.
In her defense…honestly, there’s nothing she can say to defend it. She’s been devouring Ythogtha’s wrath, loathing, and humiliation like a starving dog. Ecstasy seems dull in the face of the golden ambrosia she gorges herself on.
Ten billion years he and his two brothers have been alive, yet an infant will be their doom. She’s been laughing since they passed Tierra Del Fuego.
“You court annihilation, deformed sister,” Ythogtha snarls. He has no visible mouth, instead speaking through the millions of suckers attached to his writhing, tentacled mass. His booming voice triggers an underwater landslide. “You share your grandfather’s deficiency.”
She giggles and twists out of the way of the falling rocks, showing off the Unseelie corpse she’s been dragging as if it were a prized Crocodile Birkin.
“I know. But I’m having fun. Isn’t that right, girls?”
Yidhra and D’endrrah silently trail behind the monstrous brothers. Unlike the Trinity, both can mimic humanoid forms. They bare their too-sharp teeth, but they don’t respond.
She doesn’t allow them to. Their sickly green indignation is delicious, tangier than spiced cider on her tongue.
Finding prey (of the fleshly kind) to feed on in polar hadal zones is damn near impossible. Hunting fish, arthropods, and other deep-sea creatures would have her expend more energy than she would gain is what she tells herself to excuse her vampirism.
Near the deepest point of the trench, she uncovers eons-old runes engraved into the sea floor. The Great Old Ones place themselves above the five runes, and she gulps down their last droplets of acidic spite.
“Ythogtha,” she purrs, high on gods’ hate and suffering. “Tell me. Was this fate your creation?”
“You know the answer.”
She hums, lazily spinning through the water. It’s a shame they don’t beg. She would’ve loved to deny them mercy.
She places the Unseelie corpse on the last rune and snuffs them out with a thought. Dark, oil-thick ichor leaks out of the fallen gods, filling the grooves in the runes until they glow bright red. They reach out to each other, and the seafloor is illuminated by a five-pointed star.
The trench floor splits open, rocking the ocean with a low, steady booming noise. Boulders tumble down from above.
It’s a good thing she destroyed all the ‘secret’ underwater recording devices in the area.
Tentacles like Ythothga’s spill out of the massive fissure, and they stretch so high she loses sight of them. A grey-green, seven-fingered hand rises out of the fissure, grabbing hold of the ledge to heave itself upwards.
Towering above her is the Secret Daughter of The Great Dreamer. Unlike her elder brothers, her tentacles don’t make up her entire body. They veil her in shadows so dark even her specialized eyes can’t make out her face. Only her eyes are visible, shining white in three rows of two. Three pairs of dragon-like wings sprout from her back. Cthylla is a leviathan of a Great Old One, nearly the same size as her father and just as powerful. Maybe even stronger.
She bares her neck and allows her hands to hang loosely at her sides. She keeps her gaze tilted towards the surface, projecting submission.
“Almighty Sister.”
A slimy, barbed tentacle shoots out from the veil and wraps itself around her. White-hot agony bursts over her gills, and she can’t help but shriek. Cthylla pokes around her too-strong mental walls, intrigued. She doesn’t put up a fight for long.
The Great Old One goes through her life like a flipbook, detached and undisturbed by the pain she brings. If she’s strong enough, she’ll survive. If she doesn’t, she isn’t worth a conversation in the first place.
Seconds Years Eons Sometime later, Cthylla releases her. The leviathan examines the only body still anchored to its rune.
“Deformed sister. You offer me a realm.”
Holding in her sigh of relief takes a lot of self-control. “I offer you two. Annwn and Unseelie Arcadia.”
“You dare ask me to finish a blood feud of your own design?”
“Yes. You gain two realms, and our Almighty Father trembles in death.”
Cthylla pauses, speculative. The Great Dreamer locked Cthylla away because she’s the only offspring that could surpass him. She’s prophesied to be his doom, and she’s the only thing that could resurrect him should he ever be destroyed. His salvation and devastation intertwined.
“Are you nameless, deformed sister?”
The ocean masks tears. She can’t feel them slid down her face, nor can she smell the saltines of them. Her only evidence is the tightness in her throat and the ache in her chest.
It might take some time to break that habit.
“No.”
“Then use it.”
She—
The Great Old One growls a warning, shaking the ocean floor.
Rhiannon bows her head to hide her smile.
Sated, the Great Old One offers one of her fingers to her. She summons Canary and slices it open. The wound is as long as Vergil is tall, but to Cythlla, it’s nothing more than a paper cut. She presses her finger against the corpse of the Unseelie Queen, and the last intact ruin glows bright purple.
Rhiannon closes her eyes to avoid charring them in the ensuing flash of bright, purple light. When she opens them again, Cthylla is securely housed in the body of the Unseelie Queen. Yidhra and D’endrrah’s stolen shapeshifting abilities allow her to make some modifications. She mimics Deep One features to cope with the hadal environment—gills, a powerful, broad tail, webbed fingers, the works—and steals some of her own personal ones.
She appreciates it. She’d rather have the goddess look like her actual big sister than look like the murderer of her children.
Cthylla examines her new hands, shifting them between nimble digits and squirming tentacles. Rhiannon leads her upwards, knocking against the water and listening to the sound. Around the midnight zone, the right portal echoes back. She wordlessly opens the rift to Arcadia, and Cthylla pauses before she swims through.
“Never refer to that bumbling reptile as ‘Almighty’ again. And you need not use it with me.”
Cthylla produces a doppelganger—oh for fuck’s sake, Yidhra could split her soul across multiple bodies too—and it swims through the portal.
“I’m intrigued about this ‘main’ quest of yours, little Rhiannon. Take us to Mount Hekla.”
She closes the portal and continues to swim upwards. Around the 1000-meter mark, they find colossal squid to feed on and portals that’ll take them to Icelandic waters. Rhiannon chooses the one that will drop them near the mouth of the river. While she has euryhaline adaptations, it’s better to make a gradual adjustment from saltwater to freshwater.
They swim upstream at a relaxed pace, occasionally doing their best salmon impressions as they launch themselves over the rapids. Once the volcano comes into view, they exit the river and travel the final few kilometers on foot.
Cthylla stares at the night sky above, stars glittering in her eyes. She hasn’t seen them since the late Cretaceous.
“Middle Jurassic, little Rhiannon,” she softly corrects. Some of the celestial bodies grow brighter. “Not all of your books were correct.”
She does a double take, shivers running down her spine. She didn’t even feel her slip into her mind.
“Will you kill him?”
The fallen goddess is still searching the heavens, undoubtedly looking for her home. A lot can change in 170 million years, including the stars. They’ve all moved, and many have died. Cthylla remembers a time when the Earth had iceless poles and only two enormous continents—Gondwana and Laurasia.
“Perhaps,” she scents the air, and her nose crinkles. “I had forgotten the stench of the Demon World. It’s only gotten worse.”
Hiking up an active glacial volcano in the dead of night is certainly one of the dumber things she’s done. Still, it only takes them an hour to ascend to the magma chamber. Cthylla calms the bubbling fire, and they use careful steps to maneuver through the super-heated space. They find a gap in the rock wall halfway to the bottom of the chamber, cold to the touch. Cthylla gives her the go-ahead to enter first, and she squeezes through the tiny space.
The Underworld lies on the other side.
Mount Hekla has long been viewed as a portal to Hell, but she doubts the locals are aware of how true those legends are. She can’t feel any demons in the area, and her much more powerful ‘sister’ agrees with her assessment. This portion of the Underworld is completely barren.
Cthylla scoffs, moving towards their target. “Barren excluding the castle.”
Rhiannon narrows her eyes, trotting after her. “Can you stop that? It’s only fun when I do it.”
The massive, stone-grey, gothic structure is a goliath of an ancestral seat, yet it sits unguarded—
“Because not even the most dim-witted of demons would disturb what lies inside.”
Rhiannon shoves the door open with more force than necessary. “I’m starting to understand why Vergil gets so pissed at me for that shit.”
Cthylla’s examines the dusty, decrepit foyer, feigning indifference. “All this out of affection for a lower being?”
“I think I fall under the category of ‘lower being’ too.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Find it yourself.”
To that, she smiles. “It’s wonder why Father thought he could control you,” Rhiannon raises her brow in question, and the unearthly glean in Cthylla’s eyes grows wicked. “I have been gifted galaxies that span across millions of light years, each packed with trillions upon quadrillions of thralls. Did you really believe you gained my favor because of a measly couple of realms?”
“…Maybe.”
Cthylla shakes her head, grinning with serrated teeth. “He was never your savior, little Rhiannon. Can you see that now?”
It’s not the betrayal that stings, but her own lack of foresight. She was a version of Cthylla they could both manipulate, Cthulhu and her grandfather. An infant with none of her knowledge but a near equal in power.
“And you’re still growing into it,” the Great Old One pushes her tense shoulders down. “You’ve already disposed of your grandfather. So long as you avoid Father’s territory in the Dreamlands, what harm can a dead god do?”
She knows why her answer was ‘perhaps’ now. Killing him is a family matter.
“None. But we should destroy him anyways.”
Cthylla’s purr is raptor-like, and she tugs Rhiannon forwards. “An excellent plan. Come. I’m quite curious about this place myself.”
They find their prize in the castle’s basement. It’s a plain, stone sarcophagus devoid of any reliefs, intricate runes, or enchantments.
Cthylla runs her finger over the stone, head tilted as she listens for what lies inside. Neither can hear a heartbeat, and the smell that leaks out is demonic carrion, pungent and rotting. Any non-telepath would be convinced the sarcophagus holds a dead body, and they’d be right. By all scientific measures, what lies inside met its end a long time ago.
But this corpse still dreams. They can hear it.
Rhiannon lifts her hands, leaving them palm-side up. The Sparda sword (which she gleefully stole from Trish) manifests in a red flash, hovering just above the sarcophagus.
“I’m assuming you never met him?”
“Only his victims. He was the reason why so many hid amongst the stars,” she chuckles, the sound grating oddly against her ears. “Eons’ worth of blood stains his hands, yet the humans deem them cleansed by a single act of altruism. What an amusing species,” she steps back, eyeing her curiously. “You hesitate, little Rhiannon?”
It’s not a straightforward gift, unfortunately. The Unseelie King and Queen weren’t either, but Cthylla was an ‘easy’ fix to the complicated aspects of it. With her on the throne, she doesn’t have to worry about retaliation from a vengeful Unseelie Royal Family.
She places the Sparda on the lid of the coffin before she can lose her nerve. “No.”
The sword’s jewel begins to glow, pulsing once every minute. Slowly, it begins to pulse at a faster rate like a strengthening heartbeat. The sarcophagus shudders, and the lid cracks as the Sparda sinks into the stone. She covers her eyes with her arm as a burning, white light bursts from the sarcophagus.
The Dark Knight Sparda is what greets her when she allows her shaking arm to fall.
She preps to curtsey on instinct, but Cthylla kicks her foot as her knees bend. The Great Old One glares at her, forcefully straightening her spine with her psionic claws.
Sparda is a little taller than the twins and broader in the shoulders. The white-haired demon wears a sweeping, dark purple coat over a black and gold vest. There are gold embellishments along the sleeves and collar. His pants match his coat, and the boots on his feet are brown.
He’s still wearing his wedding band. A beautifully crafted, mystical bracelet glitters golden on his left wrist.
Fuck.
Piercing blue eyes find her own, and a primordial power thrums over the room. A pleased shiver runs over Cthylla.
She nearly balks.
“The stories are true, then. Even Yog-Sothoth cowered in your presence,” the Great Old One murmurs. “What a rarity. A demon that dies like we do.”
The Dark Knight tenses, his breathing slowing down as he begins to adjust. He prepares to lunge, but she and Cthylla reach out in tandem and command him to stay.
He manages a step with gritted teeth. “Temen-ni-gru was brought forth.”
Both twins equal him in raw strength, but like her, their knowledge and technical skill pales in comparison to the primordial. For every block they throw, he finds a crack in the gaps almost instantly. Keeping Vergil comatose is child’s play compared to stopping Sparda.
“Your son closed the portal over a decade ago,” she swiftly replies. Her head is starting to pound. “I’m a friend of his.”
Cthylla is enjoying the challenge. She doesn’t want to help de-escalate the situation, but after some telepathic pleading, she relents with a soft sigh.
“I’m not going to eat this world, for my sister quite likes it,” she grumbles. “Do relax.”
Sparda stops fighting against them. Rhiannon releases him first, and Cthylla soon follows.
“Vergil closed the portal?”
Cthylla would’ve laughed, but Rhiannon slips into her mind and slams her mouth shut.
“Dante, actually.”
“Really? And you…” he inhales a little deeper, stepping closer. A surprised half-smile flickers over his face. “…are related to the Princess Ama’havondross?”
“I’m a niece of Queen Ama’havondross. Omoluthrol was killed years ago. My name is Rhiannon, Princess of Y’ha-nthlei. We have a lot to catch you up on.”
Carefully, she begins to tell the Legendary Dark Knight about what he’s missed. Some of it she skims over or leaves out altogether. Certain things are family matters, and probably best handled by his sons.
But she touches on the major things. The fire and what the twins did afterwards. Temen-ni-gru’s rise and fall, parts of Mallet Island, Vergil’s exile, return, and his grandson.
By the end of it, Sparda’s face is tear-streaked, and he leans against the cracked sarcophagus like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “I knew sealing my power away would significantly hamper my longevity,” his thumb brushes over the bracelet, and another tear slips out of his eye. “Eva hoped her power would help us buy enough time to raise the boys. She sacrificed most of her strength to keep me alive,” a wet chuckle falls out of him, and he shakes his head. “If anyone was going to raise Temen-ni-gru, I thought it would be her.”
Rhiannon swallows the lump in her throat. “He’s a good man underneath it all. They both are. But regarding Eva, I might be able to resurrect her too,” Sparda’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “I didn’t want to lead with it, but my little sisters are in Redgrave. They’re performing a séance as we speak. Eva’s mind seems sound, she’s willing to come back, and we have a body we can hollow out for her. I will warn you that we’ve tried this before and were…disappointed, to say the least. But if you want—”
“Yes,” Sparda says, desperate and wild. “Please. I’m willing to take the chance. Anything for her.”
Once they exit the Underworld, they split up. Sparda takes to the sky, and she makes her way back to the river. Cthylla is a flyer too, but she’s guessing the Great Old One enjoys the water more.
With their combined use of portals and sheer speed, they manage to beat the Dark Knight back to the decrepit manor. Redgrave’s river drops them off near the countryside, and the sky is deep indigo by the time they reach the property.
The eldest of the triplets, Nemain, greets her at the burned-out doorway. “Holy shit. You really did it.”
Rhiannon shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard. We’re gonna kill Cthulhu after this. You in?”
Nemain shivers, and Macha crawls out of her left side. Badb slithers out of her right.
“Of course we are,” the Morrígan say in sync, and they each offer a hand. “Hello sister’s big sister. We’re happy you walk amongst us again. Thank you for coming.”
Grinning, Cthylla splits her hand into three tentacles. She shakes them all at once.
“Hello sister’s little sisters. Let’s see what you can do, shall we?”
The Unseelie female her little sisters had captured is chained to the mantle. Unlike the child-murdering bitch queen, they need to keep her alive. Eva’s powers make her a long-lived mortal, but still a mortal. They play by different rules than true immortals.
Rhiannon rips the tape off her mouth with a serrated smile. “Mother. How have you been?”
Her mother-in-law tries to spit on her, but she sees it coming from a mile away. “Mongrel bitch! Arcadia will rise against you—”
She rolls her eyes and commands her to stop. “Yep. Still a whiny cunt. Cthylla, you mind?”
Her elder sister slices her finger open with her claw and allows some of her blood to fall into the Unseelie’s mouth. Once she swallows, Badb knocks her out cold. Rhiannon performs a telepathic factory reset and wipes all her memories, leaving a clean, empty brain for Eva to inhabit. Nemain and Macha place Eva’s personal items around the Unseelie—a charred hairbrush, a necklace, a ring, a music box, and the key to the manor.
Sparda arrives as they’re finishing the last few sigils. Despite the hurricane of emotions he’s throwing out, his eyes find the chained Unseelie first.
“She conspired to depose me and murder my children,” Rhiannon says. “Trust me. This is a kinder fate than the one I had planned for her.”
She gives him some time to process the greatest tragedy he’s had to deal with in his very, very long life. Though she doesn’t hear him cry, his shoulders shake when he finds the spot stained with bits of Eva’s burned flesh.
Her stomach growls when his heady sorrow finds her tongue. The triplets beg to take a chunk out of him, and they don’t drop it until she gives them a firm telepathic reprimand.
“My Lord,” her quiet voice is a gunshot through the house. “We need the Bracelet of Time.”
Sparda wipes his eyes, stands, and relinquishes the bracelet. Even though the young Morrígan are some damn good necromancers, she and Cthylla offer themselves as batteries. The last thing they need is for them to run out of power and create a Frankenstein fuck up.
With the Dark Knight watching, the triplets take her and Cthylla’s hands. Life-force draining is a strange feeling, somewhat like having blood drawn. Energy is sapped out of them in droves, but they both stand tall. The Unseelie’s dark soul is pulled out of her body as the Morrígan chant in R’lyehian.
Barring the Bracelet of Time, each of Eva’s personal items begin to melt into a shimmering, iridescent puddle. Eva’s soul rises out of the puddle and collects the Bracelet of Time, wrapping the jewelry in her bright white essence. The Morrígan guide both to the hollowed-out body, and they’re slowly absorbed into the empty but living flesh.
The body begins to convulse. Its scent changes, and time warps strangely as Eva’s signature power makes a home inside it. Brunette hair lightens to golden blonde, her nose grows, and her wrists become daintier.
When her eyes open, they change from green to blueish grey. Yellow spots are dotted around the pupils.
Eva seizes, throwing the timestream into a stand-still. Rhiannon tries to fight against it, but it’s like swimming through a puddle of molasses. Not even Cthylla is safe, and they both struggle to subdue the witch.
Sparda cuts through the distortion with a practiced ease. He snaps the chains and tenderly removes the tape from her mouth, cradling her face in his hands.
“I’m here, beloved. I came back. I’m never leaving again. I’m so sorry.”
Time speeds up again. Rhiannon can breathe, and she rushes to support her exhausted little sisters. Cthylla stands in front of them, wary of the temporal witch’s mental state.
“Sparda? Y-you…you…” she slams her fist into her husband’s shoulder, and he recoils from the impact. “You fucking bastard! You told us you were dying! Where were you?! Why didn’t you say the solution was the sword?!”
Rhiannon gives her a quick scan. Other than her apocalyptic anger, she seems fine. Her power is still settling into the new body (no fucking wonder the twins are so goddamn strong, their ‘mortal’ mother will be terrifying at full strength) but she shows no signs of physical decay or cognitive degeneration.
“I think we should let them have some privacy.”
Rhiannon quietly places two hand-written letters on a table near the door, and the sisters make their way to the front yard. The rising sun shines over the horizon, painting the sky in a watercolor of oranges, yellows, and reds. Dewdrops twinkle like diamonds on the grass around them, bathing the world in the earthy scent of petrichor.
Cthylla takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She swallows roughly as a few tears fall.
It’s her first sunrise in over 170 million years. She had forgotten what the warmth felt like on her skin.
Rhiannon thumps her head against her big sister’s shoulder. On the other side of her, Nemain does the same. Macha leans against her triplet, and Badb rests her head on Rhiannon’s shoulder.
She knows they’re supposed to kill God and all, but maybe…maybe Vergil was right. She’s done enough for now.
They can celebrate the new day with some rest.
Devil May Cry.
It becomes painfully clear that they need more desks in the office. His son is still happily settled in Fortuna, especially now that the Order is gone, but he likes to make visits when he can. Dante was surprisingly agreeable when it came to funding said desks, and he even took charge of ordering everything.
Vergil went over each item with a fine-tooth comb before he allowed his brother to press the ‘buy’ button. He’s still learning the ins and out of the internet, but Dante has always had a penchant for impulse purchases, purchasing things that only make his life harder, or both.
His brother and his son stare at a lopsided desk, both wearing matching expressions of befuddlement. They had spent the last three hours battling against the furniture.
“I don’t think that’s right,” Nero taps the desk with his foot, and it rattles unsteadily. “Did we mess up somewhere?”
“Na, it just has some character. Let’s start on the next one.”
Neither had read the instructions. They didn’t look at any pictures either. Dante had claimed he could ‘feel it out’ and his idiot child happily followed his uncle’s lead. They mucked it up at step one, and it only compounded from there. Helping them would drain the last of Vergil’s sanity, so he chose to watch the spectacle from the couch.
He sighs, turning the page to his book—
All three simultaneously raise their heads and look towards the door. Something had blipped on their radar. What they’re sensing is ancient, nigh-incomprehensible, but painfully familiar. Two presences that sing the songs of home.
It can’t be.
The door creaks open.
Mother and Father are in the shop.
It’s like they’ve stepped out of the portrait that used to hang above their mantle. Mother is in the same black and gold gown, red shawl around her shoulders. Father is in the same clothes he wore on the night he left.
“Dad,” Nero warily calls out, his hand moving towards Blue Rose on his hip. “Were you guys hiding another brother? And why does Trish feel…off?”
Father(?) pulls two envelopes sealed with gold wax from his coat pocket. Both parents imposters people are misty-eyed.
“Proof of our identities from Princess Rhiannon.”
Vergil is off the couch and in front of them in a blink. He takes the letter with shaking hands, carelessly tearing it open.
My dearest Vergil,
You left before I got the chance to say sorry. Innsmouth should’ve been handled a lot better. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me, and I tried to drag you into a war you had no business in. Truthfully, my hatred towards myself spilled onto you. I’ve chased power since I was a girl. My grandfather promised he would move me up in the line of succession if I accepted my alterations in R’lyeh, and I laid down on that alter willingly. I never got close to being Queen of Y'ha-nthlei, and becoming Queen of the Unseelie came at too great a cost. I’m done hunting crowns, and I hope you are too.
I’ve lost a lot, but I’m blessed to say both my parents are alive, together, and perfectly healthy. I couldn’t imagine them not being in my life. There’s gonna be a lot of hard conversations, but I promise they’ll be worth it. Please accept this apology, and please accept theirs too.
Your lying, sadistic wench,
Rhiannon “Reese” of Y'ha-nthlei
“She’s not Trish,” he croaks out, tears blurring his vision. “She’s…they’re…”
A quiet sob falls out of his mother, and she tugs him into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so, so sorry. It was never your job to protect us. It was mine to protect you, and I failed.”
He’s truly weeping now, incapable of speech or coherent thought. All he knows is that his mother came back for him, and his entire family is under one roof again. Distantly, he registers the sound of Dante opening his own letter and crashing into their father.
Oh God, his father. Temen-ni-gru, Nelo Angelo, Dante killing him, Innsmouth—he’ll have answer for all of it. They’re going to despise him, forever the disappointment of a son. They’ve always preferred Dante, and now he’ll be lucky if they ever want to speak to him again.
His mother pulls back sniffling. She wipes the tears from his eyes, giving him a weak smile as she caresses his face.
“Oh, look at you. My handsome boy. You’ve grown so much.”
"It's ok," is the only thing he can choke out. "It's ok. I failed. Not you."
"Don't believe that for a second. You were a just a child."
He almost doesn’t want to hug his father. It’s hard to meet his eyes, and the weight of all his past actions crushes his bones. Never did he think his father would be proud of the steps he took to emulate him. He sought to surpass his strength, nothing more. Dante and Nero will be his pride and joy, champions of humanity and saviors of the world so many times over.
“My brave son,” he begins, holding his forearms. “The world has not been kind to you, has it?”
If he weren’t half-demon, the pain in his chest would make him think he’s having a heart attack. He prays the Earth swallows him whole, but the ground refuses to open up.
“I haven’t been kind to it either.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Dante’s eyes are red and puffy, but the conviction in his voice is unmistakable. “He’s made up for it. What matters is that he’s here now, and we’re all doing good work together.”
His father pulls him into a hug. “You may have stumbled off the path, but that doesn’t mean you were lost forever. I was a scourge against this world far longer than I’ve been its guardian, but you hold no ill-will towards me, do you?”
Bawling like a child, he finally releases some of the shame that had been eating him alive. He shakes his head, his ability to speak gone yet again.
“No. We’ve chosen to be better,” his father says, warm and blindingly hopeful. “So long as we remain in the light, darkness will never find us again. We stand in the sun now, Vergil. Let the shadows fall behind you.”
He steps back, looking amongst his teary-eyed family. Dante is still holding onto their mother, and he doesn’t seem like he’s going to let go anytime soon. Neither of them is sure this is real, but if they’re dreaming, he hopes they never wake up.
He clears his throat and calls his son over. “This is my boy, Nero. He’s just started an office out of Fortuna.”
His son isn’t crying, giddier than anything. In just a few months, he went from having no one to having an entire family and a loving girlfriend.
“Grandma and Grandpa feels old,” Nero says, wry and grinning. “So…it’s nice to meet you Miss Eva and Gramps. When do we get to carbon date you?”
Mother chuckles and pulls his son into a hug with her free arm. She tries to use the other, but Dante clings onto her for dear life.
“Miss Eva is much too formal. We’ll figure something out,” she sneaks a sly look at Father. “But Gramps works for him. Most museum fossils are younger.”
Father’s face drops, and there’s a bit of horror in his eyes as he looks between Nero, Mother, and Dante. “He got their personality?”
A wet chuckle slips out of Dante, and he shakes his head. “Dude. We owe Reese big time. I gotta get to Arcadia.”
Oh. Right.
“I dealt with it a fortnight ago.”
“Wait. You did? You told me you were going to Fortuna!” His brother kicks him, still managing to hold onto their mother. “You kill-stealing bastard, I told her I was gonna take care of them! No wonder she was so pissed at me!”
Vergil furrows his brows, confused about the last part. His brother rolls his eyes and hands him the letter Rhiannon addressed to him.
Dante,
Yes, it’s really your mom and dad. Trish might call about losing the Sparda, don’t worry, I was the thief. Your father failed to mention ‘death’ for beings like him, Mundus, and the Great Old Ones is a lot different than what it means to mortals. Once I found his tomb, all I needed to restore him was the Sparda. Your mother required a bit more effort and the raising of an eldritch horror, but she’s pretty chill. Cthylla is indifferent towards humanity in the “I don’t care what happens to the world” way and not the “I’m bored so I’m gonna destroy the world” way, so it’s all good.
Grow some balls and tell Lady you can’t live without her. If you’re still pussy footing around it the next time I see you, I’m stabbing you, slathering you in jam, and leaving you in the back alley for the rats to nibble on. You deserve happiness. Goddamn.
Lovingly,
Reese’s Cups
Vergil scoffs and hands the letter back to him. “That’s not why she’s upset.”
“Why else would she be mad?”
“You cannot be this moronic.”
Dante makes grabby hands at his letter. “C’mon, lemme see what she told you.”
Vergil snatches it away. “No. You have your own.”
All too smug, his little brother hits him with a mischievous, “Well I want yours too,” and finally releases their mother to creep towards him.
Growling, he reaches for his power and prepares to summon his mystical swords. Rhiannon revealed personal details he’s decided to be very protective over—
“Boys!”
Both he and Dante freeze in their tracks. Their mother has her hands on her hips, her face flat.
“Really?”
As Nero (badly) attempts to hold in his laughter, the door opens. Light, rapid footsteps pitter-patter against the floor.
“Dante! I have the shirts for Nationals…” Patty skitters to a halt, eyes wide. She loses her grip on the cardboard box she’s carrying. When it falls onto the floor, the vibrations upset the desk his brother and son had been building, and it clatters to the ground too. “You’re not Trish.”
Nero finds a grenade and pulls the pin. “Hey cuzzo! Our grandparents just got resurrected. You picked a great day to drop by Deadbeats May Cry.”
Father’s brows have risen to his hairline, but he’s still smiling. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect to meet both of my grandchildren today. Especially since I wasn’t told about one of them.”
Mother turns her fierce glare onto him. “Do you not find that feeling enjoyable, dear?”
Dante’s face is pale, and he rushes to push the little girl out of the door. “You have one grandson. Just one. She’s a stray that likes to break in sometimes—”
Patty slaps Dante’s wrist when he tries to grab her. “A stray?! I’m the only reason this place is semi-clean! I followed you into Hell and pulled you out all by myself! Now I have to make more shirts! And did you try to build something without reading the instructions again? Why is there a bunch of wood and screws in the corner?!”
Vergil knows they’ll need to talk about everything in the future. His brother is happy they’re together again, but at least one fight over the ‘death god’ thing is brewing between Dante and their father. Mother feels stronger than ever, so maybe she’ll be able to stop them before they destroy a city block.
But for now, they flip the shop’s sign to ‘closed’ and settle around the disassembled desks scattered throughout the office.
The sun is shining, and they all have bonding to do.