Chapter Text
Nero does not look back.
He definitely doesn't want to, and Orpheus would be keen to give him a good reason not to. Never mind that he’s scarcely even seen the front door of the House he’s been trapped in his entire life. Looking at yet another relief of his father carved into ageless stone is the last thing he needs to see. The less he thinks about leaving and more about going, the better. All that matters is that he's had enough, and he's not going to take any more.
The mini-hydras make it easy to keep his head up, around and back, and gods, these little buggers sure love twisting around, don't they? But they're tiny, fly-like things, perfectly-sized to get batted back by his sword. He's had more than enough practice to not miss.
Child's play, Agni would say.
Who is playing? May we join? Rudra would add, only to be promptly bonked on the head.
Nero can already hear the echo of his own laughter, like those of the Shades that overpopulate this hell that he only knows as home.
Gods, he's already homesick—no, he is sick of home, that's exactly it. There are wretched, damned things in front of him, tasked only with ending his quest, and he can't stop thinking about his half-brained sparring partners.
Better to dull his own ears to the roar of hellbats. Red Queen burns hot under his grasp, and he's eager to see how well he can fight fire with fire.
The answer is... not very well. especially when they dive-bomb the hell out of themselves just to keep him trapped here. He can still feel the burn of their flame-wings on his skin, even after its been soothed by the ever-red waters of the Styx. Whoever thought fire could fight fire must've been a fucking idiot, he thinks as he shakes the blood of the Styx free from his hair.
"Well, well, well... the prodigal son returns," a comical voice squawked from up the hall. "With his tail between his legs!"
"Fuck off, Griffon," Nero sniped.
The large crow barked out an echoing laugh and bristled his violet and cyan feathers. Beneath his hovering talons, Shadow lays in a peaceful lump, deigning to open a single red eye just to see her young master's return for herself.
"Hey, you'll regret that when you do escape! Then you'll never get to see our lovely faces again, eh, Shadow?"
The lazing panther gave a limp wave of her tail and nothing more.
Nero scoffed and marched past the latest wave of Shades crowding the corridor. Griffon and Shadow were already falling behind by hours; their tally of the newly-dead endless and ever-boring. It always surprised Nero, how the Crow of Death could still be so lively after all these eons of work, proceeding even his own father's reign. Shadow, at least, lived up to her title as the Panther of Sleep and little else. Their work, just below the importance of their lord's, wasn't exactly the most exiting fare, so he could never fault them for slacking off—especially not as harshly as his father.
Speaking of the devil, only one looming figure at the back of the hall awaits him, backed by the ceiling-tall mural Nero had once painstakingly recreated with the finest finger paints the Underworld could offer, just to earn a mere scoff for his effort.
His father had such impossible standards.
"Back so soon?" the boom of a nasally voice thundered from above.
"I thought Cerberus might start to miss me," Nero scoffed, refusing to meet that pair of piercing blue eyes that matched his own. “Didn't wanna make him upset."
At his left and his father's right sat the ferocious creature of name, all three heads perking up at their prince's approach.
"I don't tolerate dallying from the Shades of the lounge," his father drawled, leveling his heady glare right at Nero's brow, "let alone the prince of the entire realm."
Nero stifled a scoff by burying both hands into the fluffy fur of their resident hellhound. "I didn't ask to be second-in-line to this hellhole."
"Clearly," Vergil motioned at the line of Shades gathered behind the boy, signaling the commencement of court. Nero glanced at the nervous faces of countless Shades ready to heft their pleas upon his father, to his eternal displeasure. But, contrary to most mortal lore, that was all things really boiled down to, down here in hell. Waiting in line, filing parchmentwork, work, work, work; all of it repetitive and indefinitely insufferable.
The Fates had deemed all such work to be overseen by Vergil, God of the dead, Son of Sparda, and King of all the Underworld. Known by eons of names to daemons and humans alike, the most recent of which frustrated Nero to no end.
"In the name of Urizen," Dante had instructed him to say, just before his first escape attempt.
"Why the hell am I accepting it for him?" Nero had gasped. "I'd rather stick with Sparda."
"It’s not for him, it's still for you," his uncle scratched his head, searching for an answer that didn't sound like utter bull. "These high and mighty types are all about titles n' shit; you know the drill."
Nero huffed, as unbecoming of a prince as he could. "It's still stupid."
"'Course it is, but I'm sticking my neck out just to get 'em to look your way, so it's up to you to impress 'em, alright?"
And off Nero went.
That felt like so long ago, but it had only been a few attempts, he thought. Already, he was starting to lose count. Under ten, at least? If he'd gone over that he was sure Griffon and Shadow wouldn't let him hear the end of it. But even after a few tries, seeing those glowing orbs of power await him in each chamber doesn't lessen his excitement. Or his anxiety, if he's completely honest. But the only ones who would know about that are the Fates, and his whole plan relied on defying them anyway.
So he clears his throat, straightens his posture, and reaches out for the boon.
"Olympus, I accept this message!"
The brightest light Nero had ever seen pierced what posed as Tartarus' sky, blinding him. He dove back, only to find the ray of light planted itself right at his feet and grew out softly, as if to calm him. With enough blinks, he was.
"Hail, noble cousin!" a delighted voice called out.
Nero straightened, then gawked at the sight before him: a static apparition of what appeared to be an armored woman, standing tall, yet staring vaguely through him.
"Hello?"
Her ears perked at his response, though she still seemed unable to place his exact position in the vast darkness of his homeland. If he were any younger, he would have stuck a hand through her form, just to see if it was real or not. Good thing his father broke him of such 'childish' habits eons ago.
"I was quite taken aback when your uncle reached out to me," the goddess explained. "We have scarce heard word from your side of the family since your lord father rose to the throne. And we had no idea he was a father! But as delighted as I was to hear of you, I was more concerned at the plight presented to me. Hopefully, this will aid you well."
Another burst of light grew from the boon, replacing the visage of Athena with something that pulsed with power. It could only be a mere slice—from the goddess of wisdom herself—placed in front of him on a platter! And yet, it burned brighter and more potent than anything Nero had ever beheld.
He reaches out, just so the slightest spark can leap onto his fingers, and everything comes into focus. He doesn't know how exactly yet, but to power to find out now thrums underneath his skin. The world beyond his father's House feels within reach, and he sprints off to meet it in kind.
Even with the blessings of Athena and her ilk at Nero's back, Tartarus isn't the easiest jog, he'll admit. It lives up to its torturous reputation more effectively than all the epics Nero had been forced to read while growing up. Those first few chambers certainly tried their damnedest to send him right back home, but he manages to reach what looks like the entrance to the mysterious staircase that Dante had told him of.
"Once you're there, you'll be home-free to the next river," his uncle had said.
Perhaps he should have been a bit more specific, as one door shuts behind Nero and the next refuses to open before him.
A telltale tsch echoes off the thick stone walls, and a full-body shiver passes through his spine. Sure enough, as he turns, someone's waiting for him.
Standing between Nero and the last door of Tartarus is none other than Lady, first of the Furies.
"Sorry, kid, I can't just let you through," she sneers. "Daddy's orders."
"Lady, c'mon," he scoffs, strolling right up to her. But she recoiled like she had been presented with a platter of onions back in the lounge, and held up her infernal bazooka, the Kalina Ann.
"This isn't like one of your spars, Nero," she scowled. "Only one of us is getting out of here, and only by way of the Styx."
"I don't wanna fight you," he said sincerely.
"Too bad," Lady tsked as she twisted her mother's weapon into its ever-shifting form. "You made your choice the second you left."
The barrel burns bright, reflecting the full force of flame and ash in the mismatched shades of Lady's eyes.
Nero can only dodge so many shots.
On his next try, Nero is greeted by a flash of lightning illuminated upon pitch-black robes.
"Not you, too!" he groaned.
In Lady's previous spot stands Trish, second of the Furies.
"It doesn't have to be this way, Nero," she said in that low voice of her's, on par with Credo's for the most level-headed in all the House of Sparda. She always had a way of picking just the right words to draw him out of a lost fight, an argument with his father that would go nowhere, and so on. Where Lady raged and exploded, Trish blinked and flashed between conflict with naught but a spark of her signature lightning. Rumor was Zeus himself had a hand in her creation, the few times he dared dabble in the forces of the Underworld. Other rumors were not as flattering.
Nevertheless, she served the House of Sparda well, though she was one of few Nero had never witnessed Vergil personally reprimand. He knew from echoes through the halls that he sometimes had it out with Lady and Dante, but never Trish. He just figured her for the cool-under-pressure type—just like his father.
Perhaps, she'll be easier to convince than Lady.
"I just wanna leave, Trish," he pleads with his eyes more than his words. She was always more lenient with him when he was little. He could never tell exactly why.
"I can't be the first to tell you that sentiment is for scum," she flicked her wrist and summoned a bolt of light into her hands like it was nothing, "And I won't be the last, if you keep this up."
"Can't make me stop trying."
Trish smirked. "Good."
Nero swears even the spark of her brilliant smile sends a current of pain through his limbs. And light itself is much harder to escape than fire.
By his third visit to Tartarus' final chamber, he has no need to guess. He knows exactly who awaits him inside.
Lucia is the most befuddling of the three Furies. Firstly, she rarely speaks. Nero had thought her shy, and Dante and the others backed that theory in the way they allowed her to remain silent—even in the lounge—motioning and nodding as she returned small gestures and short sentences. Even Vergil seemed to be especially kind towards her, and that meant kind as in not actively admonishing her after every assignment.
By all marks, she was a model employee of his father's, and that meant she would take Nero down with no regret or comradery. He would have to really concentrate here. It might not even be fun.
"Lucia," he greets as cordially as he can.
"Your highness," she gave him a short bow.
"I don't suppose it would be a big deal if you just," he rolled a crook out of his shoulders with a sideways smile, "let me go?"
"You know why I cannot do that, highness."
"Of course," he sighs. It didn't hurt to ask, right? "Let's get this over with, then."
She gives him a hard fight. His most difficult with any of the Furies, not that he would tell Lady or Trish. Lucia’s twin blades are nothing to sneeze at, despite their short length. But that’s exactly where Nero’s small advantage lies—in her complete lack of range.
If there’s anything Credo’s spears and Dante’s double barrels have taught him, it’s how valuable space can be. Red Queen is the perfect length to swing between them without being touched, and he can heft just enough weight into blocks and parries that stagger her short, swift strikes. With the right swing at the right angle, the curve of his blade catches those of her own, and rips them free of her grasp.
The Fury's twin blades go flying into the wall, shaking the ageless stone beneath their feet.
Nero's so shocked at his own feat, Red Queen lags in his grasp, and he forgets to even press the advantage.
"Impressive," Lucia breathes out heavily, and the very sight brands a confident grin onto the prince's jaw.
Too heavy is that same smirk, however, that he can't wipe it off his face before she's right back in front of him with a flurry of blindingly-white feathers.
He had forgotten her power was so different from her sisters'.
But he definitely hadn't forgotten how harsh the cold, hard ground of the chamber felt, once she finally threw him into it.
At least Lady and Trish had the mercy to make his previous deaths quick. He's not sure if Lucia intends to teach him the lesson his father's tasked the Furies to enforce, or if her temperament for torture is merely stronger than her sisters'.
But as Lucia stands above him, her blades recovered and ready to strike, she seems to wait for the very dust whipped up around them to settle.
"I know how it feels to seem... out of place," she whispered so low, he scarcely heard it over the roar of his speeding pulse.
"You do?" Nero gaped, even as his lungs burned. But the faraway look in Lucia's bright eyes was crystal clear. "...You do."
"Mark my words, Son of Sparda," she saluted with a flourish of her blades and a whip of her braid. "If you earn the honor of besting me, you best earn your escape from here thereafter, or you will have more than your father to answer to."
Both blades slice through his chest with a violent embrace, and the last thing he sees is the agony in a single emerald eye swiftly hidden behind a curtain of red.
It will be many more tries before he can defeat any of them.