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Sparda was a legend. He was a demon, a warrior, a lord. He had lived for longer than humans dare dream about. He had seen the rise and fall of human empires many times over. He had once possessed power that made the world tremble. The way he walked proclaimed it to all, a lordly gait full of confidence, like a predator. He never had to say anything or make any excess motion; everyone parted for his passing, unconsciously bowing to the power and authority coming off him in quiet waves, be they demon or human, whether they knew him for who he was or not. His calm footsteps echoed quietly in the grand hallway.

“You can’t be here!” said the human weakly, backing away but not fully retreating yet. “You are not wanted!”

He was a short and portly man, balding in a most unfortunate manner and perspiring heavily, but still managed to look somewhat dignified in his status as a guardian. The rest of the humans Sparda had just passed were lingering in his wake, reluctant to get in his way again. They were all brimming with power as witches are wont to do but they still hesitated to cross him.

Sparda’s stride did not break, cold blue eyes fixed at his target. The doors were warded, heavily so, but so were the gate and doors he had passed through earlier to come here.

“Stop!” pleaded the human between him and the doors. “You cannot interfere! These are our affairs! You–you said you would never interfere!”

Sparda drew the sword he carried at his side, a long, elegant blade with a gentle curve like the moon. The ward on the doors, a visible, palpable veil of blue, quivered. He levelled the sword at the doors. The human between him and them gasped.

“Alright!” he blurted. “Alright! I will let you in! You don’t need to do that!”

Sparda’s cold stare moved, from the doors to the man. He was breathing hard and stared up at the Dark Knight in a flux of emotions; fear, anger and worry.

Sparda lowered the sword.

“Let me through, then,” he said, voice like cracking ice.

The sword was sheathed and the wards on the doors parted like curtains. The wooden doors creaked open by themselves, reluctantly. Those inside did not want him there, but admitted him all the same. He stepped through, blade at his side like an old friend. The witches behind him breathed out at last. The ones beyond the doors held their breath in turn.

It was a big, open but indifferent room; they had turned it into a courtroom for their purposes. He found it pleasing. Even in their quest for vengeance they still latched firmly onto the trappings of humanity, the idea of justice he had so ardently defended.

There were many of them there, old and young and his arrival had silenced a cacophony of arguments. In the middle of the room, two people sat in chairs. They were bound so thoroughly with both magic and mundane means that it would be almost comical if it wasn’t sad. The man was bent over slightly, dazed; likely drugged. The woman was straining in her bonds, gagged and glaring at the entire room.

Sparda walked in, stood in the middle of all those witches like a fox in a henhouse, rested his hands on top of the hilt of the blade, and spoke.

“I have come to interrupt these proceedings with a request.”

He would have these two captives whether the other witches liked it or not.

============

He gave them a year and a day.

Sparda still walked like a panther as he approached the house, but stopped briefly to take it all in.

So, the man had built a life for himself in that short time. A nice house, not too modest, not too grand, a bit ways out of the town and near the coast. It was old and handsome. There was a mighty bougainvillea growing along one wall, trying to wrap around the house and over the porch. There was a charming, if neglected yard. He saw smoke lazily rising from a chimney in the rear. He saw all the wards, carefully woven into the structure, all around it like a fortress. It was a safe home.

He walked up to them and the wards parted, bowing away from him in an almost welcoming gesture. They followed him in wisps and whispers up to the front door. His footfalls were soft now, barely making noise. He stooped slightly under the porch roof. He reached out but before he could knock on the door or ring the bell, the door opened inward.

She stood at the door like a cat, alert and looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. She blinked and her green eyes searched him up and down appraisingly. Sparda could not help himself, and smiled. The Templar look. Time and quite a few generations of witches hadn’t diminished it at all, the same fearless and haughty look of witches of eld. And the same small stature, they were all always so short!

“Miss Templar,” he said politely and bowed.

“It’s Mrs. Straemer now,” Sophie said smugly but her smile was tight. “Sir Sparda.”

They stood there staring each other down and Sparda was amused. Very brave of her, not to bow or scrape or cower in his presence. A gutsy woman from a bloodline of fearless bastards. She was still so young, barely past twenty summers. She hadn’t changed much since that fateful evening. Still thin as a willow, unbending like a tree and dark-haired like a raven.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he said at last. “I’m here to see Erik.”

“I know,” she said, and finally stepped aside. “Come in. He’s working.”

Sparda stepped inside the home. His amusement increased; a house built around two people of similar short height made him feel like a giant. It was awkward but cozy. This was the home of two young people, very much in love but who had no idea what they were doing and it showed. Everything was lovingly, if haphazardly, arranged compared to his stately manor. A stack of art books here, an unfinished bit of knitting on the sofa there, a mess of papers around a standing piano in the corner. Splashes of color in things like a vase of flowers, a throw-rug on the modest sofa, a fanciful poster on the wall. The smell of cooked food filled the air, something with pasta and a lot of garlic.

“Work suits him, then?” Sparda asked, trying his hand at the human art of small talk, and to her credit, Sophie gamely reciprocated, despite the tension he sensed in her.

“He finds it very soothing,” she replied and gestured to him to follow her. “Come to the back, he likes to work in the light.” “

Have you both been well?”

“We’ve been left in peace for the most part,” Sophie said cooly. “Mother doesn’t visit. My familiar is watching over her.”

They were not friends, not even remotely. Not after what he’d done to secure their lives. They owed him. They were vassals to his lord and Sparda felt the weight of it. But he couldn’t quite imagine her take on it. A witch who owes you a favour is at your disposal and they commonly don’t like it.

Erik must have liked it even less.

Sparda found the space opened up in the studio. He could read the room like a book; once a conservatory, now an art studio, for the sake of the light. A brick furnace in the back yard just beyond the glass walls was the source of the lazy smoke he’d seen earlier. The soot that had settled on the glass filtered the light. He could finally stand straight in the tall room.

Erik was busy in the middle of creation. He pushed and pulled the material under his fingers to shape it, stopping only to study where he would take it next. It bent and flexed under his fingers, following the shape he was building it into. Sparda tilted his head to determine what was being created. A frame of sorts, taller than it was wide, almost like a window. It wasn’t lying on a table but was suspended on a sort of framework of metal that seemed to grow out of the floor. Erik was carefully bending the material smooth to shape it. He grabbed a fistful more from a glowing crucible nearby and added it delicately to the work.

Sparda watched, lost in admiration. He was working it like clay, but it was molten metal, shaped under Erik’s careful hands. Smoke rose from the work but Erik’s hands were unburned; the metal responded to him, lighting up hotter where he touched it. The redhead looked rather feral in his concentration, eyes focused. He moved his hands slowly and deliberately, carefully arranging the material in a way that suited him. Under his fingers, the metal yielded and bent in ways thought impossible by physics. It shaped itself under his command into a pleasing pattern of floral arrangement, organically growing from the base toward the top into restrained flourishes and tight formations. It looked quite splendid even in its unfinished state.

Sparda tucked his hands behind his back, watching the fey man work in silence. Erik’s features were sharp, delicate and hawkish, his brow barely furrowed. His scarred face gave away nothing, just a fixed look of concentration.

“You’ve come early,” Erik said suddenly, still fixated on his work. His accent was thickly nordic.

“We had no standing appointment,” Sparda replied, smiling slightly.

“You said a year and a day,” Erik countered, standing straight and rubbing the small of his back, flecks of molten metal falling off his fingers. “We parted ways at midnight back then.”

Sparda stared at the back of Erik’s head as the man refused to face him. “I’m pleased to see you’ve taken your work to heart this much. I’ve seen some of your pieces on display in galleries.”

Erik finally turned to face him, snapping up a rag to wipe his hands with as his work cooled.

“People seem to like what I make,” the redhead said. “This one is for us. A mirror. I plan to display it in the house.”

Sophie had moved past Sparda and gone to the side of her husband, lips tight and staring the Dark Knight down. Seeing them side by side, they were both so guarded before him. Nervous, expecting.

“Why are you here?” ventured Erik flatly.

Sparda exhaled softly. “There is something I need to do,” he said coolly. “And I need your help. I’d like you to come with me. I need your skills.”

They all said nothing for a moment, and Erik’s brow twitched. Then he sighed.

“I see. What are you after? I will hold my end of the bargain but tell me what you want.”

“Your company, for one,” Sparda said, smiling tightly. “There is something I need to resolve but… I’m afraid my powers alone are no longer enough.”

Sophie and Erik visibly relaxed a little, their shoulders drooping slightly. Sparda observed that both had been bracing for something, probably something worse, and their hands searched for each other quietly. She squeezed his hand in hers.

“You want me to fight,” Erik said flatly. “I’m not a warrior, Sparda. I never was. I was an attack dog.”

“You fought well enough,” the Dark Knight replied. “I need your power for a short journey.”

Erik stared at him, searching his face for answers.

“You know I cannot turn you down,” he sighed, and Sophie tensed once again. “Once I gave my word, my fate was sealed.”

“This is cruel–” Sophie blurted but Erik suddenly hushed her by hugging her against himself.

“No, it’s not,” he told her gently. “It is only right. He spared my life, I owe him a boon. And a… fey must repay a life boon with another.”

Sparda unclasped his hands from behind his back. He relaxed. He tilted his head with sympathy.

“I know that what I ask is difficult. I do not ask it lightly and would not ask at all if I had another choice. Travel with me for a while, that’s all I ask.”

Sophie glared at him through bangs of her black hair. Erik kissed the top of her head.

“It’s going to be alright. If he wants a travelling companion, I’ll go with him.”

He let go of his little wife and Sophie stood straight, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching like a cat sharpening its claws.

“And of course I cannot come with you,” she said with a tinge of anger.

Erik and Sparda nearly spoke together. “No,” said the Dark Knight. “Absolutely not,” said Erik.

She folded her arms imperiously. “Very well,” she sulked. “But I expect–I demand you bring him back to me intact.”

“Of course, my lady,” Sparda said with a small bow of his head, smiling at her cheek. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

“You want to leave now, I expect,” she said sharply.

Sparda nodded. “If at all possible. The sooner it’s resolved, the better.”

“And you can’t say what exactly this is,” she insisted.

He smiled wanly. “Better that I don’t, Mrs. Straemer,” he said. “The less you know, the safer. It is just unfinished business of mine that needs to be put to rest.”

“I’ll come with you now,” Erik said, looking back at his artwork. “I can leave this as is for now. Sophie, keep Roy with you. If my agent calls–”

“You’re out of town for a while, I’ll fend him off,” she said to him, then gently gave him a push. “Go change, at least. You’re in your work clothes.”

Erik stared down at himself as if he forgot what he looked like. He was a thin man and looked reedy but he worked shirtless and was toned and muscled. He was scarred all over, his face, torso and arms were seared with old scars, some big, some small. He had unexpectedly delicate facial features that would’ve been handsome without the scars or the scant stubble endeavoring to add a touch of ruggedness to his face. His red hair was peppered with flakes of soot and burnt metal. His hands were soiled with more of it and his work pants and shoes were pockmarked with burns.

“Right. I shouldn’t go out like this,” he mumbled and wandered back towards the house.

“Don’t step on the rug!” Sophie called as he walked off without a care in the world. “Take your shoes off–Erik!”

She hurried after him, just glancing back to look at Sparda as she went after her husband. “Sit in the living room, please, he’ll be back down–” she said hopelessly.

Sparda smiled.

Half an hour later, Erik wandered down the stairs after a shower and a change of clothes. In the meantime, Sophie had come back downstairs, looking terse and served Sparda some tea. They had endeavored another foray into small talk, a little more successful than the last. Mostly about witches and the goings on in their little world. Sparda liked Sophie; she was brave but sensible. She knew when to back down and when to stand her ground. He honestly had expected her to fight him more. He thought he would’ve had to frighten her.

Erik fit for travel looked… depressingly ordinary on the one hand yet still stuck out like a sore thumb on the other. His red hair was a mess even after an awkward attack with a comb. He wore jeans, a gray turtle-neck shirt that did a lot to hide his scarred body and a dark blue woolen pea coat with boots. Sparda tilted his head a little. He suddenly felt over-dressed, in a gray business suit with a purple vest and a monocle. Perhaps he should lose the monocle, he thought, but he was oddly fond of it. It was so tedious keeping up with human fashion and norms.

Erik looked him up and down. “You stick out like a king,” he said bluntly.

“This is the most casual suit I own,” Sparda blurted before he could stop himself.

“Oh, just get going before I change my mind!” Sophie exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “I can’t take this anymore. Pretending to make small talk with the Dark Knight Sparda himself while he prepares to take my husband away to gods-know-where is a right nightmare. Go and get it over with and come back!”

She all but bundled them out of the house as Sparda grinned a little. Clearly this was her politest way of saying she couldn’t stand him there anymore. Erik hesitated at the top of the porch steps, holding her hand. He kissed it and walked down the stairs briskly after Sparda, who sailed down the steps towards a waiting car.

It was one of those big and powerful American muscle cars, in shiny black. In the absence of demonic steeds, these creations of man had rather endeared themselves to Sparda for their power and sleek design. Erik tilted his head a little, staring at it.

“You drive?” Sparda ventured.

“No,” Erik said, looking the car up and down, then got in when Sparda gestured to him. “Sophie drives us everywhere.”

Sparda got into the car and his gaze stopped on a dinky little european car parked on the edge of the property.

“I see.”

“She drives like a maniac,” Erik said cheerfully as he settled into the passenger’s seat.

“I suppose she drives like an Italian,” Sparda said with a smirk, starting the car.

“Is it too late to ask where we’re actually going?”

“On a trip,” Sparda said laconically and drove off, glancing at the waiting figure of Sophie at the door of the house fading in the distance, something Erik judiciously avoided looking at.

He instead squinted at Sparda. “To where?”

Sparda’s gaze lost the human softness and acquired a cold edge. “We’re not going very far. There is, just beyond the limits of the county, a… shall we say, a cult. They have been doing things in my name, things I don’t like. I think you are more familiar with them than I am.”

Erik said nothing but his gaze was hard. His auburn eyes blazed quietly as he stared out of the window at the passing road.

“You’re taking me back to my old masters,” he said.

Sparda’s smile was stiff and uncomfortable. “No. They’ve become quite a nest of hornets in a place that I once held important. I still do. I want them out of there.”

“Taking me back to fight them is your idea of justice. I’m surprised there were any left after I fled them,” Erik said sharply. “I was not merciful. I thought I burned them all.”

“They are nothing if not persistent,” Sparda said. “They will come after you, and then after me,” he continued, his voice hard. “We cannot leave them be. They want things I cannot and would not give them. They want you back. They have, I’m afraid, rather tied our fates together. I cannot afford to let them be any more.”

Erik had sunk low in his seat. He was apprehensive. “I swore not to kill again, Sparda,” he said coldly.

“They are not human any more,” Sparda fired back quickly. “I’m not going to ask you to kill humans. The demons they control are plenty enough.”

“What is this place they’ve taken?”

“I once called that place a home, of sorts. A secret fort. I laid out battle plans with my few allies, centuries ago,” Sparda said fondly. “It bound me to my home… to the Underworld. It is a dangerous place and these humans do not understand how much. I was careless to leave it as it was. I must correct this mistake before…”

He hesitated.

“You’re scrambling to fix mistakes,” Erik said flatly.

“Yes,” Sparda admitted.

“I see.”

They said nothing for a while, Sparda just concentrating on driving and Erik staring out of the window in silence.

“This is going to be awkward if we both say nothing,” Sparda observed after a good while of that.

Erik seemed surprised. “You want to talk?”

“What else is there to do?”

“I’m terrible at small talk, Sophie tells me all the time,” Erik said, slightly panicked.

Sparda chuckled. “I’m trying to improve. Tell me about your life after the court. Did you have a hard time?”

Erik seemed to sink into his seat even more. “No… yes. We had to move out here where there are no other witches and Sophie and Roy keep a very vigilant eye. Some tried to come after us. Sophie fought them off. Her mother hates me. I think she’ll kill me herself if she gets the chance.”

Sparda nodded. “She has a point. Most witches do.”

“She thinks I stole her daughter,” Erik said, cracking a fond smile. “I think she stole me. I know nothing of the human world, I’m like a child. I need her to teach me everything. Do you know,” he rambled, “the other day she taught me how to use the bank. I got money by myself. Money I earned.”

Sparda’s lips parted in an indulgent smile. “Humans do value what they’ve earned for themselves.”

“I don’t understand why people pay so much for my work. It’s only metal.”

“You’ve given it life, the way you shape it,” Sparda said, surprised at his attitude. “I saw the bust you made of Sophie, in a gallery. It’s so lifelike it’s almost inhuman. You’ve captured her likeness beautifully. Humans find such beauty hard to resist and value it highly.”

Erik blinked and sounded dubious. “Hmm. I suppose. How do you live?”

“I have what I’m told is ‘a fortune’. I pretend I inherited it. It’s mostly artifacts of value. My wife has her own money,” Sparda said casually. “I’m bad at keeping track of money. I don’t really need it. I don’t spend it on many things. She handles all the finances now, thankfully.”

“What do you spend it on?”

“Information, mostly,” Sparda said, shrugging. “Humans like to be compensated. I ask them for information about demons, about problems… they tell me and I pay them. Some want other things but I am very careful with what favors I oblige. Sometimes there are things I like, like… paintings. I'll buy them if I can.”

“It must be strange for a demon to exchange money for things. You’re used to just taking things you want.”

Sparda’s smile thinned. “I don’t do that anymore. What is Sophie like, as a person?”

Erik seemed to not notice the desperate change of subject but spoke fondly. “Sophie is a rock. She’s stubborn, and angry and kind. She hates it when I wallow. I’m told I wallow a lot. I hate myself, you know.”

Sparda glanced at him.

“She says I hate myself because of what I’ve done,” Erik mused. “I did what I was told for so long that I don’t really know what it’s like to make decisions for myself. It's difficult doing what I want because I want it, now. I’m still not used to it. I’ve killed a lot of people. Sophie says I feel bad about it but I don’t know. I think about the witches, the people I’ve killed and I feel nothing. I just feel empty. I didn’t know them, I didn’t feel anything when they died. But I don’t want to do it again. I feel good when I make things.”

“How did you discover that?”

Erik shrugged. “I don’t know. Sophie was angry at me when we met. She blamed me like all the others. But she was… kind to me. She was angry at what was done to me. Angry that I wanted to die. It was the first thing I told her, I asked her to kill me. But she yelled at me, brought me to my senses. I didn’t want to die, not really. So I wanted to do something for her. I’m fey, I need to give back what I receive. I found this lump of metal and I shaped it. She liked it so I gave it to her. I felt something while making it.”

“What was it?”

“She wears it as a necklace now,” Erik said cheerfully. “It’s just silver with a black rock stuck in it, but she says it’s beautiful. She’s woven magic into it. I felt… good making it. I can’t explain it. I wanted to make more things. It’s very different from destroying things.”

“It is,” Sparda said. “I’m glad it works for you.”

Erik rummaged in the inside pocket of his coat. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Sparda glanced at him curiously. “You smoke? I’m told those are very bad for your health.”

Erik seemed nonplussed and retrieved a cigarette from a packet. He pinched it between his lips delicately and lit it with a thin flame from his fingers. “I’ve been smoking for a while, since my days with the cult. I don’t remember how I started. I think one of my masters let me try it and I just liked it.”

“It’s a bit disgusting,” Sparda said reproachfully, but didn’t stop him.

“I know, I think that’s why I like it,” Erik said cheerfully. “I know I should quit. Sophie tells me all the time. I don’t smoke in the house, or my studio. I haven’t smoked at all today.”

Erik took a drag from his cigarette slowly.

“You said you have a wife,” he said.

Sparda smiled and his hands tightened around the steering wheel of the car. So the awkward man knew how to steer a conversation away from himself. Perhaps not with the greatest subtlety, but still.

“I do,” Sparda said fondly. “My dear Eva.”

“What is she like?”

Sparda had to think for a while before answering. “She is… my rock. My lady. She has changed me. I thought I had changed just by living among humans but I suppose I wasn’t really living until I met her. Just sort of existing alongside humans. Eva has made me look at humans differently. I better understand what I first thought was worth fighting for.”

Erik sniffed and exhaled some smoke out the car window.

“Has she seen what you really look like?”

Sparda stiffened a little. “She has. I am nothing if not honest with her.”

“Is she not… you know, afraid of you?”

“She says not. I think she approves. She has called me handsome,” he said and coughed lightly. “I don’t know, though, I’ve never really been able to judge the attractiveness of humans. My human form is just mimicry.”

“My wife says I’m not really handsome but she likes me all the same,” Erik said smugly.

Sparda glanced at him, amused.

“Why are you smug?”

“Because you are what I think most people call handsome. Your wife must like you. I would like to sculpt you.”

Sparda was taken aback by that comment. “Me?”

“Yes. You’ve been in artworks before, I’ve seen you. But the likeness is wrong. They make you too noble, too inhuman. Never quite right. Or they make you a demon but you never seem demonic enough.”

Sparda coughed a little, again. “I was never fond of being immortalized. It has usually been… too vain and too untruthful.”

“I don’t care, I want to sculpt what you look like as a human,” Erik said, nodding determinedly. “You don’t even need to be there, I’m good at remembering faces. You have a very interesting face.”

Then he grinned a little impishly. “Your wife might like it.”

Sparda started laughing. “Of that, I have no doubt. Perhaps one day we’ll both sit for a proper portrait. Not photography, something more… lasting. I would like to have it displayed in my home.”

There was another long silence as the car ate the distance with rapidity. Sparda was generous with the gas pedal. They started to leave the city behind. Erik suddenly squirmed uncomfortably.

“Will this trip be very long?” Erik asked.

“You know, I’m really not the best at judging these things. I used to travel through the Underworld, distance was rather relative,” Sparda confessed and there was a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “It may take us a day or two by car. Why?”

“I’m beginning to get thirsty.”

Sparda hissed a little. “I… I admit I forgot about your human needs. I don’t have them, so…”

“It’s fine. There must be somewhere to stop for water, I have money,” Erik said a little proudly.

“You’re right, there must be. I would also like to consult a map…” Sparda mumbled.

Erik stared at him, eyes going a little wide. “...Why?”

“I haven’t been to my old fort in centuries. I don’t really know the lay of the land around it anymore. Humans have built so much over it. I might get us a little lost,” Sparda confessed.

Erik groaned. “We’re going to get lost.”

“No, we aren’t, I just need to look at a map, there is one in the glove compartment, have a look for it,” Sparda protested.

Erik chuckled a little and leaned forward to open the car’s glove compartment. A mess of papers was inside. He fiddled around a little and finally found an old folding map. He didn’t even attempt to read it. He just placed it on the dashboard carefully and stared out the window, a little like a child passing the time, smoking. Sparda was alarmed to see him put out the stub of his cigarette in the palm of his hand. There wasn’t even a hiss of burning flesh and Erik threw the stub away outside.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” Sparda ventured.

“No, not really,” Erik answered, sounding a little bored. “I don’t go out much unless there’s somewhere to go. I go on walks with Sophie sometimes but I prefer the indoors. I get distracted outside and stressed without something to do.”

“Am I boring you?”

“A little,” Erik said bluntly. “I don’t know how to talk that well and I’m not a very interesting person.”

“You’re the Salamander, a mighty fey in the confines of a human body, even demons know about you, how could you not be interesting?” Sparda said curtly.

“Dealing death being my only claim to fame is not interesting,” Erik said stubbornly. “It’s depressing. I’m not like you. Even I know about the stories of your heroic deeds, Sparda. I’m just a murderer.”

Sparda’s eyes sparked a little, indignant at his words. “I’m not the great hero everyone makes me out to be. I’ve sinned more than most. Your old captors are to blame for your deeds, not you, Erik. I did what I did with my eyes wide open. It was my nature.”

Erik said nothing for a moment. He squirmed again in his seat.

“I wish I had known better then,” he muttered at last.

“Don’t do this to yourself now.”

Erik shook his head. “No, you don’t understand… I feel nothing. I don’t feel bad about the deaths I caused, they mean nothing. That’s what upsets me. I should feel something but I don’t.”

Sparda’s grip on the steering wheel tightened again, lightly. “I understand that sentiment more than you realize.”

“Can we stop somewhere now? I’m truly thirsty,” Erik said and clamped his jaw.

Sparda knew he shouldn’t press further. They were in the outskirts of the city now. He spotted a dive bar on the side of the road, a low building with a cheerful neon sign glowing in the gloom and a row of motorcycles parked out front.

“Of course. Ah, that looks promising.”

He pulled up beside the building, among the parked motorcycles and they stepped out of the car. Erik stared up at the structure dubiously.

“Is this… a bar?” he said.

“Yes, it looks like it. I haven’t been in one in a few decades at least, but how much can a tavern really change in the meantime?” Sparda said, trying to sound cheerful.

He looked at the low building a little dubiously.

“I’ve never been to a bar before,” Erik said, stuffing his hands in his pockets against the chill. “I think I want to see what it looks like on the inside. Sophie says they’re weird. She doesn’t care for them, I think.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in having a look,” Sparda said, stooping just long enough to snatch the map from the car.

He opened it on the hood and studied it in the light of the bar’s neon signs.

“I think I see where we are, but I can ask inside.”

They walked into the bar and too late did Sparda realize that they stuck out like fish out of water. The interior was smelly, a mixture of stale alcohol, body odour and other indescribable scents that assailed his fine-tuned senses. The music was loud and droning, one of those modern ‘rock’ pieces he was never sure how to feel about. The space was crowded with patrons, all of them looking oddly similar despite looking nothing alike; there was a prevalence of dirty jeans, leather and worn T-shirts, long beards and longer hair, and narrow, suspicious eyes that cast sidelong glances at them from around tables and a pool table.

Erik stared in utter fascination. He seemed mesmerized by the rough and ready decor and the scruffy clientele of the bar. He tilted his head slightly and his gaze travelled over everything, wide-eyed.

Sparda thought best to jostle him gently towards the bar, where an opening between bodies gave way to the barman.

“Good evening,” he said, suddenly aware of how out of place he was. “We’d like some drinks and directions.”

The barman, a tall, broad man with a handsome sandy handlebar moustache stared at him briefly, then grinned a smile that was all crooked teeth and exactly one gold filling.

“Sure, what’ll you have?” he said with a booming voice.

Erik, still staring at the bar around him in wonder, leaned in close.

“What do people usually have?” he asked.

Sparda almost palmed his face.

The barman stared down at Erik, who was rather unfortunately one of the shortest men in the bar, and his grin widened. “Can’t go wrong with beer, little man, unless you want something with more bite.”

Erik did not seem to catch his sarcasm, or if he did, chose to ignore it. “Beer. I tend to like that,” he said. “Please.”

“I’ll have another,” said Sparda quickly. “I thought you were thirsty,” he mumbled to Erik, who hopped onto a bar stool.

“I am. Beer’s liquid,” he replied. “This place is very interesting. I like it here.”

“Isn’t it too loud?” Sparda asked, surprised.

“A little, but the music’s nice,” Erik said, smiling. “Sophie listens to this kind of music a lot.”

Sparda glanced behind them at the rest of the bar; they were getting frequent looks from the other patrons, not particularly friendly ones. He hoped they would be on their way soon enough before anything happened. They were served their drinks and to Sparda’s horror, Erik downed his large glass of beer alarmingly fast.

“Very nice,” he said, looking the barman in the eye. “One more, please?”

Sparda sipped from his beer. It was pretty run of the mill, borderline bad for his admittedly more refined palate and he deeply craved a good wine instead. But he braved it all the same while Erik accepted a second large glass with mounting glee.

“Don’t overdo it, maybe,” Sparda warned.

“I don’t get drunk,” Erik said. “Sophie says I have Viking blood. She and I drink together sometimes. I always get her to bed when she starts slurring a little.”

Sparda chuckled quietly. The other patrons had stopped observing them and he assumed that this would pass without incident. Perhaps they were lucky. They sat at the bar for a while, Erik having another two beers while Sparda barely had a second one. He was getting a bit concerned for the smaller man but Erik’s thirst seemed to be a positive thing for the barman who agreed to look at Spada’s map and give them some directions on it. Sparda wasn’t naive, he noticed that the barman’s directions threaded back roads instead of main roads but he chose to say nothing. Best not to challenge him openly.

He was busy trying to determine where to actually go on the map when he realized Erik had left his seat beside him. He looked over and to his horror, Sparda saw him approaching a large man in the back who was looming over a woman, dressed in leather pants and a denim vest over a cropped T-shirt. The man was gripping her wrist hard and growling at her from behind his beard. There was no time to stop him or intervene in the ensuing pantomime.

“I think you should stop,” Erik said to the man. “She doesn’t want to do whatever it is you want.”

The large man turned to look at him slowly, almost in disbelief. “Fuck off, shrimp,” he snapped. “This is between me and my old lady.”

“She’s not that old,” Erik said, puzzled.

Sparda did not hear the rest of the exchange. At high alert, he scanned the rest of the bar. Everything but the music had gone quiet. The conversation had died down and the rest of the patrons were all staring daggers at Erik. He caught the barman surreptitiously reaching under the bar and resting his hand on a large baseball bat. He actually missed the initial blow, only snapping his gaze back to Erik as the redhead stumbled backwards after the unmistakable crunch of a fist impacting a face. The woman had launched a wild blow at Erik after wrenching her wrist free from the large man.

Erik, now in possession of a bloodied nose, righted himself and carefully palmed his jaw as the large man towered over him. He raised his fist to deliver another blow but Erik was faster. Sparda was impressed. Erik’s double jab to the liver was masterful. The man doubled over and Sparda hopped off his seat to try and prevent the unpreventable.

He took two large strides towards the budding bar fight and was about to pull Erik away when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, spun him around and someone decked him in the face.

As a rule, Sparda avoided fighting humans whenever possible. It simply wasn’t a fair fight. Demonic might aside, his sheer experience proved overwhelming every time, but once in a while he found himself surprised. Humans, after all, like to fight dirty. He’d not been in a bar fight since… well, it was sometime in the past two centuries, at least. Now that he was in the thick of it, he dredged up the most basic human fisticuffs he had mastered, an art as old as humanity itself. His proper discipline made short work of his human opponents. He fought with dignity and decorum even in the middle of this wild fight.

It was rough, fists flying from every direction, unfair grabs he had to weasel out of or avoid, along with dirty tricks like smashed bottles and flying furniture.

“How did we come to this!?” he blurted as he disarmed an opponent of a rather large stool and tossed it aside.

Erik said nothing, he was ducking and weaving his way through the fight, taking blows now and again but having little to no reaction to them whatsoever. For a small man, the fey fought like a tiger, using his small size to advantage by landing low blows to vitals and didn’t hesitate to use a pool cue as an improvised weapon when he snatched it off someone. Blows rained down on them from all sides but the tide of the fight brought them back to back, fending off opponents and watching each other’s backs. Sparda was keenly aware that Erik was holding back most of either of them. He could’ve easily burned this entire structure to the ground with the people in it.

The barman was shouting now, barking at them to take it outside, to no avail. He stood guard over his till with the baseball bat raised.

The fight was a whirlwind. Sparda wasn’t sure how many they laid out cold before the rest backed away, retreating out the bar doors as Erik and Sparda stayed back to back, panting.

“Get the fuck out of my bar!” shouted the barman, trying to look menacing from behind the bar.

“We will. My apologies,” Sparda said, lowering his fists slowly.

“I will pay for the drinks, and um, the rest,” Erik volunteered sheepishly and rifled through his coat for a wallet.

“What?” blurted the barman, lowering the baseball bat.

“We bought drinks and started a fight,” Erik said, stating the obvious. “I think I should pay for the drinks. And whatever was damaged.”

He opened his wallet and Sparda almost laughed to see him pull out a fistful of rather large bills, looking at Sparda a little helplessly who shrugged and nodded. Erik placed several bills on the bar neatly, and folded his wallet away.

“Do you always carry so much with you?” Sparda asked him, exasperated.

“I told you I’ve only just figured my bank out…” Erik mumbled. “My last piece sold really well, or so I’m told.”

“Let’s leave before anything else happens,” Sparda said and all but snatched Erik by the collar.

“Hey you! Wait a sec!”

They froze as a man about as short as Erik approached, with a big grin, from one of the corners of the bar that had been unaffected by the fight. He was balding, had a pencil thin moustache and a toothpick played on his lips.

“You, shrimp, you sure know how to throw a punch!” he said cheerfully and produced a business card from his jacket pocket.

“Thank you?” Erik said, puzzled, but accepted the card.

The man gamely carried on his pitch. “You could be the next featherweight champ with moves like that! You, tall glass o’ water, what are you, his manager or somethin’? Bring him down to my gym and let me see what he can do. You’re none too shabby yourself, just too big for the weight class.”

“I think you may be barking up the wrong tree, sir,” Sparda said, a little taken aback. “We’re not, er, fighters.”

“Yeah and I’m Napoleon Bonesapart,” the man cackled. “Look, just call me! Louie’s the name! I can hook you two up!”

“Very kind of you but we’re in a hurry,” Sparda said curtly and all but hauled Erik out of the bar, who was looking at the card, confused.

He bundled them both into the car and started it, noting with concern that most of the motorcycles had vanished along with the patrons who had left, and his mind went to the back roads that the barman had shown him on the map. He did not, for a moment, trust them, especially not after this incident.

He hammered the pedal and the car sped off away from the bar.

“What on earth possessed you to start a bar fight!?” Sparda blurted.

“That was a bar fight?” Erik said. “Oh, I suppose we were in a bar.”

“Are you daft?” Sparda almost shouted.

“Sorry, it’s a first for me,” Erik said blithely, taking out another cigarette. “I’m sorry about all that, but he looked like he was going to hit that woman.”

“You could’ve said something to me!”

“You looked busy.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Are you angry?” Erik asked sheepishly.

“No, just… alright, maybe a little,” Sparda said and sighed. “We didn’t need that to happen.”

“True,” Erik said, reaching into his coat and pulling a bottle out.

“Erik,” Sparda said, after a double take.

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

“Oh, I took it from the bar when I paid,” he said casually. “In case I got thirsty again.”

Sparda wanted to shout. “That’s alcohol!”

“I know. I left enough money,” Erik said matter-of-factly.

“That’s not the point! When did you put that in your coat?”

Erik shrugged. “I just did, I didn’t think you’d approve if you noticed.”

“Did you just swipe a bottle of alcohol from a bar!?”

“I didn’t steal it, I paid.”

Sparda wished he could ask some higher power what on earth was wrong with this man but then he reminded himself that Erik was both fey and severely socially stunted. But he was also probably just really, really odd.

“Alright, alright…” Sparda said with a sigh, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Let’s just say we bought that from the bar… what is it?”

Erik struggled to read the bottle. “El Paso… er… Te-q-u-ila…?”

“Tequila,” Sparda said.

“That.”

“That’s strong stuff. Don’t drink it like water.”

Erik said nothing, just stowed the bottle away in the depths of his coat and again Sparda wondered if this was just Erik being a mischievous fey or just being weird.

They spoke very little as Sparda navigated to stay on the main roads as much as possible, even as they headed into the mountains. Eventually they had to make another unscheduled stop by the side of the road as Erik needed to relieve himself. Sparda leaned against the hood of the car, studying the map but really, he was thinking to himself. Maybe he had not planned this expedition as carefully as he ought to have. But there had been no time for lengthy preparations. No other trusted allies to summon; gone were the days when those were plenty. He wanted to nip these cultists in the bud, before they became a problem and he needed Erik now.

He looked up to the sky; it was quite dark now, stars twinkling in a night sky with a very thin moon. He felt oddly exposed out there in the middle of nowhere with just an anemic light provided by a streetlamp over the barebones rest stop. He had never feared the dark but the emptiness bothered him. Something howled, off into the distance.

Erik wandered back from the bushes he’d gone to, looking distracted. Sparda stared at the ball of flame resting in his palm to light his way. A being of living flame made into flesh–the fey were a mystery even to him and they held wondrous qualities he ought to try and explore some day.

“We can go now,” he said and yawned. “It’s quite late, are you sure you can keep driving?”

“I’m fine, I don’t really require sleep,” Sparda said, folding up the map.

Erik sniffed and gave him a funny look. “I sort of feel sorry for you, about that. Sleep is nice.”

Sparda smiled stiffly at him. “I know. Sleep is just odd for demons. It leaves us exposed. If a demon is to sleep, he’ll sleep for a very long time in a very secret place.”

Erik got into the car after him. “Have you ever done that?”

“Once, after a great battle,” he admitted. “I had to recuperate.”

“Did you dream?”

Sparda started the car, perplexed by the question. “No. Not really. I’m not sure demons dream the way humans do.”

“I have odd dreams,” Erik said conversationally. “I think it’s because I am fey.”

“What do you dream about?”

“I run away from people, mostly,” he said without much feeling. “I don’t know what I’m running towards but it feels safer than the people. Sometimes I dream of places I’ve never been but know all too well. I think that may be other fey. I’ve never met another since I can remember.”

“Do you want to?”

“Not really. I am fey but also not fey. They would just call me human and shun me, I’m sure.”

“How did you know you were fey?”

Erik shrugged. “I always just knew. I believe fey come into being knowing who they are. I knew the concept and that I was one since before I could even speak. I don’t think I can explain it. Just as I knew I wasn’t supposed to be human, I wasn’t supposed to be… well, here.”

Sparda glanced at him.

Erik was talking but staring out the window.

“It must feel strange,” he said.

Erik shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t ever been anything else to know any different.”

Sparda chuckled a little. “You say some surprisingly wise things.”

Erik looked over at him, curious. “I do? I don’t know, I’m not very wise. I don’t know much about anything.”

“I can’t tell if you really are some idiot savant or just having me on,” Sparda muttered and scanned the horizon.

“I’m sorry,” blurted Erik.

Sparda said nothing for a long moment then glanced at his passenger again. Erik was dozing off. Ahead of them lay a small township. He considered his options. He had, admittedly, not really planned this excursion well. Centuries of martial experience made him mentally kick himself. If only he’d had more time and options.

He slowed the car gradually and let it roll into a gas station and diner whose lights were still on. The car needed fuel. Erik needed sleep and he needed… well, he’d take some rest. He parked the car in the lot of the gas station and realized that Erik had actually fallen asleep in the passenger seat. He was snoring lightly. It seemed a shame to wake him up so Sparda let him be.

With little to do, Sparda settled into the gloom to meditate and keep watch through the night.

“I hope Eva is keeping herself well,” he thought. “Neither of us knows what to expect now that she’s… well, expecting. I know she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself, of course, but in her current condition…”

He tried to push his thoughts away from the worst and smiled tartly at himself. Impending fatherhood was doing things to him, things even his vast experiences had not really prepared him for. He’d had proteges before; he’d taken humans and demons alike under his wing. But the prospect of a creature that was both at the same time, with ties to his very blood… What could he expect? This unknown future scared him and excited him in equal measure. He was looking forward to that unknown future with them. He glanced at the sleeping man next to him. Erik’s chest rose and fell quietly with his little snores. It was irritating that this future depended on this weird little man.

Had he been right to save him, a year ago? When Sparda had first heard of Erik, it had been as the Salamander, a ruthless and efficient killer of witches and demons alike. An attack dog for a group, splintered off the Order of the Sword – yet another of his mistakes that he was no longer able to fix. He had thought that after abandoning his post as the island’s feudal lord, the order would die out but they hadn’t. They had carried on without him; or rather, his absence had only strengthened the belief in him as a god. Looking back, he knew that it had been the last of his vanity, his demonic need for power and rule. He regretted it now. Nobody should worship him.

The splinter cell had been a big proponent of hunting down witches, who they viewed as little better than minions of demons. They had broken off from the Order of the Sword long after he’d left the island of Fortuna and had left the island themselves after purging it of any witch presence there. It wasn’t easy finding witches, let alone hunting them down. As far as Sparda could tell, they had resorted to occult and demonic means of tracking them down and exterminating them, and Erik had been the latest of their acquisitions. Apparently they had discovered him by chance, a changeling infant on one of their hunts. Fey can track magic like bloodhounds and witches can’t counter them as easily so he made a perfect weapon against them.

Sparda couldn’t imagine what kind of upbringing Erik had had, kept around just to hunt down humans and occasionally fight off demons. His scars told a sad story of abuse and desperate struggle. He was in many ways, as Erik had said himself, very much a child in a grown man’s body. Sparda had questions, How did they keep him in line? What had finally inspired him to rebel against his masters and abandon them? Why hadn’t he dealt with Erik the way he’d dealt with demon cults and demons so many times before? Was it pity that had stayed his hand? He saw something of himself in Erik.

It took quite some effort for Sparda to finally rid his mind of that train of thought and all the questions, in order to meditate and pass the time. By the time he’d finally found some peace, it was nearly morning. He indulged in a little people watching as the little township came to life and people began to mill about, heading for their jobs and morning activities.

Erik awoke some time after 9 in the morning.

He sat bolt upright abruptly after a snore and blinked. “Oh… good morning, I suppose,” he said sheepishly.

“Good morning,” Sparda said, amused. “Let’s get some food in you and some fuel in the car.”

He maneuvered the car into the gas station and filled the tank. Then they walked into the attached diner and sat at a booth. To Sparda’s continued amusement Erik ordered with some undue enthusiasm, clearly enjoying the independence of it. He got himself a rather large burger with fries and a plate of pancakes. Sparda ordered coffee and a sandwich, to keep up appearances. Erik ate with gusto, sort of like a starved toddler. Evidently, table manners had never really been on the cult’s curriculum. Sophie must have had a bear of a time teaching him.

“Erik, how old are you?” he asked suddenly.

Erik paused for a moment. “I don’t know exactly, but Roy thinks I’m possibly twenty eight or twenty nine years old. I don’t know how old I was when the cult took me away.”

Sparda’s brows rose on his forehead. He felt sympathy for Erik; almost three decades of life and all of it spent as a slave to someone else’s will.

“How did they control you? You’re a powerful being.”

Erik shrugged and kept eating. “I never knew anything else. I just always did as I was told. I thought that was normal. I got beaten and bound with demonic magic when I misbehaved or failed.”

Sparda sipped his coffee. “What changed? You freed yourself.”

Again, Erik shrugged. “I still don’t understand it myself. I felt nothing even after everything I’ve done. I knew it was wrong, though. I killed beings like myself. They didn’t want to die. They struggled to live and I… I think I hated that I was taking it away. I had a dream of a woman who told me I was better than that. I sometimes wonder if that was my birth mother. She made me realise I was stronger than my masters. So I burned them and left. I had no idea about the world or how to live in it. I was very naive.”

Sparda just looked at him without talking for a long moment.

“I see,” he finally said. “I suppose it would be rude of me to say that I pity you.”

“I don’t want pity,” Erik said casually. “I’ve left that behind me. I can never take back what I did. But I can try to live better.”

Sparda smiled a little. “That’s a good outlook to have.”

Erik insisted on paying for the food and drinks, considering that he ordered a second stack of pancakes after the first. Sparda was amused at his ability to eat like a horse, for such a small man. They set off in the car after Sparda had consulted the map again.

“You’re rather older than your wife,” Sparda observed suddenly. “And yet she’s the adult in the relationship.”

Erik looked at him, bemused. “You are one to talk. You are thousands of years old, aren’t you?”

Sparda smiled. “Demons do not age as humans do. For a demon I’m a mature adult. So is Eva. How old is Sophie, again?”

“Twenty two last March,” Erik said irritably.

“And you met two years ago. Practically a child.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Erik asked.

Sparda’s smile persisted. “Only a little.”

Erik grumbled quietly. “I suppose every human seems like a child to you.”

Sparda shook his head. “Only sometimes. But I am always surprised by the ones who defy the norm.”

“How does your wife feel about that?” Erik countered. “You don’t think she’s a child, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Sparda said, rather prickled. “Eva is a grown woman, that’s how I met her. Do you know, she shot me in the shoulder with a gun when we first met. I knew immediately that she was quite special.”

Erik smiled tartly. “And my wife wanted to kill me when we first met. I suppose we must both have strange tastes in partners.”

Sparda laughed. “You might be right. I love Eva’s feistiness, she’s very adorable when she gets worked up over something.”

“I sometimes get scared of Sophie when she’s mad,” Erik said fondly. “She gets mad rather easily.”

“You know, I can see that,” Sparda chuckled. “The Templar family has always been rather formidable.”

“Have you met her people before?” Erik asked him.

Sparda spoke almost fondly. “A few times over the centuries. I wouldn’t say I kept in touch, just ran into them occasionally. Very crafty witches, too clever by half. But reckless. The last Templar witch I met before Sophie was around… oh, it must have been around the second World War? I caught a couple of them destroying a castle in Europe, where Nazi demonologists were trying to make contact with the Underworld. The Templars got there before me. Quite spiteful, really.”

“Roy likes talking about the family,” Erik said fondly. “I’ve heard some stories. Not that one, though. I’m a bit jealous of Sophie. I never knew where I came from. I don’t know if I have a human family somewhere. I just know I came from a place called Norway and was raised there for about ten years before the cult moved me. I don’t even know my family name. Straemer is something Roy came up with when he forged my papers.”

“He’s a very capable familiar,” Sparda observed. “I don’t think he cares for me, much.”

Erik nodded sagely. “He’s always wary of demons. That’s just his way. He gave me the cold shoulder at first, too. I don’t think he likes me yet, but we get along.”

They drove on, quietly admiring the forested nature they were driving through. They stopped again to stretch and Sparda stared at the long straight road ahead of them. He glanced at Erik, who was having another smoke and staring at the trees. Something about this whole thing bothered him. Erik bothered him. He was a grown man being led about like a child, even after escaping his tyrannical masters. It shouldn’t be this easy.

“Do you want to try driving?” he asked suddenly.

Erik looked at him, mid-smoke, and blinked. “Me?”

“I don’t see anyone else around here, do you?”

“You want to let me drive your car? I don’t know how to drive,” Erik said, surprised.

Sparda shrugged and smiled. “It’s not that difficult. It’s very liberating. You should be more independent, not relying on Sophie for everything.”

Erik looked at him thoughtfully and put out his cigarette in his palm again. “You know… that’s a good point. I rely too much on her and Roy. Can I try?”

“Come over here.”

It was a funny experiment. Erik looked nervous as he sat in the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel like he was holding on for dear life. Sparda talked him through the pedals and the clutch. The car jolted forward and backwards a couple of times as Erik struggled with the gear shift and the clutch. Sparda found himself laughing at Erik’s helplessness as he drove the car gingerly, almost afraid to put his foot down on the pedal.

“You can be a little braver with the gas,” Sparda said.

“I don’t want to get stranded out here without a car because I put it in a ditch,” Erik said nervously, slowly accelerating. “I’m actually driving, wow.”

“You’re doing really well,” Sparda chuckled as they trundled down the road slowly.

Erik was startled when another car honked loudly as it overtook them and Sparda had to reach over and steady the wheel before Erik really drove them into a ditch. The redhead called it quits then and Sparda took over driving again, chuckling to himself.

“You should really go get a driver’s license when this is over,” he said as Erik settled back into the passenger’s seat and lit another cigarette.

Erik eyed him with a small sulk. “Maybe I will. This was fun. Thank you for letting me try it.”

It was close to evening when they reached their destination, according to Sparda. They left the main road, snaked up a dirt road towards some hills and finally pulled up at the edge of a woodland, next to a dirt path. Just beyond the tops of the trees, the very tip top of a structure barely peeked out of the foliage in the distance. Erik stepped out of the car and examined the scene dubiously.

“There is magic here,” he said coldly. “It’s familiar.”

Sparda shut the driver side door and looked into the woods. The place really had changed since he was last here. Virtually nothing was the same. The trees had taken over what had once been an isolated estate. The ground beneath his feet felt foreign. He too could sense the distant presence of magic, much of it demonic in origin.

“I don’t expect they are wholly ignorant of our arrival. Be on your guard,” he said dryly.

“Sparda,” Erik said suddenly. “Why did you come to me for this little adventure?”

The demon avoided looking at the redhead. “Because you were the closest and most available ally I could think of when I found out what was going on here. Besides, I thought it was fitting to bring you in to help me get rid of your old masters. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I do, but I can’t be the only one,” he insisted.

“And yet, you are,” Sparda said tersely. “I’m old, Erik. Very old. My allies have always been few and far between. I have no demon allies left and my human allies are inadequate for this foray. I… needed another with me here today. I’m sorry.”

Erik seemed to study him, those big brown eyes searching him over and Sparda couldn’t begin guessing what was going on in his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m here now, after all. I do owe you a boon,” he said at length.

“Shall we, then?” Sparda said and started up the dirt path, with Erik right behind him.

They had only been walking for a few minutes when rustling in the trees caught their attention and Sparda held his arm up calmly, just for the sword called Yamato to manifest in his hand. Before he could do much though, Erik had fired a bolt of flame into the ground at the base of one of the trees and a large Blade demon erupted out of the ground, aflame and screaming. Unceremoniously, Sparda cleaved it in two with a quick draw of the blade just as more made their appearance.

“The welcome party, I presume,” he said and he and Erik found themselves back to back again.

“This is fodder, just to slow us down,” the redhead said, rubbing his nose.

It took them almost no time at all to fight through them. Yamato cut through them decisively, almost boring Sparda but he was more interested in observing Erik. Erik fought very uniquely. He never let any demon get too close to him, blasting them with fire before they could get in range to hurt him. When the numbers finally proved too much though, there was little they could do to avoid it. Sparda watched Erik’s body erupt into white-hot flames, repelling the demons further, and then the redhead stooped slightly, drove his flaming hand into the ground and pulled up molten rock with it, shaped roughly like a large war axe. He wielded it with frightening expertise, still more flame than flesh, twirling as he hewed demons limb from flaming limb.

Perhaps more impressively, nothing else caught fire from the flames, making Sparda suspect that Erik’s control of fire was so fine that he could discern what to burn and what not to, even in the middle of combat. Sparda could feel the heat all the way where he was, but sheathed Yamato and waited, letting the Blades get into perfect position near him, then drew the blade with a soft whistle of metal. He swung, impossibly quickly, then sheathed the sword again. Before the tsuba could touch the sheath, the demons started falling apart with sprays of demon ichor bursting everywhere.

“Still think you’re not much of a warrior, Erik?” Sparda said, amused, cutting down another Blade.

“Survival is not finesse,” Erik replied, voice laced with the sound of crackling firewood.

They tore through the pack quickly and soon there were none left of the ambush. The forest floor was littered with slowly dissolving demon bits and plants withered where the flesh bubbled and dissipated. Sparda stood straight, Yamato faded out of existence and he casually straightened and dusted off his clothes. Erik dropped the molten axe and the fire faded away to return him to his flesh and bone form. He breathed out and immediately reached for a cigarette, but Sparda saw him pause mid-motion and grimace, then shoved the cigarette pack back in his pocket.

“We’re getting near,” said Sparda and looked ahead through the trees.

They advanced in silence and Erik grew more tense the closer they got to the structure. Sparda mused that his sense for magic must have put him in high alert. He too could sense the presence of demons growing stronger. There were more demons waiting for them along the path, each pack dispatched swiftly and brutally by the two of them. They made a good team, and Sparda absently wished he’d had an ally like Erik in the past. They had encountered no humans – or former humans, yet.

Finally, the structure loomed large above them as they broke through the treeline. It was a ruined castle, but not quite. It wasn’t a mighty fortification of eld, but rather a formerly lavish manor house that had been built to fancifully resemble a castle. There were towers, parapets and arrowslit windows tacked onto the structure, more for aesthetic purposes than defensive measures. Nature was beginning to reclaim it as the biggest tower lay in ruin with a tree growing out of it, walls falling apart and held together with crumbling mortar and vines. There was little to suggest ongoing habitation but for a very obvious path carved through the undergrowth up to the building’s rotting doors.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Sparda said calmly. “The real fort is underground. The top structure was always meant to be a deception.”

“The doors are warded,” Erik observed.

Sparda nodded. He could see the thin veneer of shifting red across the doors. It did more to shut them out than the doors themselves. He expected that there would be another ambush, guardians tied to the barrier on the doors but Erik took the matter into his own hands. He walked up to the doors and fairly blasted them away, destroying part of the wall in the process. Sparda chuckled, Erik had just created an eruption that shook the ground and succeeded in destroying both the doors and the barrier.

“I didn’t think you could do that,” Sparda said as they walked through the smoking remains.

Erik shrugged. “I’ve always dealt with barriers like this. My old masters used them alot. It seems my fire can burn through magic. It’s how I finally escaped them the first time.”

They were indeed ambushed by demons again, yet more Blades bursting out of the ground with their typical screeches. They were very promptly dealt with as the two men carved and burned their way through. Sparda deftly led them through the structure, past rotting furniture and abandoned rooms to a grand staircase in the great hall of the building. He felt weird, being back here after so long. Part of him regretted leaving this once safe haven to rot away but there really had been no further use for it after a certain point and he had wanted to live closer to humans, not isolated out here.

“So my seal was broken…” he said ruefully as he looked at the large hole blasted into the base of the staircase, revealing stone steps that led down. “Crafty buggers, they figured out a way to get in.”

“They are nothing if not creative, my former masters,” Erik grumbled. “They really delved into ancient secrets of demon magic.”

“Such knowledge could’ve been used for good, but alas,” Sparda sighed.

The passage was long and almost as soon as they ventured in, they were greeted by enemies. Members of the cult, dressed in dark robes and armed with swords, rushed them. Erik hesitated only for a moment, until it was revealed that under the hoods, these were no longer humans. As they fought, more and more demonic traits made their appearance, robes falling away to reveal scales and inhuman proportions, limbs too long for their bodies and faces darkened by the demon form, with eyes blazing red and yellow. The fights were short but brutal. The former humans proved to be quite hardy and difficult to fell, powered by demonic energy that made Sparda wince. He was quite certain that a demon gate had been opened in this location and power was being drawn from it.

The deeper they got, the wider the passage got and the more foes they had to contend with. Bodies littered the floor in their wake, sliced apart or burned to cinders. Sparda breathed out forcefully. There had to be an end to this, surely. He was concerned with how many cultists there were, given that Erik said he’d burned many when he escaped his captors. Erik said nothing about it, he just determinedly fought through them with fire and explosions and another molten war axe.

The passage wound its way through rock into a series of chambers, once used as a fortress for a small fighting force. Sparda was overcome by nostalgia for those days, he’d had a number of trusted allies that he missed dearly. They had been good men and women and a few noble demons who had sided with him in his fight for justice. Time was such a ruthless foe, he thought. None of them remained today, leaving him the sole survivor of the group. That had always been his fate, it seemed, to be the one who remained.

He shook those thoughts off as another demon cultist made an attempt to attack him, just to be cut to ribbons by Yamato.

“We’re close. They’ve opened the hell gate,” Sparda said, sheathing the sword.

“Why is there a hell gate here?” Erik asked him.

Sparda smiled ruefully. “I built it. It was meant to help my demonic allies come and go. And it was a power source for some magics we used. I thought I had sealed it forever.”

“You ought to have destroyed it,” Erik said harshly.

“Perhaps I should have, yes,” Sparda said quickly. “I will do so now if I must.”

The last chamber held that hell gate. It was a large hall that held an ancient table of stone and was decorated with weathered statues of knights. In the far back, a door-like structure loomed large, carved into the stone wall. A large, jagged crack glowed greenish gray on its surface, pulsing with energy and what looked like glowing fog poured out of it. In front of it, a small group of robed figures were busy with hurried preparations for a ritual. Sparda gasped softly as he realized what was happening. They had set up an altar of sorts, and one of the cultists lay on it. The others were manhandling a gagged and bound human that Sparda realized must have been a witch.

“Stop! There’s no need for this!” Sparda shouted and rushed forward.

He drew Yamato and tried to stop them but the sword collided with a solid surface of a barrier between him and the ritual. Erik was right behind him and tried to break through it, but the fire he conjured was repelled with a din and the whole chamber shook.

“Damn it, they are drawing power from the Underworld through the gate,” Sparda hissed, trying repeatedly to break through.

Beyond the barrier, the ritual went on. Sparda grunted in frustration as the witch was unceremoniously killed and her heart carved out of her chest in a messy display. The lead robed figure once spared Sparda and Erik a glance from under their hood before they crushed the heart in their hand, letting the resulting gore drip into a carved stone goblet. Erik tried again to shift the barrier, conjuring a mass of flame that struck the barrier’s edge with the force of a comet. It cracked, but that was all and he threw his arms up, angered. Sparda launched himself at the crack, striking it repeatedly with Yamato and was encouraged to see the cracks growing slowly.

But it was too little, too late.

The liquified heart was fed to the cultist lying on the altar, who began convulsing. The fog spilling out of the hell gate reacted to them and moved like a living organism to surround the altar and cocoon the figure.

“No…” Sparda blurted, feeling perspiration dripping from his forehead as he continued attacking the barrier.

“I know him,” Erik said suddenly, panting as he carried on the assault. “His name is Gideon, he’s one of the leaders! I thought I’d killed him.”

“He’s turning himself into a demon,” Sparda said helplessly. “The fool!”

The barrier finally broke with a sound of shattering glass and metal, just as the fog cocoon ballooned outwards and undulated in spikes and bulges. It writhed as the rest of the cultists backed away, looking on in awe. The crack on the hell gate widened and the pulsing grew faster and more frantic.

“You idiots!” Erik shouted.

He became a mass of flame again, white hot and burning to the point where the floor under his feet started to melt and bubble. He reared his arms back and then pushed forward, sending forth a wave of roaring fire that washed over the area previously protected by the barrier. The demon cultists screamed as the flame reduced most of them to ash, often leaving grim outlines of their forms in soot on the wall behind them. Sparda wasn’t happy about it, but he understood Erik’s reaction. He had no love for these cultists and they were no longer human.

But the cocoon was unharmed, as if the power of the Underworld was protecting it.

The fog seemed to have solidified into a true cocoon that cracked open, splitting down the middle with a fleshy tearing noise. Pale ichor poured out of the gap and the whole thing pulsated violently. The first thing to emerge was the cultist Gideon, sitting up from the altar covered in slime and with the robes clinging to him like an exoskeleton. He twitched and tore the hood off his head with a sudden move, revealing his face at last; he was an embarrassingly ordinary-looking man, his features now distorted by a vile mix of slime and hair.

“Dark Knight Sparda…” he intoned, his voice cracked and whiny. “What an honor… what an honor…”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” Sparda spat, sheathing Yamato. “You should never have come to this place.”

“We needed a new base after the Salamander burned the old one to the ground,” Gideon retorted, slowly turning to face them, still seated on the altar.

The stringy secretions of the cocoon clung to him and his eyes were bulging out of his head as his whole body throbbed.

“I should have been more thorough, then,” Erik said coldly, voice laced with the crackle of fire.

“Fool, you think we had such a need for you?” Gideon hissed. “We have uncovered secrets far stronger than you. The witches we hunt are powerful. Through them I have taken into me the very essence of the Underworld. I am a god.”

Sparda winced, watching his mouth stretch wide and his tongue undulate in the orifice. The fleshy appendage grew outwards and nodules started to extend from it like legs and a little face screeched from the tip. It squirmed and squirmed and kept growing. The tongue extended out the distended jaw and rapidly grew into a grotesque shape, with leg after leg extending out of it as it grew, thin, sickly-looking and gangly. The legs had multiple joints along them, allowing them to move at impossible angles and directions as the thing grew outwards.

Sparda hissed; such a disgusting form was not uncommon in the Underworld among demons but to see it growing out of the shell of a human was off-putting. He heard Erik gag behind him.

“You will bow to me now,” Gideon droned, his voice coming from the still twitching human form seated on the altar as the tongue entity stretched out, growing larger and larger by the second.

A pair of sticky antennae grew out of the front of the tongue thing and the sound of insectile clicking and chirping filled the hall. A mass of tangled legs moved, at impossible speeds, to swipe at Sparda, who managed to evade it with a swift backstep and deflected the second swing by interposing the sheathed Yamato sword between him and the swiping legs. The collision sounded metallic and sharp like a broken wire. Sparda pushed back mightily and the two demons heaved backwards. Gideon screeched and struck out again, just to have a number of spindly legs severed by Yamato’s blade. Sparda struck true and charged towards the human part of the monstrosity, legs crashing down around him in an attempt to halt his advance and forcing him to back away.

Erik was there to assist, ducking under swiping legs and severing them with fire, like a high-powered blowtorch. Dark, gloopy ichor spilled from the severed legs, hissing and spitting as it made contact with the ground, revealing an acidic nature. Sparda swung Yamato, now crackling with power along the blade, at the body of the entity and cut right through the thick, slimy hide. He’d hoped to sever it from the human host but to his dismay all it did was get the front half to fall away, thrashing on the floor and spewing more acidic ichor around. The remaining stump rapidly grew back, bursting forward from the distended jaws of Gideon as though he kept vomiting more of the creature outwards.

“KNEEL BEFORE ME,” Gideon boomed.

“I would never so much as stoop for a disgusting thing like you,” Sparda snapped. “You call yourself a god but you’re naught but a delusional demon now, scum.”

Erik said nothing, he dragged a fresh molten war axe from the ground and charged. His flaming body hurled through the forest of legs now growing out of the demon and he swung the axe like a madman, severing legs and burning them as he went. The burned stumps flailed, sizzling for a moment, just to burst outwards as more legs grew out of each stump. Bursts of fire surrounded Erik and he blew Gideon’s demonic form sideways, trying to knock it over, but the undulating mass of sickly flesh swayed back to right itself.

“We must get to the human portion of him and end it,” Sparda said, panting between swings of his sword. “He will keep regenerating if we don’t!”

“I can see that,” Erik hissed, swinging his axe again to try and chop through the mass of legs that were attacking them.

Sparda hissed in pain as one of the legs finally struck true and pierced through his arm, nearly severing it before Erik chopped the demon’s spindly leg off and took point to give Sparda a moment’s reprieve. Sparda grunted and ripped out the offending appendage, then gripped at his injured arm, pushing it into place as the flesh sewed itself back together rapidly.

Sparda could barely make out Erik’s form through the flames as he heaved the axe around, severing and burning legs that were coming down for them in an angry staccato of stomps that forced them both to keep mobile. Erik snarled, and lurched forward, a blast of fire much like a dragon’s breath bursting forth from him, colliding with the main body and pushing it back. Sparda sheathed Yamato and then drew it rapidly, carving through the mass of legs in a flurry of blows so fast it almost seemed like his arm had hardly moved at all. As he returned Yamato to the sheath once more, the legs around them burst into bloodied chunks, creating enough of a void to finally give them a shot at the human portion of Gideon.

“Now!” Sparda roared. They both surged forward. Erik blasted the main body from one end, still trying to regenerate the severed legs, sending it careening sideways. Sparda slid under the remaining swiping legs as they passed close enough to him to upset his hair; he struck out with the sword again, severing the main body close to the base this time and another backhanded swing sent the body flying sideways, away from the host. It splattered against the far wall and flailed like a dying fish, spewing ichor everywhere. The engorged stump of Gideon’s tongue flailed in the distended jaws. He moaned pathetically as the twisted human body reared back onto the altar.

“Noooooo–”

Erik was onto him like a pack of wolves. He snatched Gideon’s distorted head in both burning hands, and set him alight. The flailing appendage of the tongue hissed and burned with the rest of the body, the slime giving off a terrible odour as it burned. Gideon’s form screamed, shuddering the hall. Sparda closed in and with a swift strike from Yamato split the head cleanly in two, then severed the head from the body and silenced the scream for good.

“Cast it into the gate!” Sparda commanded and Erik obeyed, turning and hurling the severed pieces into the pulsating hell gate.

They impacted with a crack and sank through, as Sparda sheathed Yamato again, adopted a steady stance and swung rapidly once again. The sound of cracking and crumbling stone filled the underground hall. He delivered multiple strikes all across the surface of the hell gate and finally charged in and drove the blade straight into the crack. There was an awful shudder that made the cavern tremble and debris precipitated from the ceiling.

“You mean to bring this down on our heads!?” Erik blurted.

Sparda withdrew the blade and sheathed it, as the crack started to pulse smaller and smaller as it closed.

“We need to go, now!” he barked.

Erik’s fiery form extinguished itself, leaving the fey man disheveled and panting. He dropped the molten war axe to the floor where it hit with a loud clang. The shuddering of the hall continued and more and more debris started to fall from the ceiling and the walls. The hell gate outline in the back started to cave in on itself. Sparda and Erik dashed back through the halls they had fought their way through on the way in, relieved to find there were no more demons to impede their escape. They bolted up the staircase and into the ruined structure above, which was slowly swaying as the tremors continued. A loud cacophony of crashing sounds followed them out of the underground passage and a large plume of noxious dust and stench burst out of the passage after them, coating everything in range.

“Do not stop, the structure cannot take it,” Sparda panted as they ran.

They only just made it out of the building before the whole thing caved in on itself with a series of crashes and the grinding of stone and debris. It came down vertically with another plume of dust and debris that shot into the sky overhead, shaking the woodland around them. They were clear of any debris and backed away into the treeline along the path that led away from the former building.

“And so it is done,” Sparda muttered as Erik crouched down beside him and watched.

“If I am lucky, there are no more of the cult left to come after either of us,” the fey man pondered. “Good riddance,” he contnued maliciously.

Sparda chuckled tiredly. “You know, that’s the most emotion I’ve seen out of you, yet.”

Erik glared up at him. “And you are to blame.”

Sparda kept chuckling and motioned to turn and leave, just for him to suddenly cough and drop to a knee, wheezing. He was forced to prop himself on the Yamato sword, then tried to stand just to topple backwards onto his rear, breathing hard. The world was spinning.

“This is… really most extraordinary,” he panted. “I really am… not as I used to be. That this should take so much out of me…”

Erik stood straight and walked over, looming over the Dark Knight with darkened eyes.

“I can tell,” he said bluntly and looked him up and down, then looked back at the fallen structure, still settling after its fall. “You’re dying,” he told Sparda.

The demon looked up at him, still forced to the ground by exhaustion. He felt vulnerable and he hated it.

“I am,” he admitted, winded. “I have been dying since the day I sealed away… my power… and the Underworld.”

Erik smiled. “And you resent it now.”

Sparda nodded wordlessly, head hung low. “I’ve been so tempted,” he said at long last. “So very tempted, as of late… to take it all back. To go back to where I hid everything and dig it all up again. Just to live… a little longer.”

Erik’s smile persisted. “But that would be the wrong thing to do.”

Sparda nodded again. “It would be. After all this time… it would be a weakness to give in.”

“So you thought to eat me.”

Sparda’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at Erik.

The fey man smiled, tiredly. “I’m slow, but not stupid, Sparda,” he said calmly. “Demons gain power by what they consume, that’s why they fight. I know you’ve wanted to eat me, to have my power, my immortality, since the day you laid eyes on me.”

Sparda swallowed hard. His strength had yet to return. If Erik resented him, he would be quite powerless to stop him. “It used to be that I had power. Power enough… to protect those that I love. And I don’t anymore. It frightens me,” he confessed weakly. “Enough to make me consider this.”

Erik scoffed lightly. He shook his head. “Well, at least you have been honest with me about this,” he said. “That’s why you’ve indulged me. Pitying the last days of a man you plan to devour.”

Sparda’s eyebrows twitched. “Erik…” he quavered.

His hand gripped Yamato tightly.

But Erik instead crouched down and retrieved the bottle of tequila he somehow still had stashed in his coat. He cracked the seal open and made Sparda take a few sips.

“Drink some of this, it’ll help,” he said casually. The fiery drink indeed revived Sparda a little and he coughed at the strong taste. He still looked at Erik dubiously. Erik stood, then bent down to grab Sparda’s arm and help pull him to his feet, then passed Sparda’s arm over his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. Had you come to me sooner, I would’ve gladly let you do it. Let you eat me, as payment for what you’ve given me and redemption for what I’ve done. But I too… am dying.”

Sparda’s panting stopped abruptly and he stared at Erik, astonished as he was forced to lean against him. “...What?” was all he could utter.

Erik smiled at him wryly. “I can no longer give you what you want,” he said sadly. “My immortality… is gone.”

Sparda stared. “But…”

Erik looked away. “Your reason for all this… you have children now. I can tell. A family. A family you want to see grow up. And I… I too want to see mine.”

Sparda struggled to right himself and stand on his own two legs. He stared at Erik. “You mean…”

Erik nodded. “I’m a fey. I was supposed to be immortal, unchanging. But now I’ve changed. I gave it away to foster a new life. My wife is having a child. I gave it half of my power. She told me just before we left.”

They were left staring at each other for a long moment with nothing but the sound of the swaying trees, then suddenly Sparda started to laugh. It started as a low chuckle and then boomed outward, a loud barking laugh. He coughed and had to lean on Erik again.

“Look at us!” he cackled. “A proper pair of hooligans! Trading power and immortality for… for a chance at family.”

Erik nodded, supporting him while they staggered away together down the path back to the car. “We are a pair of very sorry old fools,” he said ponderously.

Sparda kept laughing. “This is the nature of humanity. Convincing us outsiders that such lofty treasures aren’t all they’re cracked up to be! Well now!”

They were silent for a while, just chuckling along together, like a pair of idiots.

“What are we even doing out here…” Sparda managed as he calmed down. “We should turn around. Go home, to our wives and children. Stop wasting time out here, time we could be spending with our loved ones…”

They stumbled and staggered their way back to where they’d left the car.

“First word of sense you’ve said since we started this little adventure,” Erik said dryly from under Sparda’s arm. “Though I can’t say your company’s been bad.”

“I’ve had more fun these last couple of days than I’ve had the past century…” Sparda admitted.

“Me too,” Erik confessed. “I got into a bar fight. I went into a bar. I drove a car!”

“Poorly,” Sparda amended.

“I drove a car poorly,” Erik repeated.

By the time they got to the car, Sparda had recovered enough to walk, but he stayed leaning on Erik until they got in the car just as night was falling. They sat there, panting and occasionally chuckling at themselves.

“Do you mind if I have a bit more tequila?” Sparda said suddenly.

“Help yourself,” Erik said and handed him the bottle. Sparda took a generous swig and passed it back to the redhead, who did the same.

They sat there, passing the bottle between them without talking for a few minutes until Sparda started the car tiredly.

“Erik… I’m sorry about this whole thing. I deceived you,” Sparda said meekly.

“Well I sort of deceived you too, so it doesn’t really matter,” Erik replied.

“Maybe don’t tell Sophie about this, I fear she’ll not take it very well.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not breathing a word of this to Sophie, she’ll kill me first for coming with you,” Erik cackled. “Are you going to tell your wife?”

“Absolutely not,” Sparda said, shuddering and passed the bottle back to Erik. “Eva would have my head. I told her this was just a little adventure. She was none too happy about it but let me go. She’s expecting and it’s making her very prickly.”

“Sophie’s just always ready to get angry, I think having a child might make it worse,” Erik chuckled. “I love her for it, though. I had better quit smoking for good.”

He raised the bottle, now close to empty. “To our little wives,” he said.

“To our little wives,” Sparda echoed, taking the bottle and drinking the last drops. “Let’s hope there are no police officers on our way back or we’ll have a hard time explaining why we reek of tequila.”

They started off on the road back, towards home, each of them burdened by the thought of the years that would come. They both knew that they were living on borrowed time. Sparda would die of essentially old age and weakness soon enough, lingering just long enough to know his children and love them. Erik would not survive either, his luck would run out and the cult had indeed survived, barely. They would come after him and his wife and child one awful night, leaving behind a legacy of pain and sorrow.

But for now, they laughed, looking forward to the future.