Chapter Text
"I look up to my dad,
And ask him to help me touch the sky,
And I look up quizzes,
Will I go to hell when I die?
I got so old so fast….
And I cannot go back—
Five more minutes?
Just—five more minutes—please—
Five more minutes, God, just—
Five more minutes, please—"
-5 More Minutes by Sydney Rose
When whispers of Mundus searching for his family got too close for comfort, Sparda packed a bag full of his most used weapons, kissed his beloved wife and adorable infant sons, and set out to finally kill the demon that haunted his every step.
Eva had such fear in her eyes, when word had reached them. Held their twin sons to her chest, and set her jaw, rage and determination a fire in her soul.
By Chaos, she was stunning.
Rage boiled in his blood, as well—how dare that failed king try to take what was his? How dare he threaten his precious sons? Go after his wife?
It could not stand any longer.
So he set out to correct the mistake he'd made two thousand years ago, in sealing him away instead of just fucking killing him.
(He was man enough to admit that he'd chosen mercy. Now, his choices threatened everything he held dear.)
It was unfortunate that in order to keep the barrier between worlds healthy, a majority of his power had to be siphoned into it—the constant drain on him an old burden.
In the end, that was what became his undoing. Not enough residual power left to keep himself from being caught, humans too knowledgeable in magic and the arcane to be anything but a kill squad.
Sparda was surprised when they sealed him instead of killing him, but he supposed that there must be some ulterior motive to it.
(Tried hard not to think of his small sons, ripe for the taking in his absence. Eva was an incredibly powerful witch in her own right, but anyone can be overwhelmed with enough planning and power—he was example number one.
But—his wife would protect their sons with her life, and that almost terrified him more.)
Stone crept its way across his scales, calcified, as he collapsed, terror and desperation and the beat of his heart heavy. Thought, Eva, Vergil, Dante, I'm so sorry— and knew no more.
For years, he slept. Lost, other than the thread of awareness that assured him his sons lived. Dreams and nightmares clouded his mind, scattered and broken. The seals were impressive, Sparda would give the humans that—demonic in nature, older than most of humanity.
They stank of Argosax.
He wasn't even surprised anymore. Had known that one day the Despair Embodied would rise again—had tried to warn Mundus, once upon a time. But that was a long time ago, and now his every fear was proven correct.
It grated, to be right when he had predicted the worst outcome.
Consciousness slowly overtook him, the overwhelming feeling of magic in the air, the cold echo of whatever cavern he'd been thrown away in.
The coppery scent of blood.
A noise tore from his disused throat, at the cold splatter of it onto his horns. It trickled down, onto the crown of his head, cracked the layer of magic that rippled over him as it went. Bubbled, where it met the intricate seals that kept him caged. Magic flourished to life across his senses, fractured the stone that locked him in place.
Inhaled, for the first time in what felt like eons.
Concrete and rubble rained down around him, as he tore free of his bonds. The pool of blood that had dripped down into the cavern that held him wrenched his heart out of his chest. It plopped down around him—scent rich, but repulsive, out of the body too long to be truly sustaining to a demon.
It wasn't any of that which caught his attention.
No, it was the fact that it was his son's blood that now coated his horns—that had managed to weep into his mouth—spicy and clinging to a dying light—
Panic twitched his wings, spread them wide. Stumbled, his body and mind still out of sync.
DanteDanteDanteDante echoed in his mind.
There was—so much blood that had found its way down into his prison.
Rage sang through him, and he forced his limbs into cooperation. Ducked through the remains of the door he'd been hidden behind, and launched through the halls, heart in his throat.
Reached down into the depths of his horribly human heart, sought that small thread that crooned of his nestlings—
Nearly collapsed in the hall, when he followed that thread to its frayed, torn ends.
His—his boys—his babies—
No. Absolutely not. He would not believe them dead until he saw it for himself.
Denial sang in his veins. He would not have slept through his sons' deaths. Sealed, contained, dead— even under the mighty fist of Argosax, he would not have allowed his precious boys to die without tearing down the entire world to get to them first.
Came to an elevator shaft, wrenched the doors open, and flew upward. Burst through at the top, metal tore like paper beneath his claws. Snarl on his face, as he searched desperately for his little ray of sunshine, the residual taste of his magic in the air—volcanic ash, sweet spice, and gunpowder.
Dante was nowhere to be found, in what looked to be some sort of medical lab. Twisted metal tables, cords and vials and a plethora of other tools peppered the floor. A small pool of blood leaked from what could have once been a set of restraints—Dante's, by the scent of it.
Across the room, one of the windows looked like it had burst outward, and a humanoid, redheaded demon stood in the broken glass, head tilted.
Sparda did not think as he snapped to her, clawed fist around her throat immediately.
"What. Have you done. To my son."
The words scraped out of his throat, an untethered calm in them.
Her red lips lifted into a smirk. "Sparda. Awake at last—"
His hand squeezed. Her choking allowed satisfaction to curl in the back of his mind.
"My son," he snarled.
Eased his grip, but only slightly. She still needed to answer him.
A cruel laugh passed her lips. "You might be able to save both of them, if you're fast enough—"
Her head hit the tile, and Sparda left the building behind.
The sky was golden. What looked to be the remnants of an eclipse shone above, the warmth of the sun through the clouds on his back.
Below was total destruction.
Rubble littered the streets, buildings with blown out windows and half collapsed foundations muddied the layout. The wails of the dead and dying bounced across the city, distant sirens at the edges of the chaos—smoke billowed and spewed ash. He could still taste the heavy, latent magic in the air, the spark of the barrier he'd erected so long ago back in place. Felt as it reached toward him, itched to anchor in his inherent magic once more, but he couldn't let it. A probe into the veil revealed that finally, after all these years, it was powerful enough to stand on its own, no longer needed him to prop it up.
How that happened, he'd have to figure out later.
Right now his sons needed him.
"You might be able to save both of them," the demoness had said.
Terror opened a cavern in his chest. Both of them. She'd said both of them.
His nestlings yet lived.
That would stay the case, if he had anything to say about it.
The Dark Knight didn't know how long he'd slept. Didn't know how long he'd spent away from his family. But the taste of Dante's blood that had found him told a story of age, and the fact he'd still gotten back up sent both pride and horror rolling along his nerves.
Eva, my darling, what happened?
Closed his eyes against the destruction he'd spent two millennia trying to avoid, and cast out his awareness, a desperate search for the half remembered flames of his sons.
Toward the center of the city, the weak, panicked flicker of cobalt blue snatched his attention.
Sparda didn't even think before he zipped in the direction. That was Vergil—that was his son, full of panic and desperation. Frantic static reached toward him, the dismay from both the Yamato and Rebellion bitter on his tongue, underlaid by the Force Edge's pleading horror.
All three swords being in Vergil's possession could only spell disaster. Rebellion would not leave Dante if she had any choice.
Tears tore out of his eyes in the wind.
Please, please, let them both be okay, I don't know what I'll do if—
He couldn't even finish the thought.
Heart in his throat, claws curled so hard he threatened to break his own skin, a massive crater came into view. His little storm cloud's slipping magic emanated from it. Dove down at a startling speed, hit the ground hard, kicked up dirt and debris in a small cloud.
Vergil's flinch at his landing flooded him with fear.
Sparda's wild thoughts came to a screaming halt, as he took in what was in front of him.
In the rubble lay a body. Ruby coat pooled like the blood that had freed him—like the blood that painted the concrete—dirty white hair half covered the face. More blood had streaked down at the corners of the mouth, coated what could be seen of the neck. The glimpse of one empty blue eye was unmistakable.
Above the body, Vergil knelt. Hands fisted together on the chest, shoulders tense, elbows locked. Heavy, forceful jerks, as his eldest threw his entire weight into chest compressions.
Nausea staged a violent revolution in his gut.
That body was his little sunshine.
Bone deep terror tore through his mind, a sight he'd never even fathomed in front of him.
"Dante—" he choked.
Vergil spared a glance up, fangs bared, one eye wild and sparking. Blood sheeted down the left side of his face, cheek partially caved in, other eye nothing but a spill of viscous fluid. Overcoat in tatters, one sleeve torn at the shoulder and half way down the bicep—all the way to the bone, skin and tendon and muscle and fabric all jostled with his harsh movements.
Sparda's iron will was the only thing that kept him from vomiting.
A step forward, but his elder son forced out a stuttered growl that called to his own seething rage. He continued to pump his brother's heart, and even the length of time that he had witnessed made a dark beast curl in his soul.
(After all, there was only so much time one could survive without oxygen to the brain.)
"Vergil, my son, it's—it's Dad—"
The snarl that erupted made his heart ache.
A step forward, and Vergil's remaining eye was wide and fearful. Sparda fell to his knees, just barely within reach of Dante's body, as it jerked with each frantic pump. Claws and wings melted down into his human form, grip on his tattered magic still tenuous, but the splash of white hair seemed to catch Vergil's clouded attention. Tears no longer spilled from his bloodshot eye, but it was clear they had been.
It was difficult to meet his little storm cloud's gaze through the chest compressions.
"No," came the rough reply.
The Dark Knight's stomach twisted. He was lucky there was nothing but bile to throw up, really.
"Vergil, I don't—I don't know what's happened but—please, let me help—"
A violent shake of his head, Vergil looked back down at his brother's blank eyes.
"I promise, my little storm cloud—"
"No!"
Sparda flinched away. The desperation in his eldest's voice cut him to the quick. "My son, I'm begging you—"
"How do I know you're not just another—" he grunted, flinched as he glared hard at Dante's unresponsive face, shoulders tense and back straight, "—another chaosforsaken trick from Mundus?"
His eyes fluttered shut briefly. Oh, how his boys must have suffered in his absence.
"Your mother's favorite shawl—it has a hand embroidered tag. It says 'all my love, Sparda' on it."
The Dark Knight met his boy's gaze as he looked up, steady but thrumming to move. The jerk of Dante's chest as Vergil continued to force his heart to beat sent terror spinning through his very soul. Watched as the tears began anew, cut a clean line through the viscera on his now grown son's angular face, as he became paler by the second.
"Father…" Vergil finally choked. Swallowed hard. The crack of Dante's ribs fractured the space between them. "Please, help him—"
He needed no more invitation.
Darted closer to his youngest, eyes cataloging the damage. It was gruesome. A larger stab wound in the center of his chest, right above where Vergil's white knuckled fists continued to pump. Half healed tears littered his skin, marks from what looked like large gauge needles that no longer bled but were surrounded by the dried and flaking remnants. More holes punched through his lungs, burned at the edges. Horror and dread and an ice cold rage bloomed in his heart, spread like mold through him. That must've been how they'd gotten enough blood that it had spilled down to his prison.
Along that, there was so little magic remaining. The fading feeling of Vergil's presence made sense now. He was using everything left in him to anchor Dante's magic to his body, to prevent him from dying—begging with the depth of his soul for his twin to staystaystaystay—
It wouldn't have worked for anything other than demonic twins. Souls so intertwined that only other twins could understand, magic so enmeshed that if they wanted to, they could completely impersonate the other.
And now his oldest was using that link to ensure his brother didn't free fall into death without him.
(There was a reason most demonic twins perished in the same battle.)
The biggest problem Sparda could help with was that Dante didn't have enough blood in his body to regenerate, no matter if he had enough magic to start.
The older twin was already pouring so much demonic energy into Dante's body. His little sunshine needed blood. Sparda would give him that and more.
"Vergil, don't stop. His heart needs to keep pumping the blood he has left, and your magic is what's keeping him here."
A small, scared nestling's chirp was his answer.
When this was all over, and his baby boys were safe, Sparda feared he would break into a million pieces, as he remembered that sound.
Glanced around, attention pulled by Rebellion's terrified screech. The demon snatched her up, and slid her along his arm, opened his veins and began pouring his blood into the open wound in his chest. It was crude, but the only effective means, when he couldn't move Dante enough to get him to drink. Vergil's blood—or human blood, for that matter—would've been better, but Sparda feared what would happen if his son stopped what he was doing before they knew Dante would live.
There was a moment, just one, where Dante's body seemed like it would not absorb his Father's blood. But Vergil, sweet, stubborn boy he had been once upon a time, refused to let his twin die here.
"Dante," he slurred. The movement of his jaw around the clearly broken cheekbone turned his stomach over. "Dante, stop being so stubborn for once."
His hissed words were accompanied by an opening of the floodgates of his magic, the dregs that his little storm cloud had left reached down and pulled so hard it was visible in the shimmer of heat around the three of them. Sparda felt as his eldest's magic not only yanked on Dante's demonic core, but his own, speared into the link between them as parent and child.
Finally, finally, the sizzle as Dante's body began to absorb the blood Sparda was pouring all over him.
He didn't think he'd ever heard a sweeter sound.
The gasp of relief from Vergil brought attention to the sting of tears in his own eyes.
But that emphasized a different problem.
Vergil could not sustain both of them for long, not with how weak he was as well. The spindly tug between the three of them made the demon a bit dizzy, but if that connection was what allowed Vergil to keep he and his brother grounded in the land of the living, Sparda would rip out his own demonic core if that's what it took.
(If one of them had been at even a third strength, this would not have been so dire a predicament.
What the absolute fuck happened to his sweet boys?
Sparda would slaughter whoever had done this.)
Slowly, so slowly, Vergil managed to coax his brother's demonic energy into reigniting and holding. His blood continued to pour—he had to reopen the wound several times to allow it to keep up—his magic a protective bubble around them.
Time slipped loosely around them. It could have been hours or seconds. But between one desperate slam of Dante's chest and the next, the younger twin gasped. His brother jerked his hands away, as thin, crackled breaths reentered Dante's lungs.
Blue eyes had closed, somewhere along the way, but now, they snapped open, darted between the two figures above him. Sparda nearly collapsed, seeing those eyes—the entire sclera of one bright red with broken blood vessels and one pupil much larger than the other—open and aware.
Knew that the empty, dead look in them when he'd arrived would never leave him for as long as he lived.
Vergil let out a high pitched whine. Dante's sluggish expression crumbled, as he blinked to focus on his brother. The Dark Knight watched, as the red twin took in his brother's missing eye, mottled, bruised cheek, half flayed away arm, bloodsoaked and broken—
An answering keen ripped from his little sunshine's throat.
Jerkily, his little storm cloud lifted both hands, cupped his brother's face, and leaned down. Touched their foreheads together, their tears mixed on Dante's cheeks. Heat crept up the back of Sparda's throat, electric, as his sons' demonic presences stayed level and, even—just a bit—got stronger.
"Don't ever do that again," Vergil whispered.
All the younger twin could do was wheeze in return.
In the silence, Sparda's heart beat painfully in his chest. There was so much he'd missed, so many questions swirling around his mind, where was Eva, how long was he gone, how did his babies end up on the brink of death—
Those thoughts were interrupted by Vergil pitching over onto his good side, landing hard next to his brother, and rolling onto his back. The demon whipped a hand out, but was unable to catch his boy, as he sprawled in the rubble next to his twin.
His hand dropped, instead rested gently on his little sunshine's chest, right above his heart. Felt the skin crawl as it tried to sew itself back together.
It must be so painful.
Wheezing, hysterical laughter filled the silence.
Oh, it seemed exhaustion had finally claimed Vergil's senses.
Dante's head lolled toward him, the instinctive fear as he lost sight of his twin palpable. Inched one hand, uncooperative, skin near shredded, to hold onto his big brother.
Vergil laced their fingers together without hesitation.
A memory sliced through Sparda, of his sons as infants, only able to sleep peacefully in the same crib, unable to be separated for too long.
One single sob ruptured his own control.
"Father," his oldest son's soft voice said.
"My boys," he whispered, watery, "what happened to you?"
The sigh that answered him made his heart sink. "Are you actually real? Because if not, Dante is going to be very upset."
Crystalline tears still shone in Vergil's single eye. "Right. Dante."
Another round of chuckles. "Or, at least I think he will—this is the first time we've seen each other in ten years."
The distraught noise that fell from his lips made both his boys flinch. It wasn't more than a twitch of Dante's brows, but it did draw his waning attention back to the Dark Knight. Choked noises tried to push past a swollen throat. Sparda hushed him, moved his other hand to cradle his youngest son's face, swiped one thumb carefully across a bruised cheek. Raw, soul deep sadness met him when he looked into his son's eyes for the first time.
Chest tight, tears wet his own cheeks.
"It's alright now, my sweet boys. I'm here, I'll take care of you."
Salty tears dripped down Dante's temples.
Commotion to the side, the setting sun sparkled through the broken buildings. The noise of a city in crisis still bounced around them, but there were a lot of footsteps coming closer. Sparda rose, Rebellion and Force Edge in each hand, ready to defend his healing nestlings.
But there was no need.
"Dante," a woman's voice called, worry and fear laced through it. "Dante!"
A gurgle from the red twin's throat.
A crowd of humans neared the edge of the crater they stood in, most in military gear but some in plainclothes. A few guns pointed his way, but the woman in front held up her hand to stall them. Regardless, the Dark Knight took up a defensive stance. His years imprisoned had exhausted him, and the loss of blood and magic in order to keep Dante among the living had only left him further lightheaded. Still, he was not so drained that he wouldn't be able to tear through a measly group of humans.
"Father," Vergil's weak voice floated up to him. "They're safe. For now."
The threat, even weak as his son was, seemed to land with the woman, since she flinched. "Vergil? You good down there?"
"Lady," his son said, marginally louder. But it seemed the woman could hear him, along with several others. "Dante needs—needs healing."
That seemed to scramble the onlookers with her. Several spurred into motion, bags on their shoulders as they picked carefully across the cracked earth. He stood down, allowed both the Rebellion and Force Edge to fade into nonexistence, safe in his pocket dimension. Scooped the Yamato up from where she lay, quiet and anxious, and allowed her to join her sisters.
Mismatched eyes sized him up, as the woman approached, several emergency responders behind her. Stopped a few feet in front of him, lip curled in defiance. But the tension in her shoulders released once he stepped back, took up residence near his sons' heads, as the medics evaluated their injuries.
He'd done all he could for them, for now. They needed human medical attention.
"Shit, Dante, buddy, you had us scared," one of the strangers said, as he knelt down next to the red twin. Brown eyes swept across the bloody state of him, and Sparda didn't miss the wince.
"You know my son," he questioned.
A nod, as the medic unzipped his bag. "Yeah, he was my neighbor down the hall, before DARKCOM blasted half our building to smithereens hunting him down."
Sparda did not like the implications of that at all. Who was DARKCOM? Why had they been hunting his son?
Where had Eva been? Vergil?
(He could guess where his eldest had been. The Makaian accent in his speech was unmistakable and heartrending.)
A vague recollection of how human medicine worked surfaced in his brain. Decided that this human, who had known his son by name, could be trusted. "Dante has several broken ribs, stab wounds, and will need more blood," he said, quiet. "He received chest compressions for approximately six minutes before his heart restarted."
The grim edge that settled in the eyes of each medic panged in his heart.
"Oh, shit," one of them said, as they brushed Vergil's bangs to the side to reveal his empty, crushed eye socket.
Now that he had a moment, Sparda took in his eldest's injuries further. Beyond the mangled arm and missing eye, he lay almost awkwardly, lower left leg at an odd angle. Broken, probably. Another injury to add to the list of ways he'd failed his babies.
"It will heal," his son murmured.
"Buddy—"
"It will," he interrupted, throat tight. "He just needs rest, food and fluids. They both do. Their demonic heritage will allow them to heal."
He said it with more confidence than he felt, really. He hadn't been there to watch his sweet boys grow, didn't know the true extent of their abilities, couldn't possibly fathom how they had survived with the injuries they had already.
"It's true," the Commander interrupted, "I've seen him walk off some pretty gnarly injuries that would've killed anyone else."
The woman hovered on the edges of the medical team, several horrified looking soldiers put on a brave face behind her.
Dante managed to choke out one pained laugh.
It broke Sparda's heart.
A young girl bound up through them, stopped right at the woman's side, as she reached down to prevent the girl from going any further. "Mattie, let them do their jobs, okay? Where's Tom—"
"Vergil, Dante—"
"We'll be okay, Mattie," his little storm cloud assured. The words must've been less confident than he thought, because he could see Vergil wince. Doubt twisted the child's face, and Sparda almost chuckled.
A blond man came stumbling toward them now, but he stopped short when he finally looked down. "Ho—oly fuck."
Lady, Vergil had called her—flinched a bit. "Nice, real great, Tom," she muttered.
He looked over at her apologetically. "I'll start getting stretchers organized—"
"You'll only need one," Vergil said.
Then, despite the squawk of the medic who'd bandaged his arm back into one piece, he tried to stand up. On a broken leg.
Quickly, Sparda swooped over to his little storm cloud's side. "Absolutely not. If you won't allow the humans to carry you, then I will, my son."
His eldest stared at him, the one eye still tight with unacknowledged pain. Must've seen the plea not to argue in his eyes, as he finally relented, and allowed his Father to scoop him up.
"Son, you said?"
Sparda turned to settle his gaze on Lady. From his arms, his eldest hummed. "Commander Arkham, meet our Father, The Dark Knight Sparda."
Her mismatched eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Just barely kept from rolling his eyes. Really, his reputation after all these years couldn't be that bad.
"And where the fuck have you been, huh?"
A dark, creeping rage settled in his bones. "Captured by Argosax's minions. Dante's blood found it's way to the seals that held me and freed me of them." Confusion crinkled her brow, and Vergil made a curious noise. "Which we can discuss later, after your brother wakes."
Exhaustion was nearly palpable in the air, not just from his boys but the humans around them. With the level of destruction, there was sure to be many people in need of assistance, and this merry band of individuals likely had their work cut out for them.
But all that mattered to him were his horribly vulnerable babies.
So they stood there, keeping watch as the humans managed to load an unconscious Dante onto a stretcher. Vergil slumped further and further into his hold, until he felt tears start to soak into his shirt, before he followed his brother into fitful slumber.
Healing would take time. But there were many discussions they needed to have, while his sweet boys were resting.