Author's note: Oh my, when I feel poetic and I type a story, something cool is a result! I meant this to be a shorty of a story but it just expanded like a hugely fat hot air balloon. Writing poetically was a typing marathon!
This story takes place after DMC3 and just before DMC1. Please,please review after you read! Appreciation will be forklifted in heaps for everyone who does.
All I gotta say: Thanks Capcom for ambiguous pasts! This story wouldn't have been born without them.
Afterthoughts
It is the fourth time in the past two weeks he has been denied his pleasure. Dante Sparda, self-proclaimed babe magnet, has yet again been turned down from a date.
He had been lounging on an overstuffed couch at the newly renovated Love Planet, drink in hand and legs stretched out. A sweetheart sat next to him and struck up a conversation. A real one and not a half-baked attempt to get in his pants. He tried to play the wholesome card, not acting too eager to invite this woman to his love nest. He lasted eight minutes before his innocent flirting morphed into a heavy come on. Dante really wanted that date. The woman left very abruptly.
"Is that wrong?" Dante asks Lady as they sit at his desk at Devil May Cry. He leans back in his padded chair.
"What is?" Lady is elegantly perched on the desk edge, a notepad in hand. She is half-listening, scribbling, and not looking up.
"That chick turned me down."
"So?"
"That's just not possible."
"What?" Lady finally raises her eyes. She is mystified. "What are you talking about?"
Unabashedly confident, Dante answers, "Women can't resist me. I ask them out or they ask me out. A night of fun progresses from there. Everything flows beautifully. Why didn't I get the goods?"
There is a pause from the budding journalist. "You get your dates from Love Planet?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"Ah." She goes back to writing.
Chair legs thud on the floor when Dante stops leaning on his seat. "What does THAT mean?"
His inquiry is ignored when Lady begins humming. What the hell is she writing? He stands from his seat and slides over the desktop next to her. When she still doesn't respond, Dante nimbly grasps the book and pulls it right out of her hands.
That merits her attention. "Give that back."
"Not until you answer me first. What is this?" He holds the pad to eye level. An overprotective Lady swipes the stationery out of his hands before he can read the first word. He's off his game today if she has faster reflexes than he.
"This is private. It's a reminder for me."
Dante makes another snatch at her hands but she pushes him out of reach. She tears off the front sheet and rises to stuff it in her belt pocket. He, on the other hand, waits impatiently with his arms crossed over his chest. He wants his answer.
Lady rolls her eyes. "You have low standards. The girls at Love Planet aren't going to be searching for their dream partner. They're there for a night of fun, nothing more. Though that girl who conversed with you might have been different. Who would have thought?"
Low standards? No way. Some of those girls were sassy... After they imbibed a few drinks, anyway. Hmm, the woman he met didn't seem drunk, but that perspective was likely off since he was the one in a drunken stupor when she came along. Dante sighs and stretches his arms over his head. "Aw, man, what a rough life I have."
Lady simply stares at him, and he stares back quizzically. His partner-in-demon-crimes angrily shakes her head. "A rough life? What do you know?"
Whoa, what bit her in the butt? Lady is temperamental, sure, but she is awfully more moody this morning. Maybe she's going through that sensitive time of month. Dante knows he's gotta beware or lose his head, but regardless, he mischievously pushes on. "Well, I know someone didn't close the jar of peanut butter properly today and the next person using it got the stuff all over his hands. I will not name suspects."
A frustrated sound that borders on a growl and a half groan comes from Lady. She almost bends the notepad in her hand in half. "You're getting worked up over something as dumb as the peanut butter lid?"
Dante sweeps her in his arms as if to ballroom dance. He responds musically, "Why yes. Without peanut butter, the jam will be lonely in my sandwiches. As am I without you." He glides a hand lower down her back while giving her a come-hither expression.
"Moron, get your hands off me." Lady squirms, attempting to get away.
"So, the senorita knows how to dance. Come, we shall paint the sky the most bright red!" The proclamation is spoken in an exaggerated Spanish accent. He twirls Lady around, lifting her feet off the ground.
Lady reddens, particularly since Dante has his muscular hands pressed high against her sides and very close to her chest. "Geez, I answered your question, already. Quit the dancing."
Pretending her words have wounded him, he woefully exclaims, "Butsenorita, you break my heart! You cannot leave me in the middle of a dance!" When Dante sets her down, Lady forcefully shoves him back. There is a surprising amount of strength. He stumbles back. Well, playtime is over quick.
She straightens out her clothes. "You never listen, do you?"
He stops his silly Spanish accent. "Listening takes too much effort. I guess doing that would make my life easier, huh? I probably would've gotten that date."
"There you go again with your easy life crap. 'Oh no, no date for the weekend, boo hoo.'" Lady glares at him balefully. "If you're gonna whine, do it for something useful."
To show what a nice guy he is, when the thick pad of paper flies at him Dante allows it to bounce off the side of his head. He does it solely to make her feel better as she vents. She better appreciate it! He rubs the stinging area and says affectionately, "Mary, you are one dangerous person."
Lady's voice rises. "Nobody calls me that except my mother!" She stalks off to the outside world, slamming the front door shut behind her.
Dante can only scratch his head, perplexed. He shrugs with a roguish grin, tosses the offending block of paper on his desk and sits back down. His vision catches sight of the framed photograph stand at the corner of the tabletop, as it sometimes does. The woman with the long mane of blonde locks smiles tenderly at him, perpetually beautiful in her frozen state.
Thinking of his mother leads to thinking of his older twin brother. Vergil. What became of him after the debacle at Temen-ni-gru? Why did he have to be a bastard and stay there in that hell hole? Is he even alive anymore?
The smile on Dante's face disappears when he closes his eyes and loses himself in memories.
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Two young children are sparring on Sparda's grassy front lawn. Dante is sitting on the hard earth with a frown, a wooden play sword lying a few feet behind him. Vergil stands over him with an identical sword pointed at Dante's nose. He is smirking in triumph.
"Verg, you're always like that when you win." Dante glares at him. Vergil is a sore loser but an even worse winner. Too prideful to the end.
The standing boy raises an eyebrow in fascination.
"You're so high and mighty. Not every fight needs a champion. If you lose, you just try again. Loosen up, huh?" Dante narrows his eyes grumpily.
Vergil is silent. He reluctantly holds out a hand to help his brother up.
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It's a special day. His father is with Dante. The little
child is excited because he gets to spend the whole afternoon by
himself with his dad. Usually he and Vergil fight like cats whenever
they both have the chance to be with him.
Dante has happily convinced Pop to let him check out the aquamarine exhibit by himself. It's a small area and although there are many people, he feels he has the place to himself because he's on his own.
A huge tank filled with strange swimming aqua life catches his eye. The creatures are like turtles but their backs have spiky ridges and odd flaps on their feet.
There's an alarmed cry from behind. A body bumps him and something sharp impales Dante in the arm. He exclaims more in shock than pain and looks down to see a weird stick jutting out. A trickle of blood has started to run down his sleeve. The pain is not as bad as he expects. He wonders why.
Dante turns around. The owner of the cry is a mother who reaches her fallen son. He is the one playing around with whatever the stick is. The mother frantically asks Dante if she can call someone he's with to help him. Murmuring has spread throughout the room.
He informs her that he's fine. Being impulsive as the child he is, he automatically pulls out the object as effortlessly as he would a splinter in his finger. A regular human would be bleeding heavily but Dante is not. He stares at how little blood is leaking from the wound. "Cool, I'm hardly hurt! This is awesome!" Excited about his discovery, he holds up his injury for the mom and kid to see, then rotates his arm in circles to show he's perfectly fine. Bystanders are watching him with strange faces and their gossiping grows louder.
The horrified boy points at him. "Y-you're freaky!"
Confusion fills Dante. He senses his father is already here. The silver-haired man is on the other side of the room, carefully wading his way through the crowd. Openly, his face is etched in worry, but his eyes hold a sorrow Dante doesn't understand.
Dante glances away. Vergil should have come with them, after all.
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Sometimes, when Dante is feeling more like a human instead of Mr. Party Guy scouting for babes at Love Planet, a part of him tugs just a bit whenever Vergil says a farewell to leave for the afternoon. Maybe it's a residue left over from younger days when Dante looked forward to hanging out with his older brother. Sure, they would get on each other's nerves and Vergil annoyed him in more ways than he could bother to keep track, but Dante enjoys being with him. They were siblings, after all. Siblings tick each other off one minute and party on like nothing happened the next minute. Well, carousing for Dante, anyway.
Dante has productive thoughts this day. He wants to take demon slaying to the payable level by charging customers for his services. He doesn't know if there's a rat's chance in hell a business like this can stay him afloat, let alone prosper enough to allow pizza binges at least once a month, but he likes the plan.
He walks into the area where he's already contemplating to be his office. He sees Vergil pick up his Yamato sword leaning against the wall and inspect it. The aspiring demon hunter knows what that means: training or weed-whacking. Since there weren't a whole heck of a lot of lawns available to weed-whack around here, training was the answer.
Dante steals a magazine from a table and prepares himself for ogling over scantily clad women splayed against glossy pages. Maybe he should remove his coat for this stimulating activity. He waits for the faint lilt of Vergil's voice in his typical goodbye.
"I'm leaving, Dante." Vergil utters his usual parting words. Dante pauses. The syllables are flat.
Dante glances up from his book to find Vergil watching him with calm eyes. His brother's eyes normally hold a spark, even if he wasn't smiling. This time, his eyes exhibit coldness. The lack of emotion jars Dante. Still, he acts nonchalant. "Where to?" he asks out of habit. "Dog walking with the Fueller's dachshund?"
Vergil had taken it upon himself a couple days a week to walk a dog that belonged to a neighbour down the street. Doing so helps him think, he once told his brother. Dante joins him, more for the benefit of attracting the ladies who are smitten when they notice the handsome twins exercising with a canine.
In response to Dante's question, Vergil lifts an indifferent shoulder. "There may be dogs involved."
"Want me to join you?" Dante smiles rakishly.
The shoulder Vergil raised moves away slightly. The motion is subtle, but it clearly indicates the inquiring sibling is not welcome. "I have an errand. It will take a while."
The heaviness hasn't lifted from the serious brother's tone. Dante tosses his girly magazine back on the table and walks over to stand in front of him. "How long are we talking about here?"
No response. Vergil's fingers tighten their grip on the sword's sheath. He faces the front door, away from Dante's stare.
Dante takes the liberty of guessing. "More than a weekend trip?"
"Yes."
"A vacation! Great! I can close the shop for a week and we can tan on the beach. Or we could stay at a swanky hotel and go wild with the facilities there."
Vergil closes his eyes briefly, then slowly opens them again. His vacant stare at the far wall has grown darker. "I'm not coming back."
He begins to stride to the door. Dante, having the sense of mind to jump first and ask questions later, slides in front of his brother to block his path. "Hello?? You're not coming back? You think I'm gonna accept that as an answer? What the hell is going on with you, Vergil?" He grabs the shoulders of the only blood relation he has left. "Tell me. Now."
Much too easily, Vergil shrugs the demanding hands off. "This world sickens me. Being a half human has done something unforgivable to me."
"What? Give you emotions? You need them. Otherwise, you'd just be a bloodthirsty demon killing everyone in sight."
"I don't need them!" The outburst is sharp, defiant. The scathing glare Vergil shoots at Dante is filled with such hatred that it shocks the younger twin. He has never seen such rage stem from Vergil before.
Dante shakes his head. "What are you going to do?"
"That's none of your business." Vergil tries to sidestep around Dante but the red-coated man blocks him again. He grunts when Dante's hand punches him lightly in the chest. Vergil scowls, but when he sees his brother smirk, his frown lessens its deepness. The smile is not returned.
One question burns in Dante's mind. "Why do you hate humans so much?"
"They're weak. They sway to the tiniest and most insignificant things. Trivial matters take up their time." Vergil seems like he could list on forever.
Dante folds his arms. "Trivial? Like, say, chocolate? Remember our mother and the chocolate gift?" He refers to a birthday they had in their younger years when their mother was alive. She had given them chocolate. Vergil was uncharacteristically eager about getting them.
A waver in his glower is Vergil's reaction. "I was a child. I didn't know better."
"The point is, nobody thought you were a lesser being because you were a half-human who wanted something."
"You're naive. If you think being half human is so great, why don't you tell everyone you meet how you have demonic blood in you? Those girls you flirt with, for example." Vergil laughs bitterly. "I wonder how they would react when they find out your... lengthy endurance is not fully a human trait."
"Like any girl will believe I'm a demon." Dante scoffs.
"If they hear it enough times around town, they will. People are swayed so easily by rumors."
Vergil is sneering. Ruining Dante's fabulous reputation as a womanizer would be entertaining to nobody else except the older twin. Dante frowns. "You son of a bitch."
The stoic man has the gall to grin cruelly. "Perhaps I am."
Stinging fury erupts. Dante swings a punch at his brother before his brain registers what his fist is doing. "What the hell did you just say?!"
Vergil steps back to avoid the blow. He uses his momentum to travel to the doorway. He pulls open the door. Before he leaves he glimpses back at Dante. Vergil does not seem angry. He is staring at his brother in pity.
The hot-tempered man can't find the right words to say what he's thinking because there is too much he wishes to utter. All he can do is stay voiceless.
The ocean stretches out before Nelo Angelo. He has been born, a new existence without burdens of his past life. The waters are part of a place called Mallet Island. Terrible monsters and a hideously transformed castle are regular sights for him, but outside, there is air and sea and some flying things which croon and have beaks and white wings. The sunset gives rise to melancholy.
Nelo Angelo has been birthed as a fierce warrior. Free from helplessness and fury and other uncontrollable emotions humans have.
An uneasiness lingers, however. What are memories? Are they something important? Something needed? Are they real?
His head bends over at a sharp jab of pain.
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The furniture and walls are simple, but a touch of unkemptness on a desk and part of the floor near it gives an air of a young boy's room. Vergil's room. On the bed sits the sullen child with platinum hair. A woman with long honey-colored hair is next to him, her eyes watching him with soft admiration. Eva. Mother.
Vergil glowers at their topic of discussion. He doesn't want to admit what he is about to reveal but she did ask him. His father is not here to confess to. He is battling somewhere Vergil can't follow. The stony gaze from the young boy refuses to meet hers. "I want to be strong. I want to be able to protect. You wouldn't understand."
Eva tips up his chin and locks intense eyes with his brooding orbs. "Vergil, your father is now fighting for the sake of this world, and for you and Dante. I cannot help him with his war and I cannot be with him. But I am here with both my sons. I understand your desire more than you realize."
Vergil, a proud son of Sparda, fixes his bold stare on his mother. He discovers himself smiling. Sincerity has consumed her, but it has seized him as well.
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The cathedral in Mallet Island. The pillars and walls are formed and tall. A massive statue stands at one end of the place of worship. Its face is obscured by shadows. Voice is the prime indication that the statue is alive. In front of the monument kneels a battered Vergil Sparda. He is exhausted. Dirt and blood, fresh and dried, cake his clothes. Cutting a swath through demon scum to reach here has taken a toll on him. He supports himself upright with the end of his katana.
The deity in the statue speaks. "What is it you want from me?"
Vergil's voice rings clear despite the weakness in his body. "I wish to fight the prince of darkness."
A booming, ridiculing laugh vibrates throughout the room. "You? I sense potential, but not the power to unlock that potential."
A flare of infuriation rushes in Vergil's veins. Raising himself to his feet with renewed vigor, Vergil grips harder on the hilt of his sword. He doesn't have enough strength to challenge Mundus? Nonsense! "I am the son of Sparda." His statement is defiant.
Silence permeates the air. It is weighty like lead. The dark prince's mocking laugh echoes again. "Sparda's offspring? But... you're somehow different from him. A duel should be informative." Crimson lights glow on the face of the statue. "Let us not tarry any longer."
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Vergil chokes when searing, unbearable heat presses on his body from everywhere. A sea of fire is here and scattered in the roaring flames are formations of broken rock. A deep rumbling noise is shaking the earth. It quiets when the mammoth Mundus, no longer in the simple form of a sculpture but a towering winged god, speaks.
"Is this all there is to the Sparda bloodline? You disappoint me."
The broken form of Vergil lies on one of the larger boulders. Bloodied and sweating, Vergil can barely keep his eyes open. He can still speak, though what he says isn't directed toward Mundus. "I wanted... more strength... to protect. Why was I defeated?"
"What you say sounds like a human sentiment." Mundus suddenly bursts into exhilarated laughter. "I see. You're tainted with human blood. This is why you mourn. I should have realized this sooner. No matter." The blistering heat wave cools to a bearable warmth when Mundus asks, "Tell me, Vergil, what is it you want to keep? Your family is all but gone now. There is nothing more to protect."
Vergil hacks and his chest heaves at the exertion. "I don't know anymore. I thought I did-" Wracking coughs interrupts his confession. The Yamato sword laid at his side is loose in his right hand. He holds onto the hilt like a lifeline. A quivered answer comes next. "Myself. I wanted to keep myself whole. Being a half human... my father couldn't understand."
"You wish to be made whole, then? I can fulfill your wish. Power beyond what your limited heritage can provide. Your father is gone and not a single person will stop my reign on this world. Join me and live in this glorious time."
This progeny of Sparda feels his eyes close. His breathing slows to peaceful intention as his left hand rests on his vest where beneath it his beloved amulet lay. "Yes, I want it. I want what my father couldn't give me."
The rippling air singes again as heat flares up. "So shall it be done. You will not remember this cruel existence. Reborn, you will be Nelo Angelo."
An agonized scream rips from Vergil's throat as his insides are razed to cinder. The world envelops in blinding white. As he rebels against the fiery torment, it is not the yearning of power he thinks of now, but his family. His mother's laugh. His father, wise and true. And then there is...
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His father's handsome face, lined with laughter and care, peach-colored and bright, dissolves into ebony and horns and pitiless eyes. Nelo Angelo is observing himself in a small pool of water by his feet. His stare does not recognize his old self at all. Not the events, nor anyone the pain shows him. He sees himself as he is, a proud servant of Mundus.
The sharp throbbing is clearing but his mind is foggy. There is someone important. Someone... but who is it? Silver hair? He cannot grasp who it is. His memory won't give him permission to seek his answer.
"Nelo Angelo?"
The woman, no, the devil who assumes the shape of a human is here. Trish, her name is. Like him, she is a servant of the Dark Lord. He turns to face her.
The waning sunlight glints off the demoness' long honey hair. "There will be a guest here soon. One who is worthy to face you. Mundus wishes for me to pass this message on to you. Prepare yourself before then." Sparks of lightning gather and flash where she stands, stealing her away from sight.
There is no one around to see Nelo Angelo's pleased smile. He looks forward to this encounter.
An hour must have passed. Maybe two. Lady has calmed down enough from her argument with dumb Dante. She is not kicking things anymore. She isn't angry as much as sad. Talking with Dante reminds her of what she set out to do today. She takes out the sheet of paper from her pocket and peruses it a moment before walking to her next destination. She ponders the past as she does.
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There is an expansive library. A very young Mary, not more than seven sits on her father's lap, a worn volume of fairy tales spread out over her legs. They are discussing about an exciting legendary figure.
She grins at the brown pages. "Sparda sounds nice. Are his sons nice too?"
Eyes shining in amusement, her father chuckles. "I wouldn't know. I've never met them."
Mary raises her arms wide. "I'll bet they're princes. They ride on white horses and help people, just like their daddy."
A feminine voice titters. Mother enters the room and crouches in front of her imaginative child. "You told us you didn't believe those stories about Sparda."
The child looks slightly caught, then indignant. "I don't."
"Then why do you sound so happy about them?" Her mother still grins.
Mary looks up at her chuckling father's face. It is so open and caring. He makes Sparda sound real enough to touch, flesh and blood. Daddy wouldn't do anything to hurt her mommy or herself. Mary is his little girl and she loves him with all her might.
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She is in the sneaky mood. Her father is downstairs in his lab, working on something. He was acting secretive when Mary asked about his plans for the evening. She wants to see what he's doing. Her mother is somewhere else right now so the child won't get caught. She is probably in the bathroom, so Mary has to be quick. The girl will zip down, take a peek to satisfy her curiosity, and be back upstairs before anyone knows she was downstairs.
Standing at the door which leads to the basement lab, Mary glances around her shoulders once more before silently twisting the doorknob. She remains as quiet as she can, her socked feet nary a patter on the concrete stairs.
Quiet murmurs are coming from the main room. Is Father reading something? The inquisitive girl reaches the bottom of the stairwell and stops just before passing the wall that separates the stairs from the work room. She peeks around the edge. Across the room, his back facing her, is where her daddy is. Mary sees that Mother is not in the bathroom like she thinks, but here locked in an embrace in her husband's arms. The youngster feels her face glow in warmth. Oh, they're having time to themselves. That's why he didn't want her to come down.
Mary turns around to leave, but a strangeness about her mother halts her and she checks again. Mother's eyes are closed and she seems... kind of stiff. Unmoving. She isn't whispering words at all. There is no kissing, no touching.
As carelessly as tossing a rag doll into a toy trunk, Mary's father releases her. Her body crumples to the ground. Her head smacks hard on the concrete but she doesn't cry out because she can't feel anything.
Mary can't stop her shaking. It intensifies when he starts to laugh. It's a feral, insanely joyful sound. Mary presses herself against the hidden side of the wall. Her erratic heartbeat is booming in her ears. Why does the prickling in her body keep coming? She's so very cold. Did her father just end a life?
His laughter is filled with triumph. Mary doesn't understand. Why did he do it? Didn't he love her? Mary clamps her hands over her ears to block out this horrible noise. She dares not make any sound. She retreats upstairs as fast as her feet can carry her.
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A neighborhood block stretches in front of Mary. Adolescents cluster together to discuss the latest gossip. Mary's mother has recently passed away.
Fervent whispers hush when Mary approaches from down the street. Chad, a guy she sometimes talks to, breaks free of the group and meets her. "I'm sorry to hear about your mom."
The public was told her mother died of disease, but Mary knows the scarring truth. Her mother's other trusted half, Arkham, husband and Mary's dear daddy, is at fault for taking her away from Mary. He even lied to his own daughter about their beloved one's passing.
Nobody would ever believe the reality. Only she.
Mary's thank you to Chad is quiet when she wants to scream.
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"Excuse me? Ma'am?"
Lady blinks herself out of her reverie. She has arrived at the store she intends to visit but she's accidentally blocking the exit by standing at the door. An elderly man who wants to go through has spoken to her.
"Sorry." She shrugs and opens the door for him, then enters the shop herself.
Dante slowly raises his head and forces his eyelids open. He is finished his stroll down memory lane. He hoped he didn't miss any calls. Demon hunters weren't essential for every home and business didn't pour in because of his niche job.
He focuses and sees the discarded pad on the desk. What was Lady scribbling in here? A grocery list? He won't know because she has the paper she wrote on. Dante scoots the pad in front of him and stares down intently at it like it's a test paper. There's a lot of white on the blank page. He randomly wonders if Lady is the type of jotter whose pen slopes down when there aren't lines on the page to guide her pen. He runs his hand over the paper. The surface is not smooth.
An idea forms in his head. He searches for a pencil. Locating one, he holds it sideways and rubs the flat edge of graphite across the paper. The faint indentations from Lady's writing slowly reveals itself. It's hard to decipher but he'll take what he can. He grins. Detective Dante, oh yeah!
The words are random names of flowers. It looks like a shopping list. There's a place too: Plurtum. Is Plurtum a place to get flowers? Is she buying them for the office? She likes to make fun of him by sticking flowers in the oddest of places for him to find. Her fragrant surprises annoy him and she merrily keeps right on providing more of them.
"Plurtum, Plurtum, where are ya?" Dante taps the eraser of his pencil on the hardwood desktop as he wonders. This goes on for a full minute but he can't figure it out. The phone hasn't rang yet and he hopes it doesn't when he makes a call. His phone plan didn't include call waiting. He picks up the receiver and dials the operator. The chipper man on the other end of the line informs Dante that Plurtum is not a shop but a cemetery.
Dante hangs up the phone. The puzzle pieces are fitting. Lady's agitation. Her hypersensitivity of him calling her by her real name. He sits up higher in his chair. He knows what she's doing.
Plurtum is a home for memories. They are never forgotten as it is possible to trigger them by seeing the stone markers. The memory Lady wants is a mother who loved her.
It takes searching but Lady finds the spot she wants. She hasn't been here lately. Others have, as she catches sight of flowers that dot gravestones of people who have fallen as well. She crouches in front of the memorial. The last time Lady visited the grave was right after her mission in Temen-ni-gru. She had to tell her mother all the things that had happened inside. Lady never guessed she could cry and laugh all at once in one visit. Months had passed since that visit.
Like last time, she sets down her tiny bouquet of flora. Gardenias. Mother liked them. For a while, Lady will be Mary. Kneeling in front of the stone, Mary tells about her business with Dante and how crazy he could be. She talks for minutes, maybe hours. She doesn't care. She doesn't care about crying, either, as the tears run down her face.
As the words come out, the topic of her father slips in them. Thinking of him now, fury races through her, makes her hate him with every fiber of her being. He killed her mother all for the sake of becoming a god. Sacrificing Mary was something he tried to do too. But even with these atrocities, Mary can't prevent herself from hurting when she thinks of his kind voice and adventurous ideas and the tight hugs from those many years ago during her days of immaturity. There must have been a time he wasn't obsessed with his warped goal. The tears streaming down Mary's cheeks remain.
Mary wants to stay but Lady wants to leave more. Too much sadness is overwhelming her. Lady gets up and brushes grass from her clothes. She wipes a trembling hand across her face. She should apologize to Dante when she gets back. Exploding at him is normal behavior for her, but today he didn't do anything wrong. Lady turns and walks, only to frown when the half-demon from her thoughts is standing there.
"Don't you know you're really a pest?" She sighs and wipes her eyes again. Her face must be a blotchy mess from all her crying. She hates crying in front of people.
"Natch." Dante seems uncomfortable, as if he is intruding on her privacy. Technically, he is, but Lady would have been more surprised if he hadn't shown up. He is always snooping.
"Why are you here?" His nosiness disturbs her today. This area is supposed to be hers alone. She brushes past him, not wishing him to watch her face.
"Out for a jaunt." Dante knows perfectly his reason is far-fetched but he says it anyway. A crinkle of loud plastic from a clumsily hidden bouquet behind his back can't conceal why he's dropped by.
"Well, you can leave. There's nothing here." Lady sniffs, controlling her anger.
Dante circles around in front, making her stop. "There is. Someone important to you." He gently holds out the flowers. Pink carnations.
Lady doesn't respond. She doesn't need to. Instead, she grasps his selfless offering and places it next to her own.
The man looks down at the gravestone, then at her features. His blue eyes are compassionate. "If you want to talk about her, I'll listen."
Lady's resentment fades. He came all this way from his office to tell her this? "I thought you said listening took too much effort." Her voice is thick. Meeting his vision is hard.
Dante doesn't laugh. His stare is level. "The effort is worth it this time."
She puts in her own effort to raise her gaze. His cobalt eyes are not joking. Lady regards him earnestly. "I'm ok. Thanks."
He nods.
"I... wanted to say sorry for today. You're not a 100 percent moron." The last part comes out more bluntly than Lady intends but she can't take it back.
A short smile comes. "Gee, that's a relief. So what, I'm 99.8 percent moronic?"
"You bet." Lady tries to reply lightly, but somberness falls on her again. "Really, though. I know you've had bumps in your life and... I'll say it's tough all around for people. Humans and demons, I mean."
"If I'm hearing an apology from you, then I accept." Dante raises his eyebrows at her to affirm his statement. When Lady nods, he looks content. Dante then clears his throat. "About earlier in the office, uh-" He halts, mouth half open. His cheeks swiftly reddens. Shyness scurries away his true objective. "...the peanut butter thing. I think an imp must've screwed around with the lid, not you. They get everywhere."
Despite her profoundly emotional memories of her parents, Lady bursts out in laughter. She didn't think it was possible today. Dante is struggling to apologize for provoking her and obviously has trouble saying the right thing.
His mouth twists sheepishly. He doesn't add anything else to feed her amusement. He knows Lady can tell the truth.
Still, she plays along. "Imps, huh? I'll keep them in mind when something else is amiss in the fridge."
Quiet stretches between them. They remain like this, unspeaking, demon and human studying one another. This is enough for Lady.
-- THE END --