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As The Trumpets Sound	By : Laryna6 Category: +A through F > Devil May Cry Views: 4314 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Devil May Cry game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Disclaimer: I do not
own Devil May Cry, though I own all three games, Sound DVDs, manga, novels,
comics, Revoltech figure, little DMC2 figures... �I�m not making money, Capcom is.

-

So, here they were.

Down that hall, the second door on the left was the room in
which the rituals had been performed on her. The door had been open and she�d
glanced in and recognized it, shuddering at the memory. It strengthened her
resolve, which was a good thing.

Before, she wanted him dead, but now when he�d finally learned
remorse� now there was a chance he might be redeemed, she was growing uncertain
about killing him. She didn�t want even him to go to hell and suffer what would
feel like an eternity without God�s presence, and then be destroyed on Judgment
Day.

Especially since they would do their worst
to him, if he truly was Sparda.

Something in her said this was her fault somehow, which was
nonsense. She was the victim here, and he was choosing to die. She would merely
do the deed, and she would do it quickly and cleanly despite how much he
deserved to suffer, what she had fantasized about.

These stone rooms, either hollowed out beneath the castle or
natural caves altered to seem planned, were where he
did his magic, where his death would take place.

He led her into a room that was clearly a natural cave,
though it had been altered. There was an alter at the
center, in an odd shape. There was an odd design on the floor, glowing, and
objects were placed on points within it. It seemed that everything was prepared.

�Eva?� he said finally, after letting her look around the
room.

�Yes?�

�Here.� He lifted up a sword from a niche in the wall. �Use
this, it will answer to the hand of a human without testing: it is a demon
blade, but will work faster than a human weapon would.�

�A demon blade?� It looked odd, but
not obviously unholy. She would have thought it was made of normal steel: it
was thin and delicate, like the blade a fencer would use, and the handle had a
flowing design that looked somewhat like leaves guarding the grip.

�It will not do anything for you,
it was created for a human to use. The energies will not touch you and cause
corruption,� he assured her. �I have a normal sword, but it would take longer.�

�Take longer?� she asked, not liking what she thought that
statement meant.

�To kill me.�

�Wait a minute, I thought, well, you never actually said,
but I thought I would be,� killing you with one blow.

�I have to be at full strength when the ritual starts, and
the energy caused by the damage to me will enable it to work better. If you
wish, I could injure myself, and reserve the final blow for you.�

She winced at that idea. She didn�t like people being hurt
and though she�d considered it, suicide revolted her because of the idea of
self-harm as well as the eternal damnation that accompanied it. Besides, that
was the deal, right? A day of her pretending they were a happy couple in
exchange for her getting to kill him.

She was tempted to take advantage of it, to put in blows
that wouldn�t be fatal but would hurt. Castrating him was a particularly
attractive thought.

She�d paid for this, she should see it through.

This was his penance, she realized. He wanted to give her
his death.

People had flagellated themselves,
hurt themselves in penance for sins: the pain of Purgatory allowed you to pay
for your sins and go to heaven. Sparda didn�t love God,
he didn�t want God to forgive him: he wanted her to. He was offering her his
pain in the hope of� no, not in that hope. He knew she could not forgive him,
even if she tried. She was not that saintly. He simply wanted her to have it.
He had said that demons fed on pain, the torment of souls, so� The death of a
devil must be a princely gift.

He held two swords out to her now, one unornamented, utterly
workmanlike and practical: she could tell it was a good blade, a normal, human
blade.

But with that one, it would take him longer to die.

She wanted him dead, but she didn�t want to be a torturer,
and for some reason, now� perhaps that frankness when he had confessed his
ulterior motive had convinced her that he was capable of honesty despite his
nature, that he was Sparda, that he had needed to do
what he had done. It didn�t make it right, he was fallible, but he thought he
had done� a horrible thing, but he had seen that it was the thing to do that
was most likely to succeed in protecting humanity, and was that not a noble
cause?

She had wanted to believe all along that this was simple,
that he was simply lying, the devil, evil, because he had done evil to her. She
hadn�t wanted to think she should forgive him, that� it was complicated.

The second most horrible thing he had done to her, worse
than the torture but not worse than the key act, was to fall in love with her.

She took the demon sword.

Sparda put the other one away. �Everything is prepared. I
will lie here,� he said, indicating the alter, �and
you will strike until I, or at least, my body, is killed. Then my soul will go
to the sword and maintain the seal for as long as I can.� He laid a hand on the alter and, not looking at her, told her, �Eva, you don�t
have to do this if you do not wish to.�

�I paid for it, didn�t I?� With more than
just the pretense.

He knew she had, but, �If you do not wish to, then don�t
feel you must for my sake. You owe me nothing. You have already been far more
generous than any other human would have been in your place. It is my fault, I�
I knew you would hate me, but I felt, my instincts said that you would react as
a demoness would, admire my strength, and� You would have made a wonderful nun,
Eva. I think you are already a saint.�

�No, I�m not. I can�t forgive you, and a saint would. I want
to kill you, that�s why I gave you that day.
Otherwise, I never would have.�

�You are strong. If you had been weak and fallen for your
captor, as I have seen humans do, I would not have admired you and your emotion
would not have been returned.�

�I figured.�

�Then, if you were sure.�

She wasn�t sure, but she was going to do this.

He lay on the alter, not looking at
her until he was settled, then he closed his eyes in acquiescence.

She walked over, and when she was standing over him looked
at the sword in her right hand. What would kill him the quickest? His head, throat, heart (groin)?

His face was detached, she envied
him the ability to turn off his display of emotion. Though, he seemed to be
concentrating, perhaps on the spell being cast? She wished she knew what he was
feeling. Though she knew he was as much at peace as he had been for years.

She should not delay this. �I�m going to start,� she told
him, positioning the sword over his heart. Yes, that would be what she would
strike at, the heart that dared wish for her to succumb.

�Yes,� he answered, and she knew he meant thank you.

It was harder than she thought it would be. She meant to
stab down cleanly, but there was a rib in the way and she had push hard to get
through it. She�d never been one of those people who fainted at the sight of
blood, but she didn�t think she could have done this if he had been human.

As it was, she felt detached, and thought that he must have
chosen human form for this because she must not have the strength to get a
sword through the carapace of his devil form.

She made a lot of cuts going in, but they quickly vanished,
the blood stopped flowing and the flesh closed up around her sword. She drew it
out, and there was nothing to mark the damage she had done but blood staining
his clothes and the cut in them. He wasn�t wearing his normal outfit, simply
black pants and a white dress shirt. Strange, death should be a formal event.
This was his funeral, his deathbed.

She went for the throat next: much easier to cut, and she
wondered if the ordinary sword would have cut this easily, though she had
muscles from carrying the twins and doing most of the work of taking care of
them.

Again, the flesh healed around her sword after the initial
blood flow, so she wiggled it back and forth. There was no pain on his face.

�How much damage am I actually doing?�

His eyes opened. �Not very much. We
are much harder to kill than humans: blood is simple to replace. If you
slashed, it would work better. Focus you will, and it
will cut through even my bone like butter.� They closed again.

She followed his advice, slashing: it did indeed go through
him. Again, again, and soon enough his clothes were in ribbons. Her only
reactions were the momentary interruptions of his breathing when she destroyed
something crucial to it.

Focus, but on what? Her anger kept rising to the surface,
and she found herself thinking of vengeance, but vengeance was God�s, not hers.
Wrath was one of the seven deadly sins for a reason. She tried to focus on
ending this, tried to focus all her hate into him, so that it would die with
him and she could be pure of it, that he would not be there to remind her of
her defilement, of his torment of her: that he not debase her love of her
children, that she would be able to stop seeing him and his crimes in the faces
of innocents and be able to love them purely as they deserved.

She wanted him to feel that as this body died so did his
guilt, for he was tormenting himself and she was tired of it, tired of
everything.

Blood splattered on the plain black dress she wore, nothing
fancy, none of the beautiful things he loved to give her (trying to buy her,
no, trying to delight her) for this, they would be
ruined.

She would burn this dress in a fireplace after this. Let
everything be dead and buried, let only her and her children go on. And the
world he had done all this to save, and was it worth it? She had thought it not
worth her suffering. No, she was not worth the world. She would have been
willing to die, but�

Jesus had died for humanity, but Sparda would not take days
to die, and he was no Jesus. Jesus had harmed none. Jesus had not sinned as
Sparda had. The thought of connecting them was ludicrous, blasphemous.

Perhaps this truly was the end of days, the Emperor of Hell
about to rise again: Jesus had come when Mundus invaded, would the second
coming happen now? The world would be doomed then, her
children would perhaps be doomed to fail. She didn�t want them to fail, she
wanted them to live.

They would be so sad that their father had died, and they
would never know why, never know that he had died for them: they would not have
that guilt. They would never know his crimes, her crime (for she was murdering
him, even if it was by his own will).

His white shirt was almost all stained now, and she cut him
in a way sure to get blood on the last piece. His white hair was splattered,
and still he seemed too pristine, too perfect, devil that he was, black heart
that he had.

It took a while for her to notice that the breathing had
stopped.

From the sight of her first stab, a purple light rose, and
she thought it beautiful. It floated up, and then vanished.

Everything stopped glowing except the light in the ceiling,
and she was alone with a corpse.

It was done, he was dead, she tried
to tell herself that chapter of life was over, that now she was free to live
for the children.

Even so, it felt like the center of her life had gone: he
had stolen her entire destiny and written it. She felt anchorless now,
drifting, like something that she had grown to rely on was gone, like she was
missing an arm.

She put the sword down on top of him and watched him for a
while.

Then she left and closed the door.
- 10
- 11
- 12
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As The Trumpets Sound