Fan Fiction ❯ Wonderful Journey ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If I owned Devil May Cry, we would get Eva back-story, dammit! Nor do I own the song I took the title from.

 

Set in my Rapture SxE universe, post-love, pre-marriage. Sparda pov, for once!

 

Notes: Wilona means hoped for.

 

Okay… in the `Starfox level' in DMC1, you're flying through space. Every other time you're in hell, it's very organic, except when you're fighting Mundus when he crashes, and, well, lava so close to the surface? It could be blood. And then the leviathan in 3… What if everything in the Underworld is darkness unless you create something to live in?

 

The demons… it makes no sense for them to evolve to be puppets, etc. So my theory all the demons we see are the equivalent of Lucia, artificial servants.

 

And the core… it seems to be their one vital organ. And why repair individual cells when you could just do undifferentiated matter? What if they are, functionally, magical unicellular organisms, and the core is their brain/nucleus?

 

And, if they are created by the pattern `programmed' into the core, what would they think of DNA, cells, natural laws (Underworld physics is highly negotiable, versus light all over the place willy-nilly…)

 

Also, Mundus destroys Griffin, and there seemed to be no objections to him seizing the throne or conquering humanity for an ego trip. Their culture seems very much to be one of might makes right. (Which is one of the world basis options in Shin Megami Tensei Nocturne: a game Dante appears in.) And the corollary to that is weak makes wrong. And if demons/the weak are tools/inferior/only to be used…

 

This is a lot of speculation, but I had to do a culture for Sparda and one of the things made very clear is that the demons are outwardly similar to the ones from Christian mythology (which in the DMC universe, they inspired: take a look sometimes at biblical/popular perceptions of demonkind), but there's no heaven. There's the underworld and the light world, which isn't heaven but the human world. So they aren't fallen angels or anything, they mostly don't care about us except as gourmet food/fun things to kill, and they mostly have their own lives: Mundus trying to conquer us was an anomaly that seems to have become a fad.

 

Roses have a complicated symbolism set: I laid out the important bits to this story, but there's more if you're interested. Google the Victorian language of flowers: people used to converse with bouquets, I kid you not.

 

And, in a reply to a review on First Impressions: When I said anything Dante could do Sparda could do better, I meant better, not stronger. Sparda's at least 80, probably more like 320 or more times Dante's age in 1, so he'd have more time to get skilled, plus instruction in how to use devil powers. Sparda died when Dante was too young to remember him, let alone be taught by him, and no devil's going to teach him, so Dante would only be able to do stuff he figured out on his own, at a basic level. Eg. Dante's holding motorcycle in air versus Sparda telekinetically jamming Eva's bullets back in her guns and stopping the noise so it wouldn't frighten the sacrifices in F. I.

 

Dante, as a half-breed, not only has Sparda's power but human power as well, and hence is stronger, as Griffin admits. That whole speech there is a lot of the basis for the might-makes-right stuff in here. Dante is strong, so even though he's a half-human he's Griffon's superior and he has to excuse himself for trying to kill him. If demons exist to serve devils one attacking someone of devil rank would be highly frowned on. Otherwise, Dante is Mundus' enemy, why apologize for fighting him?

 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

 

This was… SHE was… simply, simply… indescribable. Well, the word `perfect' summed it up, well, perfectly, but, well, why?

 

His makers, `parents' as they put it… they had been `in love' as humans put it, rather famously so, but it had been and probably still was nothing like this.

 

That was a `love' of battle, for his kind revered the strong, a constant tug of war of mind and soul and strength, of powers that destroyed suns and woven spells to enslave armies, a striving for destruction, a blood-lust so lost in war-glory that he and his twin had sometimes shuddered together in the warm nest and feared that this time one or the other would be lost.

 

But each and every time the final strike was just slightly weakened, each and every time the loser surrendered instead of struggling to the death, and bared their core for the killing blow, and was spared.

 

And the battle was for all to see, that others would tremble in fear at their strength, envy their power and glory, be jealous at their possession of such a worthy mate, such a valiant fighter…

 

But the rest was theirs.

 

The greatest thing in the worlds was a worthy foe, opposite yet equal, one who forced you to get stronger merely to survive, to strive forever.

 

The most beautiful thing in the worlds, their parents had told them, was a battle with that one, no matter who was victor, to know, to revel in your strength and the strength that was yours as well…

 

And SHE was so fragile…

 

If might makes right, than weakness is wrongness, is unclean, impure. That was why his kind found humans repugnant, why a demon who was without use was destroyed, why they strived for perfection in their creations, both demon-tool and devil-child, why their weapons killed those who dared to try to claim them without the strength to, why a Knight who lost too many battles was executed, a Queen whose spawn perished uselessly was torn apart…

 

Why his kind, creatures of mind and spirit who fed on emotion, both their own and those of others, wished to make this world a place of misery for humanity, when they could have as easily and as usefully made it a paradise.

 

Unless the weak were tools, they had no right to exist.

 

And yet, and yet… he'd seen… they… a child was not a tool. They… there was some odd strength there, he'd seen, yet still, still, did not truly understand.

 

Rock, paper, scissors.

 

Not a hierarchy of strength, a continuum. His kind, created to be `rocks.' Single, unbreakable, unstoppable… except by a collection of fragile strands, woven so tightly they acted as one, a blank sheet on which such beauty could exist...

 

Her soul, the core of herself… she couldn't survive on her own. Maintain a physical form, think, generate power, fight: she wasn't able to do it all with so little raw strength… yet she didn't.

 

Without her Blue Orbs to heal her, he could kill her with one blow. Yet, he couldn't. It would be… sacrilege, to destroy something so perfect in its intricacy.

 

SHE was legion.

 

She was the fragile (by his standards, but unbelievably strong by humans' standards) woman with the skin that darkened when attacked by the sun, paled when attacked by fury, and reddened when attacked by what at first they had not realized the name of, the pale, pale golden hair that tangled so easily, so chaotically unless it was bound, the slight smirk, the sweetly reasonable expression she wore when she was giving you one last chance to undo whatever had angered her before she destroyed you…

 

She was the fierce hunter who fought that which walked in the night, what even the strongest men did not speak the name of, the irreverent, unnatural woman who shamed them for their weakness and showed them the truth of their illusions.

 

She was Eva Williams.

 

She was the one who once was Dolores Wilona Morgan.

 

She was the face that she showed to the world, and yet there was so much more…

 

Her memories, her past, her sorrows and joys and decisions and fierce strivings… to do so much with practically nothing… the others did not believe it when humans defeated them.

 

Her core, her spirit her soul the seed of her self: a fierce nameless thoughtless spark, endlessly young yet endlessly wise, that had first quailed at the sight of his own fire, then known him, nestled against him, let him feed and shield it with such utter trust that it made him ache with joy so strong it hurt…

 

Her body, not one thing, the eyes not merely a shell, but many in harmony. The brain that held animal instincts and ancient memories of darkness, fears and night terrors and unthinking reactions…

 

Eyes that were exactly that color and saw those frequencies this way and grabbed him by the arm and showed him some small thing this whole world in a whole new way.

 

Glands that reacted to situations with chemicals that altered her thinking…

 

Neurons and electric charges and chemicals and instincts and sensory impressions and a soul that simply was…

 

Where in all this was SHE? His Eva (she'd hit him for that on principle, although she'd understand and say he was hers too). The bright laughing dark sad one who understood what should have been far beyond her comprehension, who always knew what he was thinking even though humans simply didn't having the processing capability to keep up…

 

Who played games with touches and words and gestures, who used the mutual resistance of electron fields and the vibrations of air molecules and reflected frequencies of energy to express truths that neither could put into thought yet both knew and knew the other knew, and gloried in it…

 

The mind that wandered through the halls of his memories, as she'd opened hers to him, and was amazed by the most inconsequential things…

 

The one who made him feel so much, so greatly, that he wanted to… there wasn't anything that could express this, but until then… she liked coffee in the mornings and a hundred small things…

 

Sometimes, they'd just hold each other. And she was right, there was this feeling of peace, of stillness, of rightness, yet still waters ran the deepest.

 

It was perfect, and yet, they were driven to find more and more ways it was even more perfect.

 

She wandered, and touched, and looked, and laughed and sighed and explained, fascinated with the faceted jewel she said he was, a black diamond only she could see inside, except he was far more valuable to be compared to such a minor thing… let's see if she could find a better metaphor, although of course he was HIM and there was nothing that could express that except that.

 

He… those nerves sent those commands to those muscles to make that smirk. Those types of cells made up that skin… those organelles allowed those cells to function… these specific bits of these chemical chains were copied to make the chemicals to make the chemicals that activated the making of the chemicals that made her eyes that light brown with streaks of green if one looked closely enough, which he liked to do as much as possible.

 

Self made of mind and soul, mind from brain and body and past, made of organs and cells and chemicals and atoms and protons and quarks and years and days and seconds and an endless infinity of things that were HER. Which petal was the rose?

 

Was she dancing on a wave or was she herself the wave?

 

So, so delicate, so intricate, it seemed as though if one thing, one small thing went wrong he would lose her… but she wasn't a chain, she was a chain mail, so if one link broke the rest would hold, and find a way to weave itself together again.

 

Her people called his place the World of Darkness, the Underworld, Hell deep beneath the earth, and there was truth in that, for there was darkness unless light was made… nothing existed except infinite darkness and what was made to swim in it, demons big as worlds were the castles he knew perfectly, for he could see their cores, their patterns, every aspect of their singular nature, but here, everything was pre-made, raw and unfinished and old and muddled and chaotic.

 

For what was this `light,' that was here and not there then and again but raw force, untamed, and unordered? His kind called this the World of Chaos.

 

He could see every aspect of his self, add to it as he grew, change what failed, but these folk could only see the surface, only change the surface.

 

And the eyes were beautiful, and he loved them, but so was this little pattern here, a back-up to a back-up to a back-up system of one organ yet in every cell of her perfect body and he could lose himself here, in coding and instinct from when her kind hid as mice from dragons in the dark swamps as she said she could lose herself in his memories, just keep looking and looking, for there would always be more to see…

 

She loved the colors scarlet and black. They looked horrible on her, the dressmaker he'd taken her to in order to have a ball gown made had rather emphatically stated. She was out in the sun so little that her skin was a pale shade the old great ladies would have envied, his Huntress of the night. With that and her pale gold hair, she looked a ghost in those vivid and dark hues.

 

Horrible? He'd laughed then, quietly to himself, at his Lady's reaction to the idea of wearing pink, of all abominations.

 

He rather liked the color: it wasn't a color of weakness, but she said it had been made to be so… she looked beautiful in it, truly, but then she looked beautiful in everything, and it was such a conventional beauty, a soft beauty, in the color rose.

 

His Lady looked best when one could see her thorns.

 

She looked a ghost in red and black? A spirit, truly, glowing with a fierce inner light, a star come down from the sky, an angel from Heaven, which she almost made him believe in… but an angel would never love a Devil.

 

But never dead: more alive than anything else in the worlds.

 

A diamond glowed best against black velvet. The moon seemed a paltry thing by day, but at night the endless dark sky became a mere backdrop.

 

By day the sun outshone the stars, made them seem insignificant, unnoticeable, by comparison. Yet without that blinding light an infinity was revealed. Look closely, and you would find many that outshone the sun, in their own realms.

 

He took her, in that dress, seemingly ancient yet unprecedented, ornate yet practical, to a celebration of the `greatest' of modern fashion, and they smiled to each other at the plastic as they danced to a modern air a dance as old as time yet invented by both at each note.

 

She was asked by some of those present if possibly… as Twiggy, her boyish body championed by feminists who embraced the rejection of the idea that a woman to be considered beautiful had to be overweight and sedentary, a large-breasted, large-hipped child-bearer who never stirred outside the home, was becoming so popular… the young woman was on the top of the world, having just won the accolade of a newspaper as the Face of '66, a far cry from being taunted as `Sticks' and `Twig,' the name she had embraced in mockery of her classmates who had considered her a unfeminine tomboy.

 

But she would outshine anything they put her in, and was that not the point of a model? She was far too alive to ever be captured as a still image, his tall and strong Amazon Queen. A dead still photo could never convey her reality.

 

She turned them down. She had better things to do, she said smiling, looking at him. She had a better person to look at her than nameless fans.

 

And they left at three and she danced death with him. Not in that dress, of course. But she looked beautiful in anything, and with her guns blazing, each shot instant yet precise… she was ravishing.

 

None of his kind who laid eyes on his Kali survived. His red and black rose of many petals, many deadly thorns. True love, creating love, the wise lady of death and rebirth…

 

He'd given her a corsage, a purple rose of enchantment. She'd laughed, she was indeed majestic, but why would he advise caution? She was precisely as cautious as she needed to be.

 

Though he'd shown her his hands could become claws, she lay so trustingly in his arms. Through she knew his teeth itched to become fangs, she kissed him as hungrily as he her. He wanted to devour her.

 

He wanted to keep her, all of her, with him, inside him, for the rest of eternity. He'd never felt fear before, but for her… what if one day he wasn't there? She'd handled herself as a hunter for years before, but…

 

It was a good thing she was so strong willed, for he would do anything for her. Give her everything she wanted, build her a palace she'd never want to leave, smother her with love, and never let her do a thing for herself if she let him. Destroy the independence, the strength that captivated him.

 

But the will that had captured him ensured he would never capture her, save when she wished to be.

 

He'd watched the weather until one day he'd come by and dragged her out of bed and tossed her through a portal into a hurricane, and caught her and tossed her again, screaming and laughing and hitting him over the head… and then he'd taken her to his castle for real Swiss hot chocolate at midnight, and the traditional fondue that was starting to become popular elsewhere, and flown her up to untouched slopes and refreshed her memory on how to ski…

 

And they'd stood on the battlements as the sun rose and she'd complained she was cold. He'd offered to conjure a jacket, but she'd slyly snuggled up next to him and tugged at the back of his coat.

 

The feel of it, her hands sliding over velvet wings…

 

This was unprecedented and unnatural and both their peoples would condemn them.

 

Him for `seducing' an `innocent' maiden, her for `falling for the lies of Evil Incarnate.'

 

Well, there hadn't been any seduction yet. And innocent? She'd lost that when her sister had been left to rot, by her own kind in service to one of his. He'd found out who. That had been a pleasure.

 

Lies and truths… they knew. This was the first truth they had ever known for certain. He was indeed in a human body, but Evil? Really.

 

And he would never let her fall.

 

Over his dead body would she let fall a single tear. And his kind didn't leave behind bodies if they died. So doubly safe.

 

Him for getting caught in a spider's web, giving his devotion to an insect, her for daring to think a weak, unclean thing like her was worthy of one whose strength showed him to be so blessed.

 

She was an arachnid, thank you, not an insect. Quite, quite deadly. And was not a spider's net stronger, weight for weight, than the strongest steel?

 

And the concept of her drinking his blood was strangely appealing.

 

Weak? Unclean? How many of their servants had she slain? How many schemes thwarted? And she washed quite often, the scents lingering on her skin, in her hair…

 

And it was she that proved him to be blessed.

 

But they would never understand.

 

They didn't understand. They couldn't even explain it to themselves, bits and pieces yes, but the whole was so far beyond them, they could journey for eternity and never reach it.

 

He looked forward to it.