Chapter Text
Sparda had always suspected that the moment he allowed himself to settle down, the universe would punish him for it. It was just the sort of twisted irony his life tended to orbit around.
Two millennia of walking among humans had taught him to mimic their ways. He knew how to eat without snarling, how to nod in a conversation without flinching at foolishness, how to smile without baring his fangs. He had learned etiquette, restraint, and above all else, how to pretend. Pretend he was normal. Pretend he belonged.
But Eva had seen straight through the mask the first time they met.
From the first moment their eyes met, she hadn’t looked at him with awe or fear. Not like the others. There was no trembling reverence, no disgusted recoil. She spoke to him plainly, challenged him often, and treated him with the kind of stubborn normalcy that no one ever dared. She asked questions. She expected answers. She smiled like he was just another man.
And maybe that’s why he fell in love with her.
Real love, raw, terrifying, and utterly consuming. The kind no demon would ever admit they were capable of. But Sparda did. He married her. Chose her. For once, he stopped running from himself, from his nature, from the ancient war that had raged inside him for centuries.
He allowed himself to love.
It was the greatest rebellion he had ever committed.
Of course, he knew it wouldn't last. Eva was human, fragile by nature. A blink in his eternal life. One day, too soon, her warmth would fade, and her heartbeat would stop. And then their bed would become her grave, and his world would be cold once again.
But fate, always so twisted and unpredictable, had other plans.
He remembered the moment clearly. The stillness of the morning, the soft light coming in through the window, and the way Eve stood in the doorway, hands clasped over her stomach, eyes shining with something uncertain, hope, maybe? Fear?
“...Preg...nant?” Sparda said the word like it was a foreign language, a riddle with no answer. Eva nodded, smiling brightly. “Yes.” She whispered, voice barely holding back laughter. “I’m sure.” He stared at her, unsure whether to fall to his knees or run screaming into the woods.
“Are you... absolutely sure?” Eva chuckled and crossed the room, taking his hand. “You tell me.” She murmured, guiding his palm to rest gently over her belly. And then he felt it. Something warm. Something alive. Something new.
Sparda staggered back slightly, breath caught in his throat. “Our child...” He whispered. Tears slipped down his cheeks before he even realized it. His knees nearly buckled under the weight of emotion that crashed over him like a wave. Eve pulled him into an embrace, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He didn’t know how to raise a child. Demons didn’t raise children, they trained successors, forged warriors, created monsters. He could barely remember his own youth, scattered and blood-soaked as it was. But he would try. For Eva. For the life they had created.
After all, it was just one child.
How hard could it be?
.
.
.
It wasn’t one child.
Sparda stood beside the bed, wide-eyed and useless as Eva fought through labor. The room was thick with tension, sweat, and muffled panic. Eva screamed through her final push, sweat glistening on her brow. The first child came quickly, red-faced and already wailing, lungs like a battle horn.
Then it happened.
Another cry.
“...Twins?” Sparda muttered, blinking in disbelief. Sparda stood beside his wife, stunned, cradling the newborn boy like he was a holy relic. He held the younger of the two, his eyes still tightly shut against the light. The child squirmed in his arms like a puzzle box that had yet to be solved.
“So that’s why I felt like there was a battle inside me.” Eva gasped between laughs, cradling the older twin against her chest. She was still panting, cheeks flushed from the effort. Her fingers brushed the baby's nose with infinite tenderness.
“Your brother was playing hide-and-seek the whole time... or maybe you were the sneaky one, huh?” She cooed. Sparda glanced at her, incredulous. “Twins.” He repeated again, this time as if trying to bargain with reality. Eva just smiled, exhaustion and joy tangled together in her expression. “Double the trouble. Double the love.”
He looked down at the newborn in his arms, his son. So small, so fragile. Sparda reached out and traced a finger along the baby’s cheek. The infant stirred. A soft breath escaped his tiny lips. Sparda laughed under his breath, part wonder, part terror.
Two children.
“Well.” He said under his breath. “This just got interesting.”
Vergil and Dante were... something else.
From the moment they could walk, they were chaos. Despite being identical in every physical way, same snowy hair, same piercing eyes, same mischievous grins when they were up to something, they couldn’t have been more different from each other.
Sparda had watched them grow with a strange blend of fascination and anxiety. In Vergil, he saw his own discipline, pride, and power. In Dante, he saw the fire, the recklessness, and, though the boy would never admit it, the overwhelming desire to protect. Sparda recognized the two halves of himself staring back at him through their eyes. Maybe that’s why it unnerved him sometimes. Or maybe, it just made him proud.
“Don’t you want to stop them before they break that vase again?” Eva asked, leaning into the doorway, arms crossed and one brow raised in mild exasperation. From the living room, Sparda didn’t even look up from his newspaper. The sound of small feet stomping down the hallway echoed like thunder, followed by the distant grunts of child-sized combat.
Sparda smiled to himself and sipped his hot chocolate. “Let them.” He said calmly. “It’s normal. Siblings spar. Builds character.” Eva gave him a flat look. “They’re not sparring, Sparda. They’re trying to suplex each other through the floorboards.”
Sparda glanced over the edge of the paper and gave a soft chuckle. “Still natural.” She sighed and walked to the window, folding her arms across her chest. “I just don’t want them to kill each other.” At that, Sparda finally lowered the paper and looked at her. “Twins won’t do that.”
“You sound awfully sure.”
“I’ve seen it before. In Hell, twins are a rarity. They’re... something even demons don't fully understand.” His voice dropped slightly, more thoughtful now. “Two souls born from the same essence, always pulling toward each other... even if it looks like they’re pushing away.”
She looked over at him, curious. “You’ve trained twins before?”
“A long time ago. Their bond was unlike anything I’d ever seen. No matter how much they fought, how violently they clashed they were still... incomplete without the other. It’s like there's a thread tying them together. You can pull it, stretch it, strain it... but it never breaks.”
Eva's gaze softened. “One can’t live without the other.” Sparda nodded. “Something like that.” A sharp crash rang out from the hallway. “That’s Dante!” Came a voice. “No, it’s not! It was Vergil!” The other shouted.
Eva let out a long, tired sigh. “That was the third vase this week.” Sparda chuckled and turned the page of his paper. “Maybe we should just start buying ones we don’t like.” Eva shook her head. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“They’re growing stronger.” He said, more seriously now. “Even if it’s chaotic. I’d rather they learn to control that chaos here, with us, than have it explode out in a world that won’t understand them.” Eva turned to him again, more concerned this time. “Do you really think training them so young is the right move?”
Sparda folded the paper carefully and set it aside. “They’re not like other children, Eva. You know that. Their blood is part demon, part human and that kind of power doesn’t stay dormant forever. We have a window, a short one, to teach them discipline. Balance.”
Eva hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I just... I want them to be boys a little longer.”
“They will be. But even boys need to learn how to walk before they run. And our boys-” He smiled faintly as another thump echoed from down the hall “they were born running.” Eva laughed quietly despite herself. “I better go see if they’ve set anything on fire.”
“Tell Dante he owes me a vase.” Sparda called after her. “You don’t know it was Dante.”
“I do.” He said smugly. As Eva disappeared down the hall, Sparda leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the twins arguing, tussling, laughing. They were wild. Unpredictable. Difficult. But they were his. And for the first time in centuries... he felt alive again.
Giving up Yamato and Rebellion was harder than Sparda ever thought it would be.
They had been part of him, his will, his power. Weapons forged in the fires of his rebellion and cooled in the blood of his own kind. He never imagined he would lay them down for anyone. But this wasn’t for just anyone.
This was for his sons.
He watched as they tried to lift the swords. Two small boys, barely six years old, struggling under the weight of metal crafted for knights. Dante grunted, trying to lift Rebellion with both hands, only to fall back on his rear with a laugh. Vergil didn’t laugh. He stared at Yamato, quietly studying its length, his small hands brushing the hilt like it might whisper secrets to him.
Sparda stood a few steps away, arms crossed, trying not to let the moment break him. “They’ll grow into them.” He murmured to himself. “They have to.” Behind him, the sun was starting to set. A faint red glow bathed the hallway in gold and shadow, and the house felt heavier than usual, too quiet. Like it already knew what was coming.
Dante’s voice broke the silence. “You’re leaving us?” Sparda turned to find his younger son standing there, hands balled at his sides, his eyes wide, those same piercing eyes that sometimes made Sparda wonder if Dante had unknowingly inherited a part of his soul.
He crouched down and ran a hand through the boy’s messy hair. “Just for a moment.” He said gently. “I have something important I need to do. But I’ll try to be back soon.” Vergil appeared beside them. Sparda reached over and placed a hand on his head as well. “Take care of your mother. Both of you.” The twins nodded in sync.
Sparda rose again, but Dante suddenly wrapped his arms around his leg with the desperation only a child could have. “No.” He mumbled. “Don’t go. Stay with us.”
“Dante, stop...” Vergil said, trying to sound stern. “Father said it’s just for a moment.” But Sparda saw it in his other son’s eyes. Vergil was barely holding it together himself. His lip trembled for just a second before he turned away.
“You promise you’ll come back?” Dante asked again, looking up with eyes too big, too bright, and far too trusting. Sparda crouched and placed his hand gently on Dante’s cheek. “I promise.” Maybe it was something in his tone. Maybe Dante believed his father couldn’t lie at least not to them. Either way, the boy finally let go, though he still clutched the hem of Sparda’s cloak for a few more seconds.
“Come on, Dante.” Vergil said, trying to sound more grown-up than he was. “Mother said she needed help with dinner.” Together, the boys walked down the hallway, Dante and Vergil glancing back one last time. Then they vanished around the corner.
Sparda stood still for a long moment, listening to their fading footsteps. He let out a slow breath and turned back toward his room. He didn’t want to leave.
Every fiber in his being screamed at him to stay. To stand guard at the door. To hold Eve in his arms one more time. To watch his sons grow. To be there for scraped knees and nightmares and the day they’d finally lift those swords on their own. But he couldn’t.
Mundus was moving.
Sparda could feel it in the way the air shifted. Whispers in the demon realm were growing louder. Eyes were turning toward the human world with renewed hunger. And Sparda knew, somehow, some way, word had spread.
They knew about the twins.
He wasn’t sure how. He had taken every precaution, masked their presence. But secrets never stayed buried forever. And Sparda, no matter how powerful, could not fight fate with wishful thinking. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
If Mundus discovered what the twins were, what they could become, he would stop at nothing to twist them, corrupt them, use them. Or destroy them. Sparda could not allow that. He would not allow that.
And so, he had to go. Into the shadows again. To chase whispers, silence threats, and carve a path through the darkness before it reached his doorstep. Even if that meant disappearing from their lives for a time.
Eva’s voice called faintly from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready!” Sparda closed his eyes. He would have one last meal with them. One last moment to pretend everything was normal. And then he'll go.
For as long as he has to.