Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sounds of the world great her ears slowly. The hum of the flights, the chatter of the people, and the steady rhythmic beat of a heart monitor. The sun’s warmth graces her hands atop the rough sheets, there is a pinch in her forearms from slender needles, a sturdy pressure weighs on her eyes.

She cannot see.

She pushes with her arms to roll herself onto her back, but they slide out and fail to gain the needed leverage. The monitor chimes at her side and she hears a set of footsteps rapidly approaching.

“Hello Mrs. Vesta, my name is Dr. Abrami. How are you feeling?”

“My boys, where are my boys?” Her voice a raspy whisper that scrapes at her throat.

“I’m afraid I don’t know about that Mrs. Vesta; you’ll have to ask the investigators when they arrive. In the meantime, let’s focus on you.” The doctor has a kindly voice, but she can’t follow his request. She never found Vergil she has to find- “You’ve been through quite an ordeal ma’am, fortunately the rescue team were able to get you to us quickly, we’ve had you on antibiotics the past few days and there’s been no sign of infection which is good. You’ve probably noticed-”

“My eyes, what’s on my eyes?”

“Just gauze at the moment Mrs. Vesta-”

“Eva.”

“Just gauze for the moment Eva. Your eyes are healing well, but they’ll be sensitive to light at first. One of the nurses will be by later to try re-introducing you to some low light but don’t be worried if you can’t handle much just yet.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know how much you remember from the incident Eva, but you were exposed to a lot of fire, received several large lacerations to your back, and some serious head trauma from a fall.”

“I remember.” Most of it anyways.

“That’s good to know. Now you’ve got a lot of burns, primarily on your legs. You had some bleeding in the brain, we got that under control but do let us know if you feel anything off at all. The lacerations on your back were the most sever injury. Luckily, they didn’t damage the spine itself, but you’ll likely be experiencing some mobility issues long term. You inhaled a lot of smoke so once we have the gauze off your eyes, we’ll get you a pen and paper so you can rest your throat.”

“The investigators, where-”

“They’ll likely ask to come in when I leave, I imagine they have a lot of questions for you but try not to stress your throat too much.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, we’ll need to discuss your treatment going forward but that can wait unti-”

“Send them in.”

“Eva -”

“Send. Them. In.”

“Alright, I’ll have one of the nurses stand by in case you change your mind.”

She hears his feet pad softly away. There’s the clicking of a door handle and a new, sharper, set of footsteps approach her bedside.

“Mrs. Vesta, my name is Alberto Laterza, I’m the lead investigator for the Redgrave attacks. Witness reports indicate the first fires began in your home.” He sounds older than the doctor, a rasp to his voice from years of cigarettes leaching nicotine into his body.

She waits for him to continue. His feet shuffle on the floor and she realises he’s waiting for her response.

“Speak.” She whispers harshly, reminding him what he should already have been cautioned about.

“Right, do you remember much from the attack Mrs. Vesta?”

“Remember fire, being hit, falling.” The sound chittering of devils as they cut through the walls, her wards were missing – what happened to them? Dante’s tears as she tucked him away. “My boys? Where’s?”

“We didn’t see anyone else there Mrs. Vesta, were your sons in the house with you when the fire started?”

“Dante, I heard the-” Can’t acknowledge the demons to a human, they won’t don’t listen about those anymore. “I hid him, closet, second floor.”

“We didn’t find anybody on the second-floor remnants Mrs. Vesta.”

“He escaped? Good.” She will find him later then.

He hesitates before his next question. “Your other son, Vergil, where was he?”

“Outside, fought with Dante. Ran, playground. You find?” Her throat feels like there’s fire ants crawling under the tissue.

“We didn’t find Vergil either.” He hesitates again, even with the painkillers looping around her system she knows there’s more that he isn’t saying.

“What’d you find?”

“That’s, well-”

“What?” She snaps and the tang of blood coats her tongue.

“There was blood, a lot of it. It’s more than we’d expect a child to-” He cuts himself off this time. “Can you think of any reason why the people who attacked your home would take your sons’ bodies Mrs. Vesta?”

No. Not that, anything but that. Not back to Mundus.

“No. No no no no no no no no, NO, they can’t.” The pulse in her ears almost drowns out the urgent tones of the monitor. “He can’t have them.” She’s pushing herself up again. It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts. “My boys.”

The door crashes open. Harsh voices echo incomprehensibly. Firm hands try to guide her shoulders back down. She lashes out at the cost of her balance and plummet into the mattress. Air lost to her lungs; she scrabbles to breath. Harsh gasps choke in the air and it burns her throat.

“No no no no nononononono my boys. He can’t have them. He can’t have them.”

“Who can’t-”

“That’s enough Agent!”

“We need to know who-” Their voices are fading out now.

“Nonononononononono”

“My patient needs to recover.”

The world

falls

away.

She stands in the shattered doorway of her ashen home, well no – she can’t stand just yet. The flames have stripped her legs of their ability to hold her, though the therapists at the hospital are optimistic.

She sits in the shattered doorway of her ashen home. The smooth and clean metal of her wheelchair feels perverse, warping the reflection of her life’s wreckage.

They don’t find the twins in the end. No bodies living or dead. Only a great pool of blood soaking into the lawn. She doesn’t tell the police everything. It’s going to be hard enough leaving Redgrave alone, she doesn’t want to risk getting put in an asylum, being treated for a condition she doesn’t have. Mainlanders are always too skeptical about devils. Of course, the lack of devils this far inland is exactly what she moved her family here for.

What she does tell them is enough for them to place her in a protective program. New name, new city, ‘new life’. Just like she’d told Dante to do, only with more paperwork.

She’s sure her boys survived. Fully awake, she can feel the absence of Rebellion and Yamato humming in the back of her mind. No longer tied to her until Dante and Vergil came of age, they’ve been passed on. She can only hope that they will protect her children where she could not.

The nurse wheels her away when she asks. There's nothing left for her here other than the memories, and she can carry those with her unassisted.

Chapter Text

Montague city is a strange place for Eva. The streets lay flat on a grid, a stark absence of weird twists and dead-end streets, only broad avenues, and stubby alleyways. There’s a sheen to the buildings too, even the old bastions were slowly losing their brickwork to modern window walls packed with the brightest goods and grinning posters. It’s not a bad sort of different, the order of the city certainly discourages the fey from encroaching into winding streets that no longer exit to the roads they were built for. But she feels a cold shard in her heart every time she passes a bakery that conjures the memory of Dante’s voice begging her for glistening strawberry tarts, or when she finds the three-story bookstore and instinctively begins calculating how long it would take to find Vergil if she let him run loose in it.

There is of course also the peculiar sensation of navigating the world with almost 3 feet less height than she is used to, but that’s all but buried in the deluge of her new life. She attends her physical therapy diligently and lets nurses cover her in ointment and bandages, takes her pills like clockwork. And when the Polizia di Stato believe she is settled enough to not need any supervision beyond an officer she can call in emergencies, she goes on the hunt.

Every city has dark sides to it, no matter how well it polishes its surface, and Eva is familiar enough with dark places. She may not call upon Mother Vidnea as much as she did in her true youth, but the spider’s threads can still guide her to the nexuses of infernal and illicit activity where she can find the people she needs to search for her boys.

She doesn’t use her true name here, a dead woman should not reveal her pulse so carelessly after all. Instead, she uses an old joke. Madonna Luce - ‘The lady of the light calling monsters out of the darkness’, she always did enjoy Sparda's dramatic streak. The investigators she hires accept it readily enough. It’s hardly as though she’s the first client who’s reticent to reveal themself fully. Of course, her reluctance to share certain information doesn’t exactly speed their searches.

As much as she loathes the slow pace of relying on strangers relaying incomplete information to different strangers in other cities, she knows that the full truth will endanger the twins long before it helps them. Still, white hair and ancient blades can hardly be a common descriptor. Even if they dye their hair the roots will show. Even if they are not actively hunted, demons will still find themselves drawn to their blood and be struck down. There’s a reason Sparda taught the twins to fight despite their wish that they might have a peaceful childhood. She dreads the day they learn that their blood will let them wear another’s face.

Perhaps someday she will know one of her many eyes well enough to trust them with the truth unfiltered by fear.

It occurs to Eva eventually, that Fortuna still stands, and there is every chance that the boys may seek out their heritage. So she endeavors to extend her web to Fortuna's shores. Curiously though, the investigators won’t set foot on the island, nor speak much about it, not without asking for more than she can afford to give.

Centuries have passed since last she thought of that island. She remembers its founding, remembers watching Sparda hunched over strategy tables, slowly learning how to compress his flesh into a human’s stature, designing the defenses for this sanctuary he wanted to carve. A haven for the halfbloods trapped on the mortal plane yet still persecuted by the Christians who condemned the accident of their births. Haven for the witches, those who would stand with them, and those who deviated from society's path. Her hands still know well the protective matrices she wove into the fortress’ walls. She wonders if those same wards still stand. She tries not to remember the feeling of newer wards shattering around her as her home caught fire. She wonders how history has engraved the story of their efforts.

Her curiosity does not last long after arrival.

Chapter Text

Eva boards a small cargo vessel to take her across the waves, there are no passenger boats. The wind is low and welcoming as the sun shines down on her veiled face. She’s taken the crutches today, her chair resting with her bag amongst the cargo.

The boat ride over is oddly quiet, or as quiet as it gets on the ocean. The waves still crash against the hull, gulls and other seabirds still cry from above. But the sailors don’t speak. Their eyes linger always on the horizon. Her veil whips in the wind, and she finds herself sewing small but weighted glass beads to the trim to keep it down.

Disembarkment goes quickly outside of the usual border checks. The guards are stern but friendly in behaviour, though she can feel the resonance of their distrust. A shame that the relationship with the mainland seems unrepaired, but she can hardly fault them for that. They are at least kind enough to offer her directions to affordable accommodations, with the promise that a guide will meet her there the next day.

The tourist’s quarters she finds are nice without being gaudy. The water is slow to warm from the tap, but the windows are wide and let the sunset bless her bedroom when the first night falls. A small kitchenette means she can cook for herself should her excursions become too tiring.

In the morning she is greeted by a redhead barely if at all into their teen years with keen eyes and a smile full of teeth that are just a little bit too sharp.

“Nice to meet you, Signora Luce. My name’s Zelophehad.” They stick out their hand to shake hers, she obliges of course.

“Hello Zelophehad, please just call me Luce.” She smiles warmly and welcomes them in for, well coffee’s probably a poor idea at their age, but she’s sure she saw some hot chocolate mix in one of the cupboards.

“Hmmm, maybe when the Scudo aren’t listening. But only if you call me Zelo.”

“Of course, Zelo. Do you mind telling me a bit about how things are? It’s been quite some time since I was last in Fortuna.”

“Sure, but I doubt it’s changed that much. Not a whole lot happens around here.” They accept the cup of chocolate happily, taking the first gulp with an eager rapidness that almost certainly singed their tongue.

“Perhaps, but I find that a change of leadership can have quite the effect, even if it’s not obvious at first.” They freeze in place.

“Change in lea-? We’ve had Vicar Sanctus for ages though.” Their gaze is surprisingly unconfused, merely calculating, searching her not young but too-youthful-for-what-she’s-implied face. It reminds her of Vergil when he encountered a new word when he’d sneak higher level books from her shelves.

“I’m sure you have.” She permits a sliver of power to flow, lighting the armour matrix adorning her clothes.

“They didn’t tell me I was guiding a Strega!”

“I didn’t tell them I was one, seemed like too much fuss.” And really, she can always visit the local witches after she’s had a chance to see the island.

“Well, I won’t be able to take you into the tourist restricted zones, but at least I don’t have to remember what’s supposed to be censored.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Actually, it sounds rather ominous, but she’ll try to withhold judgement for now.

Zelo leads her around the city for hours, stopping briefly for lunch with a woman they called Nonna Tarma who sells plates piled high with dumplings and sends them off with pouches stuffed full of candied citrus peels. The bright child finishes off theirs swiftly and gives Eva a brilliant grin when she starts slipping them sweets from hers as they wander.

Eventually they lead her to the entrance of the grand city hall, now cathedral, and despite all the changes she has witnessed around the city, this stands almost exactly as she remembers. Some of the windows have changed scene, the carpets are new, and the guards have updated their uniforms of course. But she still sees the old bones. The dancing of sunlight passed through stained glass, the chatter of the crowd, the hum of the old wards as she crosses the threshold.

Zelophehad walks with a spring in their step as the pass tapestries woven with vibrant histories; the building of the fortress, the repelling of Mundus’ forces, the first assembly of The Order of the Sword. Eva smiles at the representations, dramatized and glorified as they are, for it is the fate of history to become legend when enough time has passed. Her guide’s explanations of their contents are equally colourful, slipping into Dané when they pass too close to another visitor. One of the guards raises their brow at the switch, but he smiles fondly upon Eva when she curls a subtle strand of energy around her fingertips in explanation.

Eva knew this building well once, and while she suspects she would likely get lost now if permitted to explore fully, she still remembers where this hallway leads. As the Archways get taller and more elaborate, she knows they approach the great hall. A towering room where Sparda once rallied his people both to war and to peace. Where she bound the keystone of the fortress’ wards. She shares a grin with Zelophehad as they lead her forwards.

“And this is the prayer hall, it’s one of the oldest parts of the cathedral. Signore Brusa tells me that the stained glass in the ceiling is still the original from the founding, but glass breaks easy so I’m not sure how true that part is. Most people find that less interesting than the centerpiece though. The carving of our great savior Sparda was completed for the inauguration of Vicar Sanctus forty-three years ago based on portraits from Sparda’s time in Fortuna.”

That is not her husband’s face. It is entirely too human, absent of chitinous ridges, no sharpened teeth peak past the too thick shape of its lips. Its brow is strong but unarmored and blends smoothly into ridgeless horns that do not curve inwards but instead taper downwards in thin tips that would shatter upon contact with even a fresh spawned Beelzebub or Sargasso.

Her displeasure must show on her face, as quickly as she shutters it behind a genial smile it is still caught by Zelophehad’s hungry eyes.

“It’s a bit much I know, but as his Holiness says; ‘there is no tribute too grand for our saviour’.”

“No, it is well crafted,” Technically true, a good diplomatic comment. “I simply thought it a bit odd to make Sparda such a grand fixture in a prayer hall of all places.” Yes, that’s a reasonable point she thinks. Political leaders aren’t meant to be enshrined in holy sites.

Yet the statement still makes Zelophehad pause.

“Madonna Luce, who did you think we were praying to?”

She must have heard that incorrectly.

“What?”

She falters and has to brace herself on her crutches. They’re doing what? Sparda was no god, nor did he ever claim to be. He was a man, a devil yes – and a strong one at that, but just one man. That is what she had respected about his rebellion. He was not some supreme being imposing his will upon the direction of history, simply one person who became aware of the tide of horrors he had been complicit in and chose to stand against it.

“I’m sorry but, you’re praying to Sparda?”

“I- well- we….” They pause, clearly not expecting to need to explain this. So, they don’t. They resume their tour guide monologue, perhaps a bit faster than before, with a touch of manic energy tinting their description of the Order’s services and traditions.

Quickly, she is drawn into a corridor that the rest of the visitors seem not to notice; and when she passes through the entrance, she feels the cool touch of an empathic notice-me-not matrix.

“So. When exactly was the last time you were in Fortuna?” Zelophehad demands, pupils bleeding milky white and teeth morphing into gnashing blades. “Because the whole worshipping the ‘great and glorious saviour’ schtick is not new.”

“The founding. I was here for the founding.” Perhaps not something she aught to admit. Worshipping Sparda. The concept is surreal to her. The child stares at her in awe and dawning understanding, the gears of their mind turning as they process her statement.

“You knew him!” A clawed fingertip springs towards her face in excitement.

“Yes. We- we met.” Probably better not to tell them she married him. “He was no god; he wasn’t even a particularly high-ranking devil he was just a knight.” Favoured by Mundus yes, but not so powerful in his own right that his soldiers would follow his desertion.

“Huh, I guess he got a bit of an ego to him after you left.”

“No!” The image of Sparda trying to lead a religious congregation would have brought her to laughter in any other circumstance. “No, he- we left around the same time. I was pursuing knowledge held in foreign covens, and he wanted to give Fortunans the right to lead themselves. Having a general for a leader was never meant to last long into peacetime.”

“So, what? Our leadership just decided they’d prop him up on pedestal for everyone to bow at?” Their brow furrows. “Actually no - that sounds about right.”

“I’m deeply sorry to hear that. That’s not what this place was supposed to be.”

“Well, it is what it is, for now.” They give her a wink. “Don’t worry Luce, we aren’t all - what’s the mainlander saying? ‘Drinking the Kool-Aid’? There’re plans to get things back on track.”

“And you’re part of them?” Did she sound too hysterical there? She hopes not. Dear gods, to have their failures cleaned up by children. She can think of few greater sins.

“Well, no. I’m ‘too young’, and they don’t want to ‘destroy my childhood before it’s over’.” They make a gagging noise at the notion. “They’ll let me in eventually. But let’s get you back in the tourist zones! Can’t let the Scudo start wondering where we went right?”

Their devilish features melt away with a practiced wink and smile as Zelophehad leads Eva back into the busy crowds of chattering visitors.

Chapter Text

Dinner is an odd affair that night. Zelophehad directs Eva to a small restaurant that will let her carry a meal back to her lodgings. They leave when she enters, but she is unsurprised when her last bites are interrupted by a knock upon the open window beside her.

“Hey Luce.” Sharp, webbed claws grip the frame to haul in their small body.

“Hello Zelo.” She smiles faintly in welcome. “What brings you back here?”

“I wanna know more about the founding duh.”

“Well, I can’t promise to remember all of it perfectly, but I’ll do my best.”

Their sharp smile seems hungry, and not only because of the teeth. Eva makes them another cup of hot chocolate and lets them pick at her leftovers. She can see a budding sweet tooth in their open preference for the former.

She tries to stick to more lighthearted stories at first, maybe it’s selfish of her but she doesn’t want the child to think that this cult is what they meant to build. And it is a cult, Zelo dances around some things but every flippant mention of the restrictions and expectations placed upon the citizens in Sparda’s name feeds a pool of anger in the pit of her stomach. Unfortunately, Zelo is pretty determined not to let her know enough to do anything with it.

“Nothing against you Luce. It’s just every time the adults meet up with a foreigner, they always send them away. Unless you got some super epic Devil Arm you can give them?”

They say it like a joke, but she can read the curiosity in their writhing red ‘hair’. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any such Arm. She did though, and she can picture how easy it would be to manipulate a theocracy while wielding the legendary swords of their so-called god. They really should have returned to Fortuna sooner. Even just eight months ago she would have had the power to change things here, now she has no leverage, and her weavings have always been made for protection, not warfare. Still, she can contribute something.

When Zelophehad leaves for the night, she sets out to make copies of her armour matrices, empathic matrices to conceal safehouses, communication arrays, and emergency beacons. She also tells them of the flaws in her old designs, improved upon in her new work but potentially, hopefully, still present in the fortress.

Her next morning is interrupted by a new representative. One of the Scudo had apparently reported the unexpected strega. He introduces himself as Diacono Modestus, a ridiculous name to give a man draped in fine linens and gold adornments. The influence of Catholic proximity she assumes, a shame.

It’s not a terribly interesting conversation, in fact it’s exhaustively predictable. She downplays her age and skill. She smiles banally and tells him of her interest in historic sites and how her non-existent friends told her about one of the last true magic libraries on the continent. She can't tell if he believes her, but he enthusiastically invites her to attend their congregation with him.

Walking through the streets with Modestus is chronologically shorter, but cognitively eternal. He lacks the child’s enthusiasm for their people and the bones of the city, but their speed means they reach the cathedral in time to greet a few of his colleagues before the Vicar starts speaking. They are equally predictable in their eagerness to greet her, and she suspects they do not see many witches on Fortuna anymore.

When Sanctus speaks, Eva feels for any sort of empathic ripple that could be influencing the congregation, encouraging them to trust in what they hear, to linger on the promises he makes, and not flinch at the dog-whistle threats. On and on he drones, occasionally joined by the choir and congregation, yet she feels nothing from it. The only hint of magic lays in the protective wards. This manipulation is not one she knows how to fight.

Half-aware of her own actions she excuses herself from the priests at the end of the ceremony. Perhaps a suspicious action, but they're swiftly appeased with a promise to attend a dinner with them that evening.

The flow of the crowd leads her out of the building, and a small tug on her sleeve leads her to a back-alley where a dark cloak is tossed upon her shoulders. She raises the hood by reflex.

Familiar ivory-clouded eyes peer up from the small figure that carved her path.

“Wanna see the fun stuff today Luce?” Zelophehad’s shark-tooth grin brings her heart out of her throat.

“That sounds wonderful.”

Today’s ‘tour’ consists less of historical exposition and more of an energetic flow-of-conscious monologue about the people, gossip, and intrigue; of which dogs were friendly, and which cats like to scam the tourists for prawns and scraps. More than once she finds herself laughing at their antics as they act out their tales like the ‘epic’ love story of the baker’s apprentice and the dockside smuggler, the clash of the Scudo and striking textile workers, or their own instructor’s self-aggrandizing speeches.

They pass through hidden nooks to find the shadow markets, filled with foreign technology and literature, forbidden liquors, and exotic foods. Eva recognises this enclave as one of the emergency shelters they had built for humans to shelter from Mundus’ attacks. It’s fitting, she supposes, that it now shelters those hiding from the twisted mockery of her husband’s memory. And despite the radically altered purpose this market pulls at faded memories with greater ferocity than the familiar fortress halls.

The sharp-dressed woman selling rune-enforced blades may not be Eskandar but she can hear the soft yet guttural tones of his Persian peeking through her melded Fortunan tongue. The steel haired man weaving protective talismans into ribbons isn’t Lucrezia, but his hands still craft that crooked Caspian Star at the apex of all his matrices. The young girl directing her even younger brother on how to carefully ladle the spiced latkes onto the hot pan isn't anywhere close to Nonna Lina, but the scent of their craft brings Eva to crisp winter evenings by the fire, regaling curious children with stories of proud fey, cunning heroes, and mysterious beasts of all shapes and creeds.

Eva allows the river of scents sights and sounds wash over her, and for the first time on this island she can feel the home they had carved settle back into her bones.

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low in the sky when Zelophehad leads Eva out of the markets and back to the cathedral entrance where Modestus waits.

The child is the perfect picture of piety as the priest thanks them for their work. His hand rests on their shoulder as he speaks and if Eva was any less of a witch than she is she would never know of the simmering contempt they hid behind their flat-toothed smile.

Eva follows him into the building. He remarks upon much of the same history that Zelophehad had the day before but somehow it feels hollow in his words.

“And so the Lord Sparda sealed the Temen-Ni-Gru, though it cost him a great deal of his might.” Which he could only do with the assistance of the Priestess Miriam, and the cooperation of a Star-Crowned devil to seal its anchor on the infernal plane. “Blessed were our isles that he chose to reign here for a time, shielding us from the lingering incursion of Mundus’ devils-” several of whom settled with the humans when given the freedom to choose- “and demons who had gone to chaos at the loss of their leader.” well, she’ll grant him that one, but still his words leave a bitter taste in her mouth. He places all glory at the altar of Sparda, with no crumb of acknowledgement left to the witches, devils, hybrids, and brave ordinary humans that built the nation with him.

Though now she thinks on it, other than little Zelophehad she’s seen no hybrids on the streets of Fortuna. And even they plastered childish humanity over their true form. She isn’t given time to linger on the implications of that thought as they’ve arrived at the dinner hall. The Vicar is here.

“Madonna Luce, how pleasant to meet you.” His hungry mouth and eyes smile at her through the shield of her veil.

“The same to you Vicar Sanctus. I am honored by your invitation.”

“And we are in turn honored by your presence. It has been too long since Fortuna was graced with the presence of a mainland Strega. Not that we have no scholars of our own of course, may I introduce you to maiden Aseneth” He gestures for a young woman to come forward. She’s a thin thing, and makes Eva think of the days when she’d forget to eat in favour of pursuing her own studies. There were certainly many nights when her husband had to lure her out of the library with promises of some new ‘artifact’ he’d found only for him to guide her towards the dinner table.

The young witch approaches and gives a firm bow – dominant leg back, dominant arm in front palm up – the other tucked behind. It would be a good start if Eva couldn’t taste the lie of such well professed good intent. As it is, she returns the bow with her own seated one, both palms facing up in her lap.

The Vicar looks very satisfied with the exchange and gestures at them all to surround the dining table as he claims his place at the head of it. Eva takes the chair-less place three spaces down from his right side and is greeted with Aseneth’s flaccidly pleasant smile across from her. A courtesy she of course reciprocates.

“Let us take a moment of prayer before we begin.” The Vicar nods at the man at his left, who rises and begins to recite from the embellished book kept at the table’s end.

Eva closes her eyes and her ears to the prayers as the deep voice drones. She focuses instead on the thrumming resonance of the group as they speak the words in unison. The Vicar has a strong presence full of conviction and pride, shared by the men around him. Aseneth on the other hand oscillates between boredom and curiosity.

She opens her eyes at the prayer’s end, and politely accepts a toast from the Vicar. A silent swarm of servants deliver delicate plates of appetisers. The food she eats goes untasted as she waits for the other shoe to drop. Aseneth’s eyes bore into her, the boredom of the prayers burned away by an eagerness only barely restrained by propriety. Well, if she’s in a trap – she may as well spring it before the anticipation dulls her mind.

“If it is not an intrusion, may I ask what it is the good Maiden studies?”

“It is no intrusion at all Maddona. This one’s studies have been in the weave of the great pillars left from the time of our Lordship’s residence. The infernal threads they draw from hell have long been a part of the power that defends our isles from demonic invasion yet there is much about them that we do not know.”

“There are no records left from their construction?” Sapphira certainly wrote enough on her constructs to fill a wall of shelving even after Lucrezia finished editing.

“No, it is one of the many mysteries left to us by Lord Sparda.” Hah! As if her husband’s mischief would extend to something so integral to his people’s protection. Those books have been hidden or burned then. At least the Maiden has the good sense to be more sceptical about of the ‘mystery’ than the priests flanking the two of them.

“Well, a mystery allows for new perspectives without the bias of authoritative knowledge. Perhaps you will be able to learn something not even the original weavers knew of their creation.” And now doesn’t Aseneth just glow with the implication of that.

“Maiden Aseneth is certainly a very talented Strega,” the Vicar interjects “but I doubt any of us would be able to surpass our Lordship’s knowledge.”

Eva barely manages to choke the laugh before it can bubble from her lips, though her lips still curve into what she hopes is not too obviously a mocking smile. They think Sparda was the one to build those? Now she knows the books were burned.

“Your Lord Sparda must be quite the talented Devil indeed to be so wise in so many disparate fields.”

“Truly, we are humbled by our Saviour’s grace.” Aseneth’s dry smile is only a shade away from the sarcasm Eva can feel like salt on her skin.

The rest of the dinner passes much the same, and with no shortage of flattery – some of it even sincere. But as the evening wanes she begins to feel an undercurrent of desperation in some of the lower priests. She asks after the isle’s other witches. Their answer is no less disappointing for not being a surprise.

There aren’t many. And their last senior witch, while implied alive, is swiftly talked around. There’s a joyful mention of some juniors apprenticing on the mainland. Good, she thinks, perhaps some of them will learn enough to stay there. She almost asks why Aseneth is not among them, but that therein is likely the trap of this dinner. A young talented strega. A night of flattery, and no doubt an invitation for more on the morrow. She’s being recruited. The attempt is almost charming, but even without other matters to take care of she knows she will not be giving any acceptance - feigned or otherwise.

She makes her excuses at the end of the night, and is escorted home most courteously by the maiden witch. She feigns a tiredness so false that none of her mainland sisters would have even pretend to believe it. But here, on this once promising isle, it is accepted. And so there is no invitation to let Aseneth in. The girl will have no chances to see Eva’s creations. And no chance to catch the sneaky little grin waiting for her at the kitchen table, steaming hot chocolate already set out for them both.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any more stories tonight Luce?”

“Only a few Zelo. Your Vicar has kept me talking all night.”

Chapter Text

Eva does not linger much longer on Fortuna, only a few days more. Internally she debates as to whether or not she should still pursue her original goal. If she should make a permanent contact here, someone who can keep an eye out for her boys in case they ever found themselves on these shores. In the end she decides against it. This land is not well known to the mainland. And in its insularity, it does not always remember how to present itself the way mainland cults do to outsiders, palatably and with discretion – though it does make some effort. If her sons were to ever find this place, they will not linger long within it. Certainly not long enough for anyone to notice and call upon her to collect them.

She gives her goodbyes to Zelophehad, who has graciously weaseled their way into getting her a meeting with some of the nation’s less theistically inclined members. She has left them what she can, and hopes they make good use of it. She and Aseneth have one last pantomime for the clergy. The girl’s a quick one, to her credit. She noticed Eva’s lack of commitment and planned her own façade around it. Honestly to call her a girl still might be a bit rude. Perhaps its Eva’s own age getting in the way, to forget that the opening of one’s twenties is also the opening of adulthood. Eva wishes her well, sincerely, with some recommendations of mainland covens she thinks might suit her - or at least keep her long enough for her to find her own path.

She has weighted the edge of her veil when she embarks upon the cargo boat this time. Best not to have it whipping about her face again. The crew hands are polite enough and give her a space to sit on the deck. She enjoys the view of the Fortunan shoreline fading into the distance. The salted breeze calming for her nerves.

A boy comes by again to check on her when they near the mainland port. He makes sure that no one’s placed anything that might stop her chair from getting to the gangway. She appreciates the gesture. Of course, she could force things aside herself if she needed - you don’t need complex spells for that. But goodness that would be a lot of effort just to move oneself a dozen metres.

Eva hails a cab for the train station and readies herself for the reality of going home. She’s still not used to it - opening the door to silence that is. Her boys were always so full of energy. So full of life. Even Vergil was seldom quiet with his books, he liked to read them aloud. Sounding out the words oh so carefully. Reciting the same sentence at least thrice before he was satisfied with his own intonation. To be confident that he had captured the meaning and motion of the sounds. And Dante? Oh, that boy never did know how to sit still. Always running this way and that, sliding down the banisters at the click of her key in the lock. She wouldn’t be two seconds in the door before a joyous little blur would be launching itself at her for a hug.

(She tries not to think too hard about the weight of him in her arms.

She’d been making jokes before the attack, that he was growing so fast she’d soon no longer be able to lift him at all. But truly he was still so light. Still so small.

She fears he’s lighter now.)

Her new home? Well, what can she say about it, it’s a nice enough building. 19^th century row house, not so old as to be too high maintenance but old enough that the contractors weren’t cutting corners with plywood yet. The gentlemen renting the upper half is a decent neighbour when she sees him, which isn’t often. He’s polite enough not to stare much at her face, which is more than she can say for the ones next door. She knows the couple mean well but she feels no need to be prayed over to a god who has never listened to any conscience but his own. Who would cast out hundreds of his children for the sin of questioning yet has never allowed even one to be redeemed. A god whose soldiers had struck down her own soul-bound-sister. And no, she will not call him God as his vassals claim him.

The train clacks rhythmically against the tracks. It’s not a very fast one that she sits in. The route is not used enough for the company to invest in newer train cars, or newer tracks - save when replacement was necessitated. She’s genuinely glad for once that she travels by chair now, she doesn’t have to put up with the hard seats with too short armrests. Though it is sometimes a hassle getting the attendants to help her at the doors.

The rhythm is almost – almost - enough to lull her to her sleep. But she keeps vigilant that she does not miss her station. And soon enough it arrives. Heralded by a mechanical tone and the voice of an operator that she dearly hopes is near the end of their shift he sounds so tired. She re-hooks her case to the back of her chair and wheels herself to the rear door to be let off.

The crowd complicates her path the entrance, but she eventually obliges herself to one of the many cabs swarmed along the street to claim their passenger fares. The driver is a chatty man eager to extoll the virtues of his city when she tells him she has only recently moved. He gives her an address to a little theatre only a neighbourhood or so away from hers, the current production stars his little sister. It’s Romeo and Juliet of course. These twin cities do so love to play their parts. His smile warms the drab autumn day for one gleaming moment, and she does her best to return it. He kindly opens the door for her when they arrive and unfolds her chair from the trunk. She takes a breath before rising into the cooling nightfall.

The door sits there, haloed by resplendent golden-red ivy. She steels herself for the silence on the other side of it. The key clicks in the lock, and as always, turns with only a small jiggle upwards to align it properly. She wheels over the boundary, wards warm and welcoming. She removes her coat and scarf, then hangs the veil upon its hook. Her shoes are replaced with comfortable slippers. She turns to carry her bags to her room when she notices, just on the edge of her senses – almost perfectly hiding.

She is not alone.