And Then History Was Made

Sparda had pretty much forgotten how to breathe. It was one thing to have his pregnant wife at his side, to smell the two new lives growing inside of her, to see her belly expanding day after day in order to accommodate the two little bundles of energy in her, but nothing in Hell or on Earth had prepared him for this moment where he had taken one of his very own sons, his own child, in his arms.

Speechless, he stroked the soft, rosy cheek with the side of a finger. The tiny baby in his arms did not open his eyes, but let out a small, contented sigh as he slightly stirred, barely awakened. A few seconds later, Sparda's body warmth had lulled him right back to a peaceful sleep.

Seeing this, Sparda very slowly and carefully sat down in the chair by the head of his wife's hospital bed as he tried to find the right strength to hold his son without dropping or crushing him. He looked so fragile, all small and curled up in the hospital issued blue blanket. It was hard to imagine that even him, one of the most feared devils of Hell, had once been just as small and defenceless as the little half-devil in his arms... a little half-devil born out of love. He turned to Eva and smiled at her.

She slightly turned her head to the side to look at him and returned the smile, a bit dopily, cradling her other son to her breast so he could drink. "Beautiful..." she whispered.

Sparda's smile widened. "Yes... the most beautiful little boys in the world." Their boys. His boys. Two little sons of Sparda. A mere century ago the simple thought of it would have made him laugh. But now that he had found his Eva, his angel descended from Heaven, he actually wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. He glanced back down at the little one he was holding in his arms to make sure he was still safe and asleep. Reassured to see that he was, he caressed a tiny fist with one finger before speaking up again, softly. "Have you decided on names, my love?"

Eva looked at him, then grinned. "Is it me you're talking to, or him?"

A soft chuckle rose from Sparda's chest and he looked at her. "You, of course, my angel."

She chuckled too. "Well, the way you were looking at your dear son... I had to make sure I was the love you were talking to."

Still smiling widely, Sparda leaned over to kiss her forehead a bit damp from sweat, very careful not to squish or hurt his son in any way. "It was you, my angel."

Her smile widened, and her eyes fluttered close for a moment. "... Dante," she said softly. "And Vergil."