Like a Rose on The Grave of Love

A Vampire Hunter D and Devil May Cry fanfiction

The obliged Author notes:

Hello! This is the first fic I have dared to publish in english, and I hope you find it entertaining (be kind). I just want to say a few things before letting you give a shot to this: English it's not my first language, so pleaseee forgive the grammatical mistakes and other horrors; this fic is yaoi (long live MOE!), so if you don't like it… well, there's always another thing to read and tons of fics out there. Third: Thanks to my friend Zophiel Lagace for the basic translation of this piece of my leisure time, she is the best.

D, Lefty and the Frontier belong to master Hideyuki Kikuchi. Dante and Vergil belong to Capcom, I don't profit for any of these, bla, bla, bla… the moe and craziness are all mine, mineeee!


Your thorns, they kissed my blood

Your beauty heals, your beauty kills

And who would know better than I do?

Xandria. Like A Rose On The Grave Of Love

The horseman was the darkness of the world. Black on black, an infinite and sad shadow that seemed to carry in itself all the pain of that maimed and scarred planet. The supernatural aura that covered him was his by right; frightening and portentous, it isolated him from reality with the same effectiveness of a dragon stationed at his feet or the lightning of God shining over his head.

He was alone.

- I swear by your father's enormous fangs that today you beat a record in the book of "Reckless Suicidal Idiots" –said a very hoarse, very angry and very sarcastic voice that seemed to come from nowhere.

Almost alone.

- To accept to destroy Lord Meskhent without help? Sure, why not? He was only said to be nearly equal to the Sacred Ancestor. But of course, before accomplish that you had to beat to a pulp his endless reserves of sociopath flunkies; I particularly liked the girl with the poison, great body, not that you would notice, mind you. And how long was it? –the disembodied voice made a dramatic pause only to add seconds later-–: Oh yes! ONE week, one ENTIRE week enjoying the splendid sun of the south of the Frontier. But his castle, oh no, that you assaulted by NIGHT, why wait? And last but not the least, you miscalculated AGAIN the time of that "small" nuclear explosion...

The voice sounded like someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but who could blame him? It was a miracle that the horseman was in one piece, being that only hours ago he was covered by just melted skin (courtesy of the radiation of the aforementioned bomb and the ashes of one of the undead who called themselves Nobles).

- You're... you're... —continued the furious tirade of the mysterious voice although there were no signals that the horseman was paying any attention-–. Are you even listening? I'm complaining here, say something for a change!

The face of the horseman under the black wide traveler's hat could have been a statue, carved from a dark crystal from depths unknown. If he where to suddenly move, the moon would run out of breath and plunge the world into chaos. A beauty like that could not be given life, it should be against natural law.

Could he be a fallen angel?

- D? –the voice insisted, this time with apprehension although it could not exclude a certain degree of cynicism every time he pronounced the self-assigned abbreviation. Every time someone asked "what the ´D´ stands for?", he felt like screaming the sooo obvious answer and then smile at the resulting havoc and mayhem.

The horseman fell downward, his face resting on the cybernetic horse's mane. As if sensing something was wrong, the animal stopped. The Hunter's hands dropped the reins, but, while the right one slid down free to his side, the other stayed in the air; the elegant snow-white fingers spread. A face emerged from the flesh of the palm (with a little mouth and a little nose and all), and small black eyes narrowed in a curious and concentrated expression...

- Heat Syndrome, poisoning by radiation, bone marrow resembles pudding and, of course –-spoke the hand (or the face in the hand), his hoarse voice still sarcastic while completing the analysis of the body of his host-: You don't have blood for even a baby vampire... what am I suppose to do with you?

The ancient parasite sighed, and he would have shrugged if he had shoulders. Why the Sacred Ancestor didn't graft him onto a host with some sense of self-preservation? The hand sighed again, mourning his fate not for the first time in those long centuries. Had he no right to a decent life with good food, tons of fun and wild sex to satisfy even the entire Julius-Claudius dynasty?

The carbuncle moved to look at the serene face of the dhampir; the little color he had in the first place was leaving him too quickly. Suddenly D frowned, revealing just a bit of the agony in which he was; a secind later he let out a barely audible cry just before slipping into a coma. His limp body began to slide down, and hastily the carbuncle took the control of the rest of the arm and grabbed the neck of the horse; the animal moved uneasily and the hand cursed among horse hair... now what was he going to do? The situation could almost be funny, but his humor failed him. D needed to be carried to a safe place where he could heal, but the hand wasn't in a good condition either.

The carbuncle was starving (as usual), and that was his host fault too... "slave driver" –thought the parasite, resentful, tired and worried–. "At least it's night... wait, I take away that: there's no sun to grill him, but if we stay here we will be the dinner of something unpleasant in less than an hour... oh, the dilemma".

The horse snorted, kicking the ground with a hoof and worsening their already precarious position.

- I know, I know! Let me think –said the hand. The first thing in order was to eat and therefore regain at least a little of his strength, and so he did. He inhaled a large amount of air (somewhat insipid) and took control of the animal.

The town of Düsseldorf was a few miles away from there, and hopefully nothing would eat them on their way. What would they do when they got to the village...? Well, that if they managed to arrive in one piece. If they came out of this situation, the carbuncle swore that D would wake up in a tutu dress... a very pink and cute tutu dress.



"Never, by any cause and under no circumstances, follow anything (no matter what it is: white rabbit, girl in tiny clothes or your evil twin) through anything minimally resembling a hole in the ground". Dante, son of the legendary demon Sparda, was repeating this like a mantra as he cut the head of a werewolf who had pretended to have him as his Little Red Riding Hood. "Could it be the red coat?" –the half demon asked himself sarcastically, checking that this said tight red outfit were still in good condition. It wouldn't be easy to replace it, being that the nearest Diesel store was about... oh, yeah! About eleven thousand years in the past!

And he looked damn good in that coat.

Sometimes he still refused to believe that this was happening to him. He had been in Hell, in the stomach of apocalyptic monsters, accursed islands, and the list went on and on. But the future? And THAT future no less. It was horrible, unspeakable, horrifying, as if it had been taken from one of his worst nightmares...

There wasn't pizza! The last chef to whom he had asked had looked unpleasantly at him. Furthermore, there were no table-dancers, TV, movies, junk food (of any type), metal bands (not even Pop music to make fun of it!) But there were monsters; oh but how this world exuded monsters! Oddly, the demons were rather old-fashioned and very rare, which depressed him: Dante lived to turn them to ashes, but recently (2 years ago now) he lived to find a way back to his own time... and return to turn them to ashes. Although at seeing what he now knew about this world, his primary goal when he returned would probably be to give the demons a vacation and to search for the vampires instead. Those fangy bastards had fucked up the Earth... "Nevermind" –said Dante to himself, returning with ease the extra-cumbersome sword of his father to his back. He never knew why Trish loved so much the damned sword, he missed his Alastor dearly… and missed Trish too; he even missed the old dude who did his laundry back then (and the pizza guy of course).

He missed "home". But he had had to follow his crazy twin into that cursed hole and ended up here; he was so glad to know Vergil was alive and kicking (if it was indeed his brother and not the dumbest trap in which Dante had ever fallen), and along to a way back to his time (as Hollywoody as that sounded) he wanted to find his evil and megalomaniac twin, hug him and then beat the crap out of him (with love).

"Tomorrow is another day" –Dante sighed, tired. It was still three hours before dawn, and according to the information he had collected early that day, he was a few miles from a town called Düsseldorf. If he suddenly came to a town named "Lugosi" he would not be surprised anymore. It was just starting to weigh on him to be the only one who understood the joke.

He continued to walk on; he still had the hope of getting a motorcycle (or something that resembled one in that bizarre world), because the day he started to wander around on horseback would be the day when he would paint his hair Barbie-blond. Blessed be his demon blood and the endless reserves of energy that it gave him. OK, they weren't endless, and –by the way–, he was hungry, but he still refused to carry those dry, hard and non mouthwatering things that people here said were "food for the road".

"Not even John Wayne would eat that ... I wonder how werewolf meat would taste?"



- Almost… there… –said the carbuncle to himself, although how could he talk with its mouth attached at the horse's neck, was a mystery worthy of Holmes. He could feel thousands of presences in front of them, but at their present speed –that of turtle with rheumatism—, they would reach the village in about an hour.

A presence was coming to them quickly. The hand cursed aloud, and decided to keep moving forward. It was just one presence, but he estimated that it was a strong individual, and in this world that was never good news. Not if you were the oh so famous Vampire Hunter D (or his left hand, by association).

It took not even a minute for the man to come nearer. 10 meters away from them he slowed his progress –an even worse sign-, and moments later his horse walked parallel to D's. The man was tall, not too stout, he had a heavy dark beard and even darker eyes under the bushy eyebrows. The weapon on his back was like a neon sign that said "Hunter", that and the tense and violent aura that surrounded almost all the men of his type.

And all the men of his type had heard of Vampire Hunter D. Certainly the newcomer could see from his mount that this stranger fitted all the rumors like a list, and the one above everything: he was impossibly beautiful, enough to throw almost painful shivers to body parts where another man should not have had any influence. And he considered himself a man among men.

The other part of the description was that his ability to kill was divine… so, what was doing the famous Vampire Hunter unconscious on his own horse? The explosion of the day before seemed to have the answer… "Surely" –thought Cronos, Werewolf Hunter—. "Not even D could emerge unscathed after defeating the legendary Lord Meskhent, the Tyrant of the Shadows".

The only question left was: what was he going to do with this situation? Help him so the Vampire Hunter would owe him a favor looked like a good idea… but on the other hand, some other ideas were whirling inside his head, almost as if something was whispering although he knew it was his own darkness speaking.

"Where there's beauty, dark thoughts aren't so far", his father used to say, but only in this moment that phrase made sense for him.

His calloused hand moved as if pulled by something stronger than his rationality, reaching to that otherworldly face. That skin put silk to shame, and in the night-light it glowed in a supernatural way. The undeniable pleasure grew stronger and came out of his mouth like a lament that was lost in the darkness. He took off D's hat carelessly, dropping it, and his eyes widened.

"How could someone have that kind of beauty and not being a God?" –the man called Cronos asked himself, overwhelmed for the first time in his hard life. At his 35 years he had seen more than many octogenarians; he had advanced as a Hunter carrying the motto "every man to himself". He had innocent blood on his hands, and he didn't care: Idealists died young in the Frontier, and he was a survivor.

He had never desired anything more than the glitter of gold, at least until that moment. None of the worldly pleasures he had experienced before compared with this vision that had made him forget all in a second and promised to make him lose his soul.

Cronos forced himself to close his eyes, breathe and put himself together, but not because it would change what he had decided just a few seconds ago. He was a Hunter: he carefully and icily planned every move, and this promised to be the most difficult task of his career. He touched the elegant neck under the black and large raincoat D wore, looking for a pulse. He found it when he began to give him up for dead, he could not even hear the dhampir breathe.

As if by magic, a dagger appeared in his hand, and without a shred of doubt he cut the snow-white cheek, deeply. D did not move, the cut barely bled, and Cronos found that the legendary dhampir was probably comatose, perhaps by the radiation from the explosion or the poison of some enemy... or all of the above. He smiled triumphantly, with a feverish shine in his black eyes.

He recorded quickly his surroundings: one could never be too careful in the nights of the Frontier, and then dismounted. He pulled the dhampir down of his horse and took him to the front of his own with suspicious ease; the animal remained quiet and obedient to the strange actions of his owner. Cronos mounted again, and clung his passenger by the waist with his left hand, then brought his horse to D's and tied the bridle to his own steed. He concentrated on the road in the front instead of the closeness of that perfect body to his chest. His hand ached to touch that smooth skin again.

"Soon" –he assured his lust, and set off to Düsseldorf, more quickly than seemed possible with two horses tied in that way. But of course, he had not earned the name "Cronos" for nothing.

While pretending to be the most normal hand on the Frontier, the carbuncle was stunned and dumbfounded.

"This is going to be worse than the tutu…"


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