#feeels!

((Sorry this took so long, hope it's ok))

She had turned on him for the last time.

As Yumie stood there, the corpse of an unfortunate in her grasp, Dante did his best to keep cool. He was failing miserably. "Yumie, what have you done?" His voice was filled with a malice that had not been heard in some time. Her face was gore covered and distant, no sign of the woman he had once known present, she might as well be the lifeless body that cooled on the streets between them. 

Yumiko was not here. Anger pricked his eyes, making them blur with rage, his jaw clenched and face set in a horrible scowl. The woman cackled at his unbridled display readying her weapon to take his own life. Seething, the devil gave no indication of challenge, instead, he remained inordinately still, though his clenched fists shook, blood pooling where his nails had cut into the soft parts of his palms. 

Violent words were hurtled at him, but his ears were deafened to their madness. Distracted images of his other fallen friends flashed before mellowed eyes. So many comrades dashed to dust by heinous apparitions meant only to rend flesh and crush the souls of those that loved them.

Unbeknownst to himself, Dante's greyed eyes had closed, shutting out the wild creature from sight, in his ignorance of her, she'd decided insults were nor enough and now charged, blade drawn, aimed for his aching heart. 

Supernatural senses alerted him to her fierce proximity, but his arms could not be forced to bother with defending himself. In no time he felt the familiar sensation of metal splitting his flesh, rending through him like a hot knife through butter. So unresistant was he, that Yumie was only stopped when the hilt collided with his ribcage. Now opened pain ridden eyes to take in the spectacle, the raging berserker attempting to pry the weapon from it's resting place in order for a second attempt. 

Dante lifted a hand to clamp both of hers to the handle, his demonic strength overpowering, yet somehow still gentle. The other blood caked palm raised to clutch her chin, forcibly tilting her head so he might hope to catch a glance of his former companion.

There was no such luck, the nun had retreated from her last battle, hidden deep within the cathedral of her mind. He had to be sure, but there was no definite way to know, yet this beast could not be allowed to roam free.

Despite everything he had sworn to himself, a decision had to be made and he was the only man to do it. Regret began to sour his stomach as his fingers traveled down to encircle her throat, corners of his mouth downturning, exerting pressure slowly, her flesh indenting as his fingers curled into it. Memories danced before hazy, melancholy blues, his expression unreadably somber, not even the most observant able to see past the stoic ambivalence portrayed upon his visage.

The muscles in his arm began to bulge as the force began to cut off her oxygen supply, the raving woman beginning to thrash wildly in his grip.

Her hands pulled to release from their confines, but to no avail, the devil held fast and only tugged the protrusion deeper into his chest. Gagging permeated the air as Yumie's eyes began to bulge, unable to iterate even the simplest words due to compression. Taught lips grew pale as he pursed them shut, wondering if he really could outlast the tension, watch himself squeeze the life out of her. For just a moment the hand restraining her own faltered, the advantage was taken and just her nails flew at his face, both of Dante's wide palms gripped the sides of her face, twisting her neck in a grotesquely unnatural position. 

Yumie now looked over her own shoulder, mouth agape as if witnessing her crime for the first time, apologetically staring though her eyes were lifeless. Cradling the empty vessel, the halfbreed held her tightly to himself, escorting her gently to the cobbles on bended knee. Once she left his embrace he withdrew the blade from his chest, a squelch, ripping sound informing him that he would have to exert more force was his regenerative body had healed itself around the katana. With a few moments of prying, Dante released the foreign object from his chest cavity and laid it upon the woman's frame, enclosing her arms about it. He reangled her face to hide the fatal blow and stood back, hardened eyes locked onto dead ones silently speaking to her of the atrocity committed. This death was needless, to some unfortunate, and for him, unforgivable. 

In a few minutes he would retreat inside and fetch matches and whatever could be deemed kindling and give her a warrior's burial. Though he was unsure how Catholic's viewed cremation, he knew dying unceremoniously on unholy and far less than sacred ground was certainly not how she would have wanted to go and a pang of hate toward himself began to grow. The roiling feeling of guilt and betrayal made him feel nauseous and it took everything he had left to keep himself in check. His devil side clawed internally, feeding off of his own anger, but it would not be sated, this death was not born of hatred, but of mercy, and he would have it stay that way.