Disclaimer: I do not own Nanatsu no Taizai
Chapter III
I have died everyday waiting for you
...
Gloxinia and Dolor were missing.
Had been missing, missing for a while now. One month they had been missing, one month Meliodas had been waiting for news of them.
Meliodas didn't want to believe that they were dead, no matter what Gerheade's injuries told him, not matter what the faerie blood that had smelled of Gloxinia smeared over that clearing told him.
He didn't want to believe the rumors of two new Commandments—a red-haired demon with an effeminate appearance and green tentacles that covered their body, and a massive, four armed, blue-gray skinned demon either.
He doesn't want to believe that they're dead. Doesn't want to believe that they've betrayed Stigma.
He doesn't know what he wants to believe. Meliodas doesn't know what he should believe.
He just wants to find them and have everything make sense again, even in that broken way it was before, at least there had been some semblance of normalcy and routine, of trust in his friends.
But now they're missing, and he's been seeing Elizabeth less and less as they're dragged to their own duties away from each other, and Meliodas is alone again.
He can't do this.
Meliodas doesn't know what to do.
All he can do is wait.
.
.
.
Meliodas wanted to punch Ludociel.
"With the death of the Fae King and Jotun King, as well as—" here, the Archangel's voice caught ever-so-slightly, and Meliodas felt the the faintest strand of sympathy stir in his heart for the goddess, "—Mael's, I fear that the Goddesses will soon be overwhelmed. We might lose support from the giants and fae, should their next rulers not support our alliance. If new rulers are not crowned quickly enough—because neither of them had yet to pick a successor, the clans could fall apart."
Ludociel is saying that they should stop looking for Faerie and Jotun King, because they're dead.
They should start forging new bonds with their clans, help them rebuild.
It sounds reasonable.
But it's not. It sounds so, so, terribly unreasonable to Meliodas.
Meliodas wants to snarl and rip Ludociel apart, but he can't because he's right.
Gloxinia and Dolor are still missing, and it's only natural that the only thing to assume would be that they died in the attack. Because that was the only reason they wouldn't be here, helping their clans, because their respective clans both knew of their sacrificing nature, and Meliodas knew that too, but—
Meliodas can't accept that.
Can't accept the fact that they have to continue on in this war without his two best friends, stop their search efforts, and forge new alliances with the fae and jotun because their leaders are gone.
Because that would be giving up on them, giving up on the fact that Gloxinia and Dolor might still be alive, might still be out there somewhere.
But he bows his head and grits his teeth, feeling Elizabeth's hand on his back a soothing presence, and accepts what Ludociel is saying.
He has no choice but to do otherwise, with the Supreme Deity already disagreeing with his and Elizabeth's relationship. Ludociel is already trying to keep the two of them apart.
But he won't give up on Gloxinia and Dolor.
Never.
No matter what happens, no matter what others might think, Meliodas will never give up on his friends.
(even if they turned out to be the enemy?)
So Meliodas accepts what Ludociel is saying, bides his time, and waits. He searches, scouring the land for any signs of the former Fae and Jotun Kings.
He waits as a new Fae King, Dahlia, is crowned with the blessing of the Great Tree, a crown of flowers resting upon the young fae's head. He waits as a new Jotun King is crowned in a ceremony of fighting and bloodshed, a test of strength that befalls the most battle-thirsty of the clans besides the demons.
Meliodas waits.
.
.
.
"Once upon a time, we were friends."
Meliodas looks into ink-black eyes, once the eyes of comrades, close friends and allies, and now eyes staring back at him from the opposite side of the battlefield.
Eyes of the enemy.
Or so he tries to tell himself.
He tries to open his mouth and say what he knows he should, what is true...
The truth is, he can't see them as enemies.
He still sees Gloxinia's bright smile, his cheerful jokes and pranks, Dolor's silent and steady presence in a battlefield, whom Meliodas could always trust.
But that wasn't what they were anymore, who they were anymore.
And Meliodas needed to accept that.
But he won't, he doesn't want to, and he probably never will.
Meliodas want to cry, he want to scream, and he wants to rage at the unfairness of this world.
(hate)
But he can't.
So he laughs bitterly, sword unsheathed but lowered, raindrops dripping down its edge.
Gloxinia smiles sadly at him, and Meliodas hates it because it looks so different and similar at the same time, different but yet the same Gloxinia that he knows—knew.
Pitchblack eyes look dull and dead, not full of life and energy like they were before, like they should be.
"I'm sorry," Dolor's low voice rumbled like thunder in the silence between them. And Meliodas hates that too, because Dolor shouldn't be apologizing, not proud warrior Dolor, no, never like this, head bowed, not looking one in the eye, no. Black eyes carry none of the warrior's pride that they once had, none of the spark.
Meliodas hates this.
He hates, he hates, he hates and he hates that he hates because he wishes he could be like Elizabetha and love and forgive not be angry and hate, but he can't, so he hates.
Somewhere, though, deep inside his soul, Meliodas weeps.
"I'm sorry," Dolor repeats, and Gloxinia echoes him.
Meliodas wishes they were anywhere else, not in the middle of a blood-stained, rain-soaked battle-field.
"We-we had to," Gloxinia's voice is quiet in the thundering sound of silence, stuttering and broken.
"You wouldn't understand." That's a lie.
Meliodas hates himself, because he does understand, understands too well. He hates himself.
He hates, he hates, he hates.
(in that way, he was always the antithesis to Elizabeth; his goddess was always so loving, warm and forgiving; Meliodas could only hate, hate and hate)
"Come back with me," he says before he knows what he's doing, and sees the surprise in Dolor and Gloxinia's eyes, and hates a little less because underneath it all, they're still the same.
Meliodas is drowning in a sea of hate.
He waits for an answer.
"We can't go back," Gloxinia laughs bitterly. Dolor nods. "We can't."
The admission of this makes everything seem more final, somehow.
Cold and somber and final, like the final nail of a coffin.
Meliodas doesn't say anything.
They walk into the rain, not turning back.
They have to keep walking.
Can't stop, or they may never be able to start again.
So they walk away from Meliodas on that blood-stained, rain-soaked battlefield, and do not look back.
They would wait for the day they could see each other again. See each other, face each other as enemies on opposite sides of the battlefield, not as comrades, friends, brothers-in-arms.
(none of them knew that it would be the last time they saw each other for three thousand years)
I'm so torn as I sit alone in a lifeless jumble of secret thoughts,
Wanting to end this bitter pain for some relief,
Even momentarily.
It won't subside,
This negative force that breaks my heart and kills my joy.
Feeling sorry with useless tears,
Are nights long gone,
The visceral truth is lain bare.
Fear is the only motivation to carry on this cowardly charade,
Isolation,
The only option not to scare the world.
Not able to grasp at the offer of life,
No longer able to play the optimist.
I will surely sink and wither away,
Perhaps that's the way to go,
Sink into the depths of despair,
Drown in the uselessness of it all.
- Mike, Better Dead
