A/N: I am so sorry this is late! I had a lot going on at work the past two days and haven't had a minute to myself until tonight. Please forgive my tardiness, and please enjoy.
Chapter Three: Upturned Ink
Life has dark secrets; and the hearts are few
That treasure not some sorrow from the world—
A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown,
Yet colouring the future from the past.
We see the eye subdued, the practised smile,
The word well weighed before it pass the lip,
And know not of the misery within:
Yet there it works incessantly and fears
The time to come; for time is terrible,
Avenging, and betraying.
—Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Elizabeth sits on her bed, shaking. Using her powers is something that still leaves her weak and trembling. With a shudder she smoothes back her hair, clinging to her damp brow and neck. She presses her hands into her lap, taking one deep breath after another, waiting for the burning in her throat and the pounding in her ears to fade away.
She is pleased to do it, beyond thrilled to have been able to help her mother in some small way. The queen had been risking her life to drive back the destruction of the demons. Elizabeth had imagined herself the evil they had sewn as Mael had described it to her. An entire city on fire, men and women and children broken and torn apart, images of the people fleeing while the brave knights had fought the demon horde. Mael had told her that the goddesses were on their way, and she needed to pray to help her mother reach them in time.
So the princess had done what she had been taught to do, since she was young. Elizabeth had knelt on the ground, her hands pressed together and against her chest, and prayed. She prayed for her mother's safety and for the lives of the brave goddesses who accompanied her to fight. She prayed that the humans would find comfort in their arrival and withstand the horrors that had been inflicted. But most of all, she prayed that the demons would leave.
She remembers easily the words that were trained within her over the years, first by the queen, then by the archangels who occasionally served as her tutors. Goddesses are light. Goddesses are grace. Focus on the enemy. Will them back. Leave. Leave and go home. Enough fighting. Enough death.
And she does as commanded, imagining the waves of energy wafting outwards as she would pray so earnestly.
When she was so depleted she was nearly falling over with fatigue, Mael finally told her to stop. Elizabeth sank down, her head bowed and her shoulders rising and falling with her labored breathing. The cold stone floor had felt good against her feverish skin, soothing the cramping in her back and arms and legs from staying in one position for so long. Her fingers had lost some feeling and her sight was blurry, and Elizabeth only managed a sigh through her dry lips when he told her they had won.
Now Elizabeth closes her eyes and breathes deeply in relief. The demons had been slowed by her prayers, they had told her; she had bought the goddesses enough time for the Supreme Deity to arrive. The queen had fought not just any demons, they had told her: it was the Ten Commandments that had been there.
Elizabeth smiles to herself, imagining how it must have looked. Her mother did not wield a weapon as some of the others did. Her magic was too powerful to need such a thing. The city that had at once been overrun by the red and gray and blue creatures of destruction was soon delivered by her mother sending her light out to douse the purgatory fire and send the creatures to their doom. Although Elizabeth had never seen her mother in action before, she had heard many stories, and it is easy enough to picture how the dark ones must have trembled, how their eyes would have widened as they realized their fate was at hand.
Her breath catches. With shaky hands she removes her gloves, looking at the smooth porcelain skin. She slides her fingers along the back of one hand, then turning it to trace the lines on her palm. Elizabeth's hands had never been covered in blood, they way fighters' must be. The way hands look after fighting to save the other, weaker clans. She has never had the pleasure of feeling the heat of her light explode from beneath her skin, the satisfaction of watching the enemy howl as they are filled with the cleansing magic of the goddesses. Light can hurt just as much as heal, she knows this from her years of tutoring.
Yet she can only stand by and give aid, never go out and bring the justice she wants so desperately for those who are foolish enough to stand against them. This is Elizabeth's greatest shame: her mother has forbidden her to go to battle for Britannia.
If Elizabeth cannot fight, she cannot be the savior she wishes to be. Her role is to sit in the palace and be obedient, and to pray when she is called upon. It is all she is, and all she can ever hope to be.
But if she could—if they would let her out of the palace, if the queen would consent to let her go to Britannia—then she would face them. Elizabeth knows she would be brave enough. Her years as a princess have been spent studying, learning their history and their culture, memorizing philosophy and languages and politics to aid her for the day when she will assume the throne. Perhaps, if she had the chance, the war would be over and her mother's burden would end. The queen is fighting because she cannot.
The princess sighs, settling back a bit. Her eyes fan over the room, all of her things that are not hers, but serve as a constant reminder of who she is and who she must be. The gifts from her mother and the relics of their clan, the symbols of their magic, the remnants of her past. Elizabeth feels sick for her ungratefulness. People are dying in Britannia, and all she can think of is more death, simply to satisfy her own desires.
The queen does not have such base ideas, she is sure. The queen only knows peace and forgiveness and sacrifice. The queen does not bestow death upon others.
Elizabeth can feel her heart beginning to pick up its pace, and she shuts her eyes tightly. It is at a time like this when she misses her mother the most; who else would understand the pain and loneliness and crushing responsibility of her royal position better than the Supreme Deity? But her mother is gone, fighting again, and Elizabeth bites the inside of her cheek to stop the wave of anger.
Why must she sacrifice so much? Why must the goddesses give all they have, when all the demons do is take and take? Her stomach turns with anguish, the burning in her throat and the pounding in her head increasing when her eyes settle on an object that is out-of-place in the room.
On the very top of the built-in shelves that cover one wall sits a small silver box. Quickly Elizabeth stands, summoning her wings to aid in flying up high enough to snatch it away. Once settled back on the ground she climbs into the center of her bed, smiling as she settles the precious item on her lap.
What it is and where it came from she cannot say; it is something that has always just been there, sitting on that shelf. She had asked her tutors and her guards who had put it there but no one could answer. Then, when she asked Mael he had admonished her to never open it, and Elizabeth always obeyed. But following his instruction only intensified her curiosity regarding the box.
Mael had said nothing about staring at or thinking about the box, so at times like this when Elizabeth's mind would move too fast, her thoughts too loud, she would brush her fingers along the sparkling wood and wonder. Even now the thrill of what it could contain makes her smile, remembering how fun it was to imagine so many possibilities. Yet it is also soothing, bringing a smile to her face. There is a connection to this box that she cannot explain. Her breathing and her pulse settle as she traces the outline with her finger.
There is a knock in the door, and quickly Elizabeth replaces her gloves. "Yes?" she calls, wincing at the light strain in her voice.
"Your Highness," says Ludoshel as he enters. "Your mother is here and wishes to see you."
"My mother?!" Instantly she is up and running, not caring how she looks or how her cheeks are flushed or how a princess should never ever run through the halls.
Elizabeth is nearly stumbling over her own feet when she finally reaches the throne room. With panting breaths she pulls to a stop before she loses all decorum and rushes at the queen like a wild thing. She gives a small sound of relief and happiness to see that it is true: her mother is sitting in her throne, towering above the goddesses that scurry around her giving reports and taking commands and offering advice. All eyes are attuned to the overwhelming presence of the queen in their midst, and all Elizabeth can do for several minutes is simply watch.
She sits on her throne, back arched, hands gripping the arms of the carved marble of the chair. Her white robes flow around her body and cascade on the floor, making is seem as though she rests on a cloud. The silver hair that is a shade lighter than Elizabeth's own flows in loose curls around her shoulders under the crown that is covered in shining white diamonds.
Tears well up inside Elizabeth to see the familiar beauty of her mother's face and the clear blue eyes that stare intently at the advisor now speaking. The excitement of seeing her after so many months erases the loneliness and anger from earlier. She blinks away the drops forming on her eyelashes, squeezing her trembling hands into fists at her sides as she thinks over and over: home, home, home, home.
It is a familiar scene, watching her mother on the throne; it is one she has known since childhood. The queen listens intently, her words concise and just as intense. No one questions her authority, and it does not take long for all of the advisors to deliver their briefs and step back with her commands. Elizabeth's heart pounds, excitement coursing through her at the familiar rituals. They are blessed to stand in her presence, and it is thrilling to know that the queen has returned to her rightful place, safe and alive.
That is, until the queen's eyes land on her. Elizabeth jumps under her stare, regretting her clothes and the jewels she chose and wondering if her hair was as mussed as she feared. She feels the heavy purposefulness of her gaze as the deity looks her over. Her eyes are keen and unforgiving, leaving Elizabeth feeling pinned to that very spot in the room, her excitement turning sour in her veins. The queen has returned, and so has her piercing scrutiny.
But then, the eyes soften, a smile forming very small over the queen's lips. "Elizabeth!" she calls.
The tears spill at hearing her mother say her name. But somehow Elizabeth remembers her manners, and after stepping forward into the parting crowd, the princess sinks into a low curtsey. "Your Grace," she breathes, trying to keep her voice and her soul steady. "I am blessed to be in your presence."
"Look at my lovely daughter! Is she not the most beautiful girl you have ever seen?"
The others murmur to one another their agreement that yes, indeed, the princess is lovely and graceful and a glittering jewel in the queen's crown. Their praise of her makes Elizabeth blush, not daring to lift her watery eyes up to look her mother in the face.
The voices fade away into a thick silence, and for a moment Elizabeth is frightened that she has done something wrong. But then, incredibly, there is a hand on her shoulder, and as the princess is guided to stand, she realizes in shock the queen is standing before her, gently caressing her arm.
When was the last time her mother spoke to her so kindly, took her hand, used a gentle touch? As if in a dream Elizabeth lifts her eyes to see her mother smiling down at her. "Come, my dear," the queen hums.
Together they walk towards the large archway that leads out onto a balcony. The queen seems to float on air, her long dress flowing behind her, the heavy curls that frame her face lifting slightly in the breeze. For what must be the thousandth time Elizabeth marvels at how effortless her mother is. It fills her with deep pride, and even a bit of envy. That is a sin that must never be revealed, so quickly Elizabeth pushes it deep inside.
"The Celestial Realm is a dream, isn't it?" the queen asks. She rests one strong hand against the railing of the balcony. Her body faces Elizabeth, but her face is turned to take in the sights far below them. "You can nearly see all of Britannia from here."
"Yes, mother," Elizabeth says with a bit of a blush. Oh, there are so many things she wishes to say in this moment! She has so many questions to ask and fears to share and stories to tell that for a split second Elizabeth considers flinging her arms around the queen and burying her face into the shimmering hair.
But such a thing is impossible, unthinkable. Elizabeth stands as she has been taught, hands clasped and eyes forward.
"I understand that you prayed yesterday," the queen says.
Eagerly Elizabeth nods. "It was an honor to be of some help," she replies. "I prayed very hard for the demons to hold back, just as you taught me."
She sneaks a glance towards her mother, who is looking out still over Britannia. "It was a good battle, and hard won. All Ten Commandments were there. Their power is very great, and the evil they brought even greater. But I was able to send them all back. I turned them back and saved the city."
Elizabeth's eyes shimmer a bit. Unable to stop herself, she reaches out and takes the queen's hand, pressing a kiss as she exclaims, "Your Majesty is remarkable!"
To her delight, the goddess pulls her hand away to caress Elizabeth's hair, tucking it affectionately behind her ear. The princess beams at her, her heart full.
"Elizabeth," the queen says, "you have grown into a beautiful young woman. When I am gone, you will need to assume the role of queen and lead not only our own people, but all of Britannia."
"I know," Elizabeth whispers. "But I'm afraid, mother."
The queen nods. "Few can do what I can so easily. You should be afraid."
The blood seems to drain right out from her face, and Elizabeth shivers. She thinks of the earlier violence she had imagined, feeling ashamed. Not knowing what to say, she hangs her head, but the queen lifts her chin with a long finger so her eyes meet her own. "That's why I have taken care of you, and your future."
"My… future?"
The goddess smiles. "Yes, my dear. But first you must do something for me. This war has been going on long enough. It will last another endless age if we don't do something about it."
Elizabeth frowns. "The demons are fierce, but surely we can win against them. Surely with your powers—"
"Unfortunately," the queen interrupts, "that will be impossible. Even though we are greater in strength, power, and resolve, the demons can reproduce en masse. The sheer size of their armies are enough to keep this conflict going."
Never has Elizabeth heard her mother speak this way, to admit any weakness. She had always assumed that good would win in the end. "Is there no hope?" she whispers fearfully. "Then what do we do?"
The queen strokes her bangs back, her fingers brushing the goddess' face gently. "It's what you must do, my dear. You must find out their secrets. If we can raise an army of our own clansmen as easily as they, then we can overtake them once and for all."
Elizabeth's eyes widen as she gasps. "Me? But… but how could I… I don't know anything about them!"
"Elizabeth," the queen says, her tone going from soft to serious, snapping her from the whirlwind of confusion. "Many years ago, you were promised in marriage to the eldest son of the Demon King. Now we will use that to our own advantage."
"I was… what?" The goddess blinks rapidly, trying to clear her vision. It's too much to even consider, and the blood is pounding in her head, the sudden rush of adrenaline at the idea making her sick. Marry one of the demons? The king's own son? That would make her queen of that vile race, a part of the clan that has caused such agony and destruction.
She looks at her mother, in complete shock, but the queen only smiles. "Now, you have the opportunity to learn all you can about them, and discover their well-guarded secrets. Then we can finally take down their clan once and for all."
"Marry?" Bile rises in Elizabeth's throat, her mind full and empty at once. The room begins to tilt.
The queen strokes her cheek, once more catching her attention. "It was a way to barter peace for a while, but obviously that did not last long. I have kept the demons from claiming you as long as I can, but they have become quite insistent."
Panic grips Elizabeth at the idea. "But—but marry one? Marry the next king? Mother, I can't do that! I can't!" The words fall out in a rush, before the princess can stop them. No one says no to the queen. The queen cannot be refused. And yet, Elizabeth repeats again, "I can't! I won't!"
The queen's hand, which had been so soft against her cheek, clenches into her hair. The smile remains on her mother's face even as her fingers dig into her scalp painfully. "You must do this, Elizabeth. There is no other way." Elizabeth can feel her hair being tugged sharply, and with a strangled gasp she tilts her head back to ease the pressure. "Their power is growing, and I cannot do this alone. You must obey me and do what you can to find out what they know. Do you understand?"
Her entire body is shaking out of revulsion of her task. Her mother peers at her now, her eyes cold despite the smile still there. She can feel the air in her lungs squeezing as she tries to make sense of any of this. Yet the hand in her hair is tightening, and at once she is very, truly afraid. For the first time, there is a fear inside of her of the queen's power, one that she had never experienced before. Elizabeth can feel the power that exists just beneath her fingertips, her own setting off alarms inside of her mind to fight and survive. Never had she imagined the queen to turn against her; but if this was kept from her, if this fate is hers now, then anything is possible.
Elizabeth knows she has no choice. She cannot refuse; denying the queen is impossible. So the princess nods, and at once the queen releases her hold.
"I will have their secrets, and once I do, then I can destroy them all. Including this prince you must marry." Her mother's voice has once more become pleasant, but this time as she strokes her daughter's hair, Elizabeth is frozen. "So it's only for a little while. You do trust me, don't you, my dearest?"
Elizabeth swallows thickly, her throat dry. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"What a dutiful daughter I have. One day you will be queen, and you will understand the sacrifices I make for you. It hurts my heart to see you given away." The goddess sighs and strokes Elizabeth's cheek, her nail scraping lightly along the cheekbone. A shiver of revulsion wracks through Elizabeth's body, and she bites her lip to keep from screaming. "Our lives are lived for others, never forget that. As queen I must give the most, and that includes my only daughter. My suffering will be great, but I must endure, for Britannia."
She gives her daughter a kiss on the forehead. Elizabeth chokes back a little sob, still stunned. All she had wanted all this time was her mother's touch; now her presence is a curse.
The soft caress of her mother's lips feel like lava, golden light that eases into her tense brow. The queen then turns to leave, but Elizabeth screws her courage and says, "When, mother?"
The goddess pauses. Elizabeth has never dared to call after her before, and the tension is heavy for a moment. But then the queen looks over her shoulder. "Soon," she replies before sweeping back inside, gone once more in a cloud of advisors and servants around her.
A million questions cycle through Elizabeth's mind, but one is the loudest: why was I never told?
Then: Is this why I am here? Is this what I was born to do?
The mystery is beginning to drive Meliodas mad, a situation which is as rare and remarkable as it is infuriating. He has cared about so little in the past two centuries that to even feel agitation is foreign and uncomfortable under his skin. Hours he spends turning the events of the attack in his mind, thinking and rethinking what it all could mean. There is no doubt in his mind that he had felt the presence of the goddess who dared to take control of his demon army. The human female had confirmed its existence for him. If he was not so distracted by solving this puzzle he may have been impressed by the daring and skill it must have taken to accomplish this feat.
The demon prince is more bothered by the fact that the goddess clan has managed to keep the weapon from him than by the fact that it exists.
Two weeks have gone by with no sign of the goddess clan's return. A skirmish here or there, a killing on each side, but no more talk of weapons or demons leaving their ranks. Meliodas concludes that the weapon is only used when a large number of human lives are at stake, and so begins watching the human settlements, wanting to stage another attack. But one reason or another keeps a plan to draw out the mysterious weapon from taking shape, and now with days and days having passed without an answer, the demon is feeling another long forgotten emotion: wrath.
His rooms are now filled with maps and papers, notes he has made on the movements of the armies, calculations about the size of the various clans. This is what he had been raised and trained to do, and it eats at Meliodas to be here, working for the king after all. The old lessons from Chandler come back as he easily fits back into his role as general and leader, and he despises it. None of it brings him any pleasure, but at least he can say it is a distraction.
But it is too easy, all of it. The others listen to him without question, his brothers are nearly always not far behind. Even the king, the only one who does not simply fall in line, has left him be to accomplish his task. It's all child's play, in the end, and he cares about none of it, including the woman he is currently fucking on top of his desk.
She is naked and squirming and moaning and it grates his nerves, but he continues the punishing thrust of his hips. Sex bores him as much as anything else. There is no thrill in finding a woman or man to take when they offer themselves so willingly. His brothers are both opposites: one disdains the act as vulgar and idiotic, while the other is insatiable for the pleasures of love. For him, it is as natural as breathing, as necessary as bathing, and as interesting as either. There are other things Meliodas does to occupy his time as he waits for more reports to come in: hunting, mostly. It is one of the few things that he can enjoy doing without becoming bored. Food, drink, entertainment, sex, killing, sleep: it is all a jumble of tasks that must be completed and nothing more.
"Come on!" she gasps out, and the sound makes his teeth ache. He places a hand on her mouth to silence her as the other presses on the table next to her hip. She likes this, based on the strangled cry from beneath his palm. Good, he thinks; maybe this will be over sooner rather than later. His eyes drag down her naked form, the toned muscles of her thighs, the tight stomach contracting and straining with the way their bodies slap together. Her darkness must be pulled inside to reveal so much of her, and he knows he should try to find some pleasure in this. But how can he, so distracted?
A sharp pain in his forearm pulls at his attention and he buries himself inside of her before looking down. Her nails are sharp and leave tracks of blood in his skin, and for a moment he smiles. Slowly he rocks his hips in a circle, squeezing the hand still clamped around her mouth. She thrashes and digs into his skin, her breath hot as she chokes behind his hand, her stomach muscles straining as she tries to move her hips. But the slow gyration is driving her insane, so he tries to draw out the tease. This is amusing for the moment.
But Meliodas eventually moves too fast, and hits something, because she is arching off the desk with a wild scream and her eyes growing impossibly wide. He feels the unmistakable pulsing around his length, and in his annoyance he keeps the hand on her mouth while the other covers her eyes.
He does not care anymore, just wanting to find his own end now so this can be finished. The orgasm will clear his head and drain his body of the nervous energy that was plaguing him that day, and he can finally go back to his maps and drawings to find a new angle.
"Shut up," he growls, tilting forward a bit to drill even deeper. Her arms go out, trying to find something to grip—holding onto him is a good way to lose an arm—and when she bangs on the wood of the desk it upturns an ink well. Meliodas turns his head away from the vicious depravity beneath him and watches the ink as it streams across the grain.
There are papers underneath her, some with his drawings of the town they had decimated, some sketched out positionings of battle plans, lists and lists of names and books and spells, ideas and notes and observations. When she had arrived for some reason Melidoas couldn't care to remember, he decided to take her then, needing an outlet for his aggravation. She was happy to comply, as they always are. Fucking her on top of the very ideas that were causing him so much grief seemed like a fitting irony.
His hips come to a stuttered stop as he watches the black ink sliding, leaving a thin trail across the table. It reaches one of his papers, turning sharply to slip along the edge of a drawing that is sticking out from under her hip. The hand covering her mouth moves, leaving her gasping, but Meliodas ignores her to roughly turn her thigh so he can watch the path. She heaves a laugh and says, "Again?"
"Shut up." Meliodas pulls out of her so he can roll her even farther. The picture that the ink is now outlining is of the human who felt the presence of the goddess just as he had. He had sketched it out days ago, going back every so often to add another detail as he remembered them. It is important that she had felt it, and he knew it is a clue to solving this mystery. As the ink bleeds into the paper and slides across the parchment, it reminds Meliodas of how the power of the weapon had seemed to come on the wind. He remembers the cool breeze that had somehow brushed on his skin in the middle of the inferno.
There is a rap at the door suddenly, and a call of his name. But the ink is fascinating to him, and when it approaches the human's face, he is tempted to snatch up the parchment to save the drawing from being ruined. Another knock sounds, followed by the door opening; then a hand wraps around his swollen and rigid member, which he had been successfully ignoring.
In a flash the offending hand is removed, the owner now bent over the edge of the desk, her arm twisted behind her. From the corner of his eye he can see her spreading her legs, waiting; but that no longer interests him, no matter what his pulsing and weeping body wants. Meliodas can only stare at the paper that is turning black as if it is on fire and being covered in soot. It is giving him an idea, if only everyone would be quiet.
"Get out of here Estarossa, can't you see that we're busy?" her voice snaps.
"Is that Derieri the Pure?" Estarossa teases back.
The ink does something remarkable: it moves in a circle, forming a rounded outline around the human. There must be some explanation for the direction it flows, whether the change in humidity with the door opening or the shuffling of the papers as his partner had turned, but it is compelling to watch. It is as if the ink is forming a barrier around the human, and makes him wonder: why then, why them? Why not any of the other cursed races of Britannia?
Maybe it isn't the goddesses after all?
"Pure my ass," laughs Derieri. "Go fuck off."
"I'll fuck yours if you hold still."
"Like you would even know—"
Meliodas looks up at the squabbling demons. "Estarossa," he says sharply, and both turn and look at him. "What is the status on the demon army for the next assault?"
"That's what I came to tell you," his brother responds, folding his arms. "The demons are ready, but the town selected has been fortified. We may need more if—"
"I don't give a shit about that," he interrupts. "We have a new target. I want the most destructive ones on standby. I'm going to get answers, and if I don't like what I hear, then I'm levelling their little settlement to the ground."
Both demons are now standing and watching him, at full attention. Meliodas spies the darkness slithering along Derieri's body to cover herself. "Where are we going?" she asks.
"Belialuin," he replies.