Chapter Ten: The Warrior
O, sir, content you;
I follow him to serve my turn upon him:
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd.
—William Shakespeare
Before he reaches the demon realm, Meliodas can sense death. There is discord somewhere inside, and when he arrives at the compound that serves as castle, training ground, and fortress, it has erupted into a violence not seen in an age. The concentration of power from the demons gathered in one spot draws his attention, and swiftly he flies towards it. If there is an uprising, he will crush the traitors without a thought.
So when he arrives and sees his brothers engaging in deadly combat, he freezes.
The ground is broken and a portion of the building is in pieces; the air itself is choked with the dust and ash of the rubble. Demons of varying levels and position stand around to watch, some in horror, some in excitement. Yet this is no squabble among brothers, or a show of the strength of the king's sons. There are even three Commandments present, who watch as if to keep anyone from intervening.
Zeldris has the same scowl he always wears. He grips his curved sword in his hand, stepping to the left, looking for the right moment to strike. His energy is pulsing with rage, but it is tightly wound, coiled inside of him to use as fuel for his magic. Zeldris is nearly glowing, his clothes and body tinged with the dark purple and black power.
Meanwhile Estarossa's power is explosive, pressing outwards as if to consume everyone and everything in order to gain advantage. Meliodas notes how he is dirty, disheveled, dried blood on his coat and his own sword covered in blood. He sends a blast of Hellblaze at Zeldris, who dodges it easily. Estarossa is obviously intending to harm Zeldris, but what the younger is planning, Meliodas cannot make out immediately.
Yet they will destroy one another and a sizeable chunk of the demon realm if left to continue, so Meliodas swoops down to intervene. A moment before he lands both brothers look up, and with a growl the prince sends his own powers rushing outwards to capture them. The two are trapped inside of his dark magic as it curls around them and constricts like a snake. His huge sword appears in his hand, but he sticks it into the ground as a warning before drawing the two closer.
"This ends," he says.
Slowly Meliodas releases them, both of his brothers panting on the ground as they regain their breath and composure. "You disgrace this clan and your titles with your meaningless wrath," he chastises them. "And now you've—"
"This doesn't concern you, Meliodas!" Zeldris shouts. "The disgrace is Estarossa's. He has defied the king's orders."
Meliodas frowns—who ever heard of Estarossa breaking the rules? He narrows his eyes as they shoot to his brother. "Is that true?"
Estarossa smiles, and the look in his eyes leaves him unsettled. He thinks back to the bodies that were discarded in his room like empty glasses of wine. "Zeldris has me on a technicality," he admits, licking his lips.
There is obviously more to this story, so Meliodas orders the rest to disperse. He turns and walks into the castle, his brothers following his unspoken summons. The demon takes his sword as he passes by, slinging it onto his shoulder, the heavy weight a welcome familiarity in this night of unpredictable events.
Yet the pit in his stomach grows. Whatever has happened must be connected to Belialuin. No one knows Meliodas had sent Estarossa on the errand, and he wonders if his brother has revealed his task, and why Zeldris has left his post. The answers are sure to be nothing but trouble, so with agitation he leads them into the Great Hall outside of the throne room, where he will have space to dispose of them both if needed.
The demons who are awake to serve scurry out, knowing their place is not in the presence of such gods. Meliodas strides to the center of the hall before turning to take in both brothers. "Estarossa," he begins, "what did you observe in Belialuin?"
Only the tiniest bit of surprise registers on Zeldris' face, just a little flicker of the brow; but it is enough, and Meliodas is certain Estarossa has not said anything. Then Zeldris returns to the scowl, aiming it at him this time.
"Nothing." Despite his obvious agitation, Estarossa's voice is business-like as he answers his captain. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"You sent him?" Zeldris shouts. "Why would you do that?"
Meliodas turns and begins walking towards the throne room. A moment later he feels the air shift a fraction, and steps out just in time to avoid being sliced by Zeldris' sword. He reaches out a hand, ready to summon his own again, as Zeldris bares his teeth. "What did you send him for?" he yells. "Do you know what he did?"
"I don't care," replies Meliodas.
The rage is crawling up Zeldris' neck, and the demon watches in a bit of amusement as he keeps himself from allowing his hate to bloom. "You should care if you are going in there." Zeldris jerks his chin in the direction of the door. "Whatever you wanted has destroyed everything."
Meliodas sighs. "Don't be so dramatic." Glancing at Estarossa he asks, "Fine, what did you do?"
"He killed the archangel!" Zeldris shouts, not even letting his brother open his mouth. "This idiot got himself caught and when Mael confronted him, he cut out his heart."
Blood pounds on the inside of Meliodas' head. He recalls their first and last confrontation, and his parting words—"the next time you see him, you have my full endorsement to reach inside his chest and rip out his heart"—make the memory bitter.
"It was self-defense," Estarossa says defiantly. "He attacked me."
Meliodas clenches his fist. He wishes nothing more than to kill them both right here in the hall. "You let yourself be seen," he snaps. "After I ordered you to be discreet."
"Then you share the blame in this!" Zeldris hollars. "Belialuin was none of your business! Even you should know that this will be nothing but more fuel towards the war!"
"Enough." His voice carries in the chamber, the threat on them both clear. Meliodas glares at Estarossa. "You are sloppy and let your petty rivalry get the better of you. As far as I'm concerned, you failed in your mission." Estarossa's jaw visibly tightens, his face draining of the color it wears from fighting, but Meliodas darts his eyes at Zeldris. "And you. I don't care about your orders or your archangel or anything else you want to blame on me. Belialuin was your responsibility. And from what I observed, anyone could come or go as they pleased."
It is the younger's turn to bristle, but neither answer as Meliodas leaves. They can fight each other for all he cares. Now he only wants answers.
The demon enters the throne room without waiting for an announcement. Inside he finds the familiar sight of the king on his throne, surrounded by simpering advisors. The room is filled with chatter that ceases when he shouts, "I need to speak with the king. Get out."
Everyone freezes, but no one moves. Meliodas sends a pulse of his magic in dark waves, tendrils curling from his body that act as whips. They move in lightning-fast streaks towards the demons that quickly scatter, one or two feeling the sting of his power as it leaves lacerations on their skin. Soon the room is empty as the last doors bang shut, and the prince turns his gaze to the hulking, silent mass that sits like a dark shadow on the throne.
Meliodas allows his power to remain filling the room with black stripes, keeping it firmly controlled by his will. He approaches the dais with deliberate strides that echo as his feet fall on the gray stone of the chamber. "I want answers," he says as he glares at the shape of his father.
The king, meanwhile, has yet to say a word; not even the scurrying of his servants had won his eldest son an acknowledgement. This irks Meliodas more than a rebuke—as if he can be ignored, cast aside! He stops at the bottom of the steps and looks upwards, unconcerned with the height advantage it gives the king. "Will you not speak?" he demands. "I said I want answers."
There is a long pause as they both wrestle for mastery of the moment. His father has no choice but to answer, Meliodas knows this for certain. No one could sit idly by as another asserts his will in their home, least of all a king. He knows his actions are childish and unnecessary, but has there ever been another way to garner the attention of the king of demons? He stares into the sunken eyes that disappear into the darkness, the black holes small and deep above the withered face and the wild beard that hang below. The king's power coils around him like a mist, covering the rest of his body. Whatever is underneath, whether the muscled body of a warrior or the shivering frame of an old man, Meliodas is determined to see his father stand this day.
"Do you not hear me?" he laughs darkly. "Tell me father, are you deaf or a dotard?"
He is answered at once with the force of Hellblaze. Meliodas sees it coming and reacts immediately, calling "Full Counter!" as he pulls the shortsword hanging across his back in the seconds it takes to reach him. The blast from his magic meeting the king's actually sends him skidding backwards, but the prince remains on his feet, looking up to glare at his father. The demon king has not moved at all, still staring downwards as if asleep. His attack did not harm him, even when sent back in a tenfold assault by the prince's ability; instead it disappears as it is absorbed back into the inky mass.
"I said, do you hear me, father?" Meliodas shouts. "I am here for answers, and you will tell me what I want or—"
Another attack, this one stronger, and Meliodas reacts without difficulty. He manages to brace himself and keep his feet planted, his clothes and hair billowing behind him with the force of the magic hurtling through the air. There is no one alive that could see with bare eyes the speed of the attack and counter-attack; this is the power of two gods facing one another, and the act is sending Meliodas' skin tingling in an exquisite way.
He opens his mouth and another blast of the Hellblaze comes. This time the king has the sense to split it into pieces. Meliodas moves quickly to meet each one, but two make it through, slamming into the prince with the force of a thousand soldiers. He grunts at the sudden pain, the pressure making his bones creak, but his own innate strength keeps his body from breaking. When the spell dissipates he is left panting and bruised, but whole.
Meliodas laughs. "The might of the demon king is weak in his old age. Your ears are intact and your magic still works; perhaps you're just craven?"
That receives a bit more reaction. The blasts of magic come fast and furious, and Meliodas finds himself fighting with effort now. The Hellblaze is sent back at the king again and again, tearing into the stone and jewels of the room, leaving pockets of the floor and ceiling ruined. The demon grins as he works, countering the magic with an unmatched speed, avoiding those that whip by before he can swing his sword. Still the king takes no damage, but that does not dissuade his work. His only goal is to survive with the answers he wants. Whether his father lives or dies is no concern of his.
That isn't true. It isn't, not entirely. If Meliodas kills the king then then throne will fall to him, along with the tedium of ruling a realm. The others will look to him for decisions in all things. It is more work than he is willing to give, as he prizes the freedom being a prince gives. He will need to take a wife and secure an heir or else his own head will be sought as a prize, and that means dealing with this marriage business—something he still does not know if he wants.
That sliver of unsurety gives the king the opening he needs. With a renewed vigor he sends dozens of dark bolts straight at Meliodas, who cannot hope to keep them at bay. They strike his body like white hot steel, driving into his flesh with an agonizing sear that scents the air with the smell of burning flesh. Meliodas finds himself pinned, the tendrils of dark magic holding steady as if they were truly blades, so the prince takes the chance to catch his breath, ignoring his limbs that are screaming in pain.
His hair clings to his face and neck with sweat and blood. It stings his eyes and his wounds as he struggles a bit, his limbs shaking with his efforts. Meliodas looks up with a smirk, determined not to show even an ounce of weakness—after all, the pain is nothing to the satisfaction of making his father try to kill him—but he nearly falters in his resolve when he sees the king is standing.
One hand is covered with a grotesque iron gauntlet, the other holds a sword that no one could lift. The king takes a step down, then another, his footsteps echoing into the throne room for the first time in a decade. The castle seems to groan with the act, but still Meliodas cannot be intimidated. Instead he calls out through gritted teeth, "Father, you didn't have to get up."
"Why are you here?" the king says. It is stronger and surer than their previous conversation, and Meliodas hardens his eyes. "I did not summon you. You are not ready."
"I want to know your plans," Meliodas says threateningly. "No more games. No more tricks. I want to know why I was promised to the queen's daughter. I want to know why you are waging a war while allying with your enemy. I want to know why your demons live and die for your glory if you have sold us all to the goddess clan."
The king regards him for a moment as Meliodas glares back. His look would have withered any soul to dust, but for the demon king, it is simply an amusement. Meliodas frowns as his father gives a humorless chuckle. "I've always admired your lack of ceremony," he says. "Gods such as we have no need for etiquette, do we, my son?"
"Tell me what I want to know."
"And reward your ridiculous tantrum? What sort of father would I be?"
He steps forward again, raising the sword. Meliodas swallows but does not wince, even when the blade comes within a hair's breadth from his chest. Despite the clever way the demon king has him pinned, not a single one of his hearts have been damaged at all. But the point of the sword now hovers above the first of his hearts, and the demon waits to see if this will be the end of him.
There is a prick on his skin, but nothing more; then the king brings the sword to his lips and tastes the drop of blood left on the edge. "Not ready," he murmurs, and inside the holes of his eyes Meliodas can see just a flash of something.
"What is this?" he hisses. "If you want to kill me, then kill me. Don't bore me first."
The king laughs again. "I would not kill you for the world. You are my son and my heir. You are my first thought of the day and my last thought of the evening."
Meliodas jerks against his binds, once more testing their strength. "What pretty words. Would you like to suck my cock while you're at it?"
"Oh, Meliodas," the demon sighs. "Perhaps one day you will grow up. Until then, I must treat you as the child you are."
"I am no child," snaps Meliodas. "Let me go and I will show you just what I am. Unless you are that frightened of my power?"
The king tilts his head, as if regarding him. "You stormed in here without invitation or permission, set to ruin my throne room, and now hurl insults at me despite my mercy in allowing you to live. Yes, Meliodas, you are a child."
Meliodas grunts but gives up the struggle, knowing he is bested. Still, he also knows the king will not kill him, so he calls out, "Answer my questions and I'll save you the grief of being in my presence."
"Answer one of mine first," the king says. "Have you bedded the goddess yet?"
It annoys him to no end to be asked such a base question; what difference does it even make? "You are more like Estarossa than I thought," Meliodas responds. "If you want to fuck a goddess then do so. Do not come to me for details."
"Don't think I haven't considered it," the king answers mildly. "I wanted that girl for you, but if you wait too long I will take the princess for my own bride."
The very idea of Elizabeth being touched by the king makes his stomach turn. The goddess—his goddess—would never survive such an encounter; even if her body healed her mind would be broken forever. There is a strange sense of urgency that boils within him to fight, protect, defend, and Meliodas identifies it as panic. Panic at what? At seeing Elizabeth harmed, at handing her over, and knowing she belongs to another? What difference does it make?
His thoughts are swirling in a confused mess, so Meliodas latches onto his father's words. "Why is the girl for me?" he challenges. "Why not Estarossa or Zeldris? Why a goddess at all? She cannot hope to survive as the queen."
Suddenly he is jerked forward, the stakes of the king's power still piercing his body acting like hooks to draw him closer to the dais. Meliodas pants as the torment intensifies. His skin burns with a fever as it tries to heal itself, but the magic is too powerful to be overcome; his wounds reopen with fresh blood, causing his head to swim a little as he is pulled closer and closer.
Finally he stops, held into the air so that he can feel the king's breath on his ruined body. He blinks to clear his vision and his mind, trying to figure out what his father is doing, hearing him murmur, "It was so much easier when you were a child. You were so filled with a nearly boundless viciousness, the repugnance of your soul savory enough to sustain me for years."
The words are confusing, and Meliodas fights his screaming mind for the words to ask what it means. But the king continues, "Now you force me to play these games. I told you before, I want the power of the goddess clan. I want Britannia. And you will get it for me one way or another."
"By marrying Elizabeth?" Meliodas rasps harshly. "If you want the goddess clan so badly then marry her yourself."
The king examines him, the creases in his forehead growing deeper. "Then what use would you be?" he snorts. "Or those brothers of yours? They are already useless; I could see them destroyed with no regrets. Once you take my place they are no longer needed." The king leans in to crow into his ear. "They are outside, both watching the door. One is praying for your life while the other prays for your death. Would you like to know which is which?"
"I don't care," Meliodas responds.
The king goes still. It is suddenly quiet, as though the room has slipped into a vacuum; Meliodas can no longer even hear his own beating hearts or the drag of the air from his lungs. It is an unnerving moment, but he cannot see exactly what the king is doing. He feels a pricking in his mind, despite being able to see his father's hands. "What are you doing?" he hisses.
"You are a liar, Meliodas," replies his father. "In the demon clan, we do not abide by liars." He pulls back, and their gazes lock. "Perhaps you do not know? That is interesting enough."
"Know what?" Meliodas roars in frustration. "Tell me the truth!"
"I can't," the king answers. "One cannot pick a fruit before it is ripe. Otherwise it will rot in half the time. But I can see…" His eyes sweep over his son's face. "I can see that you are starting to ripen again. It has been a long time, Meliodas. I thought that lust would be enough, but this… is a pleasant surprise."
The prince does not know what to say. What is the king referring to, exactly? He is tired of asking questions, and now that he knows his father either can't or won't give him what he wants to know, Meliodas wants to go and find another way. But then the king smiles and says, "Only fools allow themselves to fall in love, Meliodas."
"Love?" He says the word as though it is foreign. "I'm not in love."
"No, you aren't, not yet… But the seed is there, the spark, the start. I can see your soul and it will fill soon enough. You have been empty far too long, and I am tired of waiting. I will do what I must to have the power I need to win this war."
Shocked by his words, Meliodas is soundless when he feels himself being lowered to the floor. The talons of magic release him unexpectedly, and he falls to the ground with a thud of agony. Immediately his body goes to work repairing itself, the cells causing hot trails of sharp pain inside and outside of his skin. But he pulls himself up on his knees, glaring up at the king. "What seed?" he calls, pushing his voice past a raw throat and cracked lips. "What do you mean I am empty?"
The king has returned to his throne, his ancient body settling back into the chair. "You are dismissed," he says with a wave of his hand, and a moment later Meliodas finds himself in a bloody heap on the ground in Britannia.
Elizabeth wakes with a sharp rap on the door. She groans as she stretches, her body stiff from sleeping on the floor. The princess presses a hand to her pounding head, swallowing painfully from the soreness that still lingers in her throat.
The knock comes again and she scrambles as quickly as her body allows to stand. "Come in," she calls, wincing at the crack in her voice.
The door opens and Jelamet walks inside. Elizabeth is flooded with relief, tears immediately springing to her eyes—until she sees the hard expression on her face. "Jelamet," she whispers, taking steps towards her friend. "Jelamet, I am so sorry for your loss—I have so much to tell you—"
"Her Majesty has sent me to collect you," the goddess answers coldly and succinctly. "Please dress and come along promptly."
Elizabeth sucks in a deep breath. "Jelamet, please, please I can't—"
"Get. Dressed."
The look the goddess gives the princess is nothing less than menacing. Ice water fills Elizabeth's veins to see such callousness in her friend's eyes. Shaking, she nods and hurries to the closet to find something fitting to wear. As Elizabeth dresses, she furiously dashes away the tears that roll down her cheeks, slowly buttoning her dress with trembling fingers.
She knows her eyes are darkly lined and her hair is limp but Elizabeth does her best to remain as regal as she can when she emerges. Jelamet does not say a word but simply turns and opens the door, allowing the princess to step into the hallway before silently leading her through the castle.
Finally she cannot bear the silence anymore. Elizabeth reaches out to take her friend's hand, whispering, "Jelamet, please let me—"
The girl yanks her hand away with a viciousness Elizabeth would have never guessed. She whirls on the goddess and looks at her with fury. "Don't touch me," she hisses. "Don't even speak to me."
Elizabeth's lip trembles as she says, "Whatever you think I did, I swear I—"
"My father is dead. Because of you." For the first time the heartless shell begins to crack, and pain flashes across her expression. "I helped you leave the Celestial Realm because you asked me. I trusted you and you betrayed us all."
"I swear, I did not," pleads Elizabeth. "I don't know what happened to Mael."
"He was murdered by the demon prince you love so much," Jelamet nearly snarls. "He was killed in cold blood. That blood is on your hands."
Elizabeth's trembling increases, the blood draining from her face. "I'm so sorry—I didn't know—"
"Don't speak to me again." Jelamet looks down, her cheeks bright red. "Now let's go, Your Highness."
Her mind whirls with sorrow as they continue their walk in a stony silence. Elizabeth can feel her chest swelling with grief, first at the loss of the archangel, and now of her best friend. The terror she had felt from Belialuin and then from her mother is pushing as well, wanting to overwhelm her in anguish and send her reeling. But Elizabeth is determined to hold steady, to show her innocence in this awful act.
As she walks, however, a new sense of dread creeps through her mind. Meliodas had left them for hours, on an errand she did not know. Would he have done this? Did he return to Belialuin to face Mael, to kill him? She shivers to think that the demon she thought she knew would do such an act. Elizabeth had thought there was more to discover about the demon race, and that perhaps they were not the vicious beings she had been taught. But if Meliodas could go and do such a thing…
She nearly stumbles when another thought strikes: what if he had killed Mael for her? Mael had seen her in Belialuin, he was the only goddess other than Jelamet that knew she was there. If Meliodas had killed him to cover her secret, then his blood is on her hands.
The princess is quietly crying when they reach the temple. Many goddesses are gathered, and their accusing eyes on her makes Elizabeth wish she could disappear. The queen stands in her place in the center, standing next to a white sheet that covers a large figure.
Elizabeth turns to Jelamet once again, to offer her comfort and beg her to simply look at her, but the goddess turns away and moves to join her family at the side. Now alone, Elizabeth silently moves to the side, aware of the stares and whispers as she takes her own place for the ceremony.
She dares to glance up and to her relief, her mother is not looking at her. Without realizing it her hand moves to caress her throat, and Elizabeth closes her eyes with her grief and humiliation. No wonder her mother had lashed out at her so violently: they all believe Elizabeth is the reason for the archangel's death. Somehow she must tell them that she did not know, but her betrayal may be too great to be believed.
"Welcome," the queen says, and all but Elizabeth raise their eyes respectfully. "We gather in peace, soul to soul, within this sacred place to witness the sacred Rite of Passing for the archangel Mael."
The goddesses whisper his name, the murmur cresting for a moment before dying back into silence.
"Let us weave our circle so that our spirits may connect and send his soul to the sacred place, so that one day he may be returned to us."
Next they move, and Elizabeth finds herself jostled to the outside. Her arms wrap around herself as she steps into the circle, glancing up briefly and unsuccessfully to catch Jelamet's eye.
"Mother Earth and Father Sky, in the name of our clan and our gods, for all goddesses, we call upon you to guide this soul, to feed it with your abundance, to nurture it with rest, to bathe it in your beauty."
The queen places her hands on the sheet, smoothing it carefully and delicately. "I call to the guide and the guardian of the lands of the departed to lead Mael to the hidden realms. I beg you to welcome his soul and allow it to give the gods praise. We will praise you here with remembrance of love and duty."
Elizabeth wipes away her tears, listening to the familiar and ancient words. Silently she prays for Mael's soul to be delivered, and for the soothing of those left behind. Goddesses are light. Goddesses are grace, she whispers in her mind. Let Mael find peace. Let Jelamet forget her pain. Let my soul be forgiven.
When she opens her eyes, she is startled to see the queen glaring at her, the spark in her eyes frightening. Without turning her gaze the Supreme Deity concludes, "Let us now close the circle so the soul may depart in wisdom and love."
Elizabeth stares back, pleading with watery eyes, her hands clasped tightly. Her lips are trembling as her heart aches, but her mother gives no comfort. The others murmur their good wishes to the soul of the departed; then she watches as the queen steps back. There is a flick of her wrist and the body and cloth go up in a blue flame; moments later it is gone, as if it had never existed.
The goddesses give a collective sigh of release, their mourning eased by the ritual. The queen finally breaks her gaze from Elizabeth, dismissing her with a final derisive look before moving to speak to Mael's family. Jelamet is glaring at her viciously, and the princess turns away. No one speaks to her or offers her an escort. Elizabeth is alone.
Meliodas sits on a cliff overlooking the sea. It is calm here, and a good place to think, one he returns to when his mind is troubled. Or, at least, it is what he used to do; Meliodas has not had a puzzle to solve in at least a century.
With a stifled grunt he flexes his arms before leaning a bit to stretch his back. He is healing from the piercing darkness, but it is slow going as the attack was filled with the king's wrath. The demon had stayed in Britannia thinking Elizabeth would help the process along. However, he is sure now that she is not coming.
He looks at the sky and finds the Warrior hunting. He thinks of the lessons from his youth, as Chandler had taught him how to read the constellations and their stories of power and victory. The Warrior was a demon who had found and slain Lodi, the king of dragons. Meliodas had enjoyed that story, but much to his tutor's chagrin he had fancied himself as Lodi instead of the revered Warrior, jumping from the bannisters to attack those below with teeth and fire.
Chandler had been exasperated as always, but when he tried to chastise the prince Meliodas had insisted he was wrong. "After all," the young prince had said, smacking Chandler with a rod he had been using for his tail, "we remember Lodi's name and not the Warrior's. So he couldn't have been that great!" His tutor had no answer for that, so Meliodas was allowed to roam the castle as a little dragon, scaling the side of the walls and setting things on fire until the next game caught his eye.
He huffs to himself with the memory. His father had been right, he was born with more than his share of viciousness. Meliodas shivers with the remainders of his fever, watching in the bright starlight as his skin sews together under the fading burns and bruises. He vows to pay the king back for his savagery, no matter how deserved it is. He realizes just then that the king had never asked him what Estarossa was doing in Belialuin in the first place.
Once more he looks up at the Warrior, and another of Chandler's lessons comes to mind: for as the poets say, the warrior's most powerful weapons are patience and time.
Patience and time… two things he is sorely lacking. He still has no firm leads on the weapon, and now he must grapple with the emotional mixture that is causing one poor decision after another. Perhaps there is a connection, some power among the goddesses to soothe? He had never seen them do anything but deal death with a smile and a sword, but anything is possible. This is why he had wanted to meet tonight; the demon had decided to press her about her powers, and interrogate her more aggressively on her role within the clan, to use her sense of debt and gratitude to his advantage.
Meliodas is surprisingly disappointed that Elizabeth has made no disappearance in Britannia. Not only for his task and to heal his wounds; now he is worried that she met some fate for sneaking away. If he had known Mael had been killed, he would have never sent her back to the Celestial Realm alone.
Why do you care? his mind whispers.
I don't, he whispers back.
He doesn't care, he can't, he won't, no matter what his father had said, no matter how his chest is twisting and in the back of his mind he is trying to figure out a way to go and see for himself. Instead, Meliodas stands gingerly, stretching out his wings to take flight again. Gowther should have something to hurry along the healing, and then he can forget the goddess and go on with figuring out the mysteries that have been multiplying like the stars.
