In Which Arthur Comes To A Realisation (Or Several Really)
A/N: This chapter was written before Chapter 256, which is when [spoilers!] it turns out that Arthur did not, in fact, utterly destroy his adversaries. Therefore it was written as if he had , because we play fast and loose with canon in this bitch (I mean, we turned two demon lords into kids; what more do you want).
"Please unlock the door?"
Arthur grimaced as Meliodas's chuckle, audible even through the heavy oak, answered his question. "Sorry, Arthur, but you two have been dancing around each other for weeks. You need to talk." The sound of boot heels on the ground (Arthur took a minute to consider making a snide comment about his height, before sighing and shrugging it off; Meliodas used his short stature to his advantage and it was honestly more of a blessing to the Sin of Wrath than a curse. It certainly wasn't something he was self-conscious about) echoed, and the King of Camelot sank to the floor and wondered just how he'd gotten into this mess.
Well, he knew how, but it wasn't entirely his fault. In fact, it was mostly the fault of the tiny demon currently pressing himself into the corner of the room (for taking over his kingdom and hurting his people and Arthur if you go down that road you'll end up killing him, stop ), but... okay, so maybe he'd been acting weirdly around Zeldris, but that was because the very demon who'd terrorized his people so much was now five-years-old and distinctly terrified of him . And maybe he'd been avoiding him because whenever he looked at Zeldris all he could see was the proud tilt to his chin and the flat shadows of his eyes-and whenever he saw that, he itched to grab Excalibur from where it hung on his belt and strike.
Arthur sighed, pressing his head against the cool wood with a grimace. If only he'd been able to convince Merlin to change them back, he could've gone back to quietly resenting the demons in peace. But Merlin was as stubborn as a...well, as a boar when she wanted to be, and had pointedly ignored any attempt to appeal to her better nature, or even to her logical side. Arthur had learned long ago that if she wanted something to happen badly enough, she'd make it happen however she knew how. He (and the Sins, apparently) had just never considered all of this as being something she wanted.
But doesn't it make a little sense? a tiny voice whispered in his mind. No one in this tavern has ever really had the chance to be a child, except for perhaps Elizabeth. Maybe she's doing them a favor… Arthur shook his head a second later, frustrated. You need to stop siding with her all the time, he scolded himself, getting to his feet (he didn't miss the way that Zeldris stiffened at the sudden movement, but he ignored it-no plays towards his sympathetic side would work today, no sir, nuh-uh, not happening. End of story). If you can't stand up to your mentor, then how are you going to rule effectively? Get it together, Pendragon, come on. He knocked hesitantly on the door. "Er...Elizabeth?"
He wasn't even certain that she was there, but her soft laughter betrayed her position and he sighed with relief. Oh, thank the gods. "Um, do you have any...uh, suggestions?" He tugged fruitlessly at the doorknob. Please unlock…gods-damnit, of course it won't unlock, I could break it down but that would be rude, oh damn. Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Zeldris; he hadn't left the corner, but his eyes had brightened upon hearing Elizabeth's giggles. "Anything at all?" he added with some desperation, his voice coming out with a strangled gulp.
"If you're asking me to let you out, I'm afraid I can't." Her voice was more mischievous than he recalled it being, a soft hum of iron and electricity crackling under her mild tone. Why had he ever thought of her as less dangerous than the others? Why did anyone bother underestimating Elizabeth Liones now, when her steel was so clearly visible, her fire there like a great golden beacon that screamed "danger" if you so much as looked at her family wrong? Idiots, he thought, a bit proudly-he and Elizabeth had become quite close after the war (he'd always wanted a sibling, a proper sibling that looked out for you and cared for you, older or younger, and Elizabeth had laughed and called him her "brother-in-arms" enough times that they both believed it). There was a rustling noise like paper being shaken out, and Arthur blinked in surprise as a sheaf of parchment was shoved under the door, along with a small package of colored pencils. "Both of you, relax," her voice hummed a second later. "Everything will be fine."
"Elizabeth," Zeldris whispered, the pleading in his voice evident, and Arthur stiffened in surprise. It was the first word the demon had said to him all day, since Meliodas had put them in this incredibly odd situation, and he couldn't help but be startled as he noticed hope entering those deep black eyes, hope and fear and- love. One of the demons that had tried to kill Elizabeth now loved her as fiercely as everyone else who lived in this tavern, and gods, if that wasn't the perfect description for what Elizabeth could do then he wasn't sure what was. "Please."
The electric hum of mischief left her voice, and Arthur heard her sigh, a soft, sad sound. "If anything goes...wrong , I'll be right here." Arthur grinned ruefully at the carefully veiled threat as he heard her footsteps traveling away from the door. And she loves him back.
And he was never one to cross someone like Elizabeth when it came to love.
With a sigh, he scooped up the paper and pencils and carefully set them down within Zeldris's reach before sitting down across from him. Uncertainty and anxiety chased each other in circles in his brain as the Executioner reached for a slip of paper. What will he draw? What am I going to see? And then, illogically- what if he takes a pencil and stabs me in the eye with it? He tried to shake off the last thought, but soon other possibilities began crowding his mind, other ways that the Ten Commandments' "Piety" could murder him with the (suddenly frighteningly sharp) colored pencils laid out in front of them, other ways that blood could be spilled. He had no doubt that the child was still fast enough, still strong enough to kill him even in this state, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.
All there was was a rustling, sliding noise, and he opened one eye cautiously to see Zeldris settling back into his corner, the paper and pencils now just a bit closer to him. What… Suspicion and worry pounded at his head, but he shoved them back quickly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he's…better? He's definitely not the same person, but I didn't consider how far that might extend… "Thank you?" he tried, pulling a silver pencil free, and was rewarded with a tremulous smile, one that was surprisingly sweet . It's...cute. He's cute. "Do you want the rest?" he inquired, pushing the paper and the rest of the pencils toward him. "I only need one piece."
Zeldris started, shoulders tensing at the sound of Arthur's voice, and the young king resisted the urge to wince. Something was fundamentally different about this younger Zeldris, as though there was something missing -or something not yet there? "Only need one," he whispered, voice small and very soft-very young . Definitely not two-hundred-and-fifty-two years old. Arthur shook off the thought, sliding the paper and pencils close enough for him to grab. Green was picked up first, hesitantly, and then blue and yellow. No idea what that's going to be-or what I'm going to do, for that matter. Arthur stared down at the silver pencil, before grinning ruefully. Well, it's the same color as the stones in the throne room, so I might as well do that.
He set pencil to paper, and let his thoughts of home take him away.
The picture came to life in the page, swirling shades of silvery and gray building up the throne he'd fought so hard to gain. Arthur swept his pencil over the page again, carefully crafting Excalibur's hilt, before checking the sword itself for accuracy. The weight of the Holy Sword was familiar to him now, heavy, yes, but familiar, as if he'd been born to wield it. As far as he knew (as far as Cath had suggested, anyways, and a pang of grief struck him at the memory of the catlike creature), he had been. He ran his fingers over the scabbarded blade, taking comfort in its presence, before carefully sketching out the cracks in the floor around where the sword was embedded. His thoughts drifted to that first moment of true kingship, when fury and grief and pain and betrayal had combined and allowed him to pull the sword free, given him the strength to battle his idol Holy-Sword-to-magic (if only for a few moments). A small, sad smile crossed his face. What would I give for a different ending? For it never to have had to happen at all?
Almost anything . Arthur closed his eyes, the room spinning to life around him- Cath hurt, Meliodas a traitor, surrounded by enemies, no allies no saviors no chance -before opening them with twinge of regret. This wouldn't be nearly as awkward if that hadn't happened . His gaze drifted from his own drawing to the surprisingly colorful bit of paper that Zeldris was steadily scribbling away at, the blue pencil clutched tightly in his small fist. A blue sky dotted with misshapen clouds rose above a shaky green hill, a crooked shape drawn carefully in brown and black. That's... "You drew the tavern?"
Zeldris flinched back at the sound of his voice, the blue pencil clattering to the floor as his black eyes darted to the picture and then up to his own, wide with panic. "I-I-is it-I didn't-"
Oh, shit. "No, don't worry," he tried, reaching forward, but Zeldris scurried backwards with a whimper, eyes huge with terror as they landed on Arthur's sketch of the throne room. Terror. The demon who had crushed his kingdom single-handedly was terrified -of him. Or...no, not just him, he realized, watching as Zeldris tried to make himself smaller, knees tucked into his chest, eyes fixed on the drawing. Of the castle-of Excalibur? Guilt swamped him as he recalled exactly why he'd be afraid ( blood soaking the floor, Excalibur flashing out, slashing his back open-) .
"F-Father-Father c-can hear ." The words were halting, barely audible, soft as shadow and shaky as sunlight. Zeldris's fingers found their way into his hair, pale skin stark against silky black locks as his grip tightened, the child gasping as he squeezed his eyes shut. "F-Father can hear and he's g-gonna take m-m-me a-and-and g-get him out of m-my head I don't w-want him in there g-g-get out-"
The Demon King. That's what this is about? Rage, sudden and furious and protective and terrifying thundered through Arthur, and he gritted his teeth against the intensity of the emotions. That fucking bastard …it's a good thing he's dead, or else I'd have to go back and finish the job. "Zeldris," he whispered, reaching for the child in an attempt to console him. Instead of calming, though, Zeldris shrieked , a raw noise of fear and loss and hurt, before diving under the bed and out of sight.
And it was only when Arthur's fingers (quickly, instinctively, so fucking naturally) came to rest on Excalibur's hilt that he figured out why. He took his hand off the hilt so swiftly, the metal suddenly seeming blisteringly hot. He fiddled rapidly with the scabbard, dropping the Holy Sword to the ground and stepping away from it in growing horror. He'd begun carrying the blade around after the war as a symbol to his people, a symbol that they would recover, that he could protect them this time, that everything might be alright. He'd shown up at the Boar Hat with that fucking sword every goddamn day, never considering what it might mean to the people who lived there (Meliodas had seemed normal, if a bit wary). Estarossa was always stiff around him, though, eyeing the blade with a hint of fear, but Zeldris...Zeldris had been nervous when he neared, all color leeching from his face when the sword was within range. And how could he blame him? Arthur had fucking flayed his back open, cut the demon's mentor in two right in front of him and then he'd gone on to talk about peace and pardons while parading around the weapon that had done it like he was some kind of saint . No wonder Zeldris had bolted-the last time Arthur had been so close to him, he'd been trying to slice him to pieces. Granted, he'd ended up not doing much damage at all, but watching someone impale themselves on a blade-a blade that then drew one of the most dangerous of the Sins to the battlefield in order to save them-wasn't something a child should've had to handle, could've had to handle. They weren't built for that sort of experience, and when it haunted them as much as it clearly haunted Zeldris…
The fact remained that he hadn't done so without reason, of course, but he'd still done it, and he'd carried his sword around a child who a. had all the memories of his older self lodged in his brain, b. thought mostly in terms of battle and was always jumpy and looking for the next attack, and c. was a child with no way to defend themselves if he decided to finish the job. "Damnit," he whispered shakily, running his hands through his hair. "Damnit, I…" But what could he say? I'm sorry for not realizing that I was subconsciously threatening you this entire goddamn time? I'm sorry for forgetting that I cut you open with the same sword I marched around with? I'm sorry I brought the very weapon that caused so much pain into your home and then ended up having to be locked in a room with you and that weapon? He kicked Excalibur away before kneeling, hesitantly peering under the bed. A quivering mass of rippling dark magic shielded Zeldris from view, but he could just make out the curve of small, pale fingers permeating the shell as choked sobs wracked his small body.
Bizarrely, he was reminded of himself when he was small, nursing a broken arm after the first time Kay had tried to "train" him (he'd long since figured out that his jealous foster brother had been out for blood, but to a parentless six-year-old with no friends, everything Kay had done had seemed nearly godlike). Merlin had appeared in the middle of his room with no warning and he'd screamed in terror, racing past her and into the closet, slamming the door and clinging to the knob in a feeble attempt to keep it sealed against the intruder. She hadn't followed, though. Instead, she'd talked to him through the door, telling him stories and making small talk until he'd been calm enough to emerge.
Arthur closed his eyes tightly, leaning his back against the footboard of the bed. Stories and small talk. Well, the latter was clearly not an option, and he hadn't had nearly enough experiences to have a personal story that wouldn't result in a further breakdown. But...fables, maybe? No, no fables...myths! Myths might be good, I know a lot of those-and legends, too! "Once upon a time," he began hesitantly. Which one, which one...oh, that one might be good. "Once upon a time," he repeated more confidently, "there was a secret warrior race dedicated to protecting the humans of the world, destined never to be seen or thanked, but to always be their silent guardians, and they hid their children in a secret country so that their race would be safe forever. Except one warrior was not content to stay in the realm…"
Arthur told the tale of Risk, running through the old legend of the warrior girl who appeared to protect the humans when Holy Knights could not from memory. He'd always loved the tale of the Valkyrie and the name she'd taken for herself, especially the final chapter of her epic tale, in which she fought the monstrous Asmodei. He paused after Risk's Tale, glancing under the bed; the magic he sensed no longer seemed as volatile, but Zeldris was still huddled beneath a thick shield of shadow.
After Risk, he spoke of the Orchid, a venomous assassin who turned on her masters, melting the castle down to ash with an acidic potion of her own making, and after the Orchid, he told the story of the Rider, a man who escaped with a dragon from a gladiator ring they were both trapped in and returned to ravage slavers with his draconic partner. After the story of the Rider, he began the tale of the Six Gods and their sealed-off sister, the goddess of ruin, before realizing that that was maybe a sensitive topic and switching tracks to tell a story of their children, the First Knights.
Halfway through the story of the daughter of the fire goddess, he heard a rustle from under the bed. Hope rose in his heart, but he kept speaking, keeping an even tone as he continued on with the tale of Pyrris-and that hope was quickly replaced with joy and fear as Zeldris's trembling form crawled out from under the bed and directly into his lap, curling up there. I can feel his heartbeats, Arthur realized after a moment, eyes widening. Seven pulses thrummed in quiet tandem, as fragile as a bird's, and he took a shaky breath, hesitantly running his fingers through Zeldris's hair.
This isn't the person who destroyed my home. That person was broken and burnt so many times that he was reshaped into something durable, dangerous, but hollow and hurt.
This is someone...new.
This is someone who has a chance to be who he could've, should've been-someone who deserves a chance.
Someone who I won't hurt anymore. Never again.
(Outside, Meliodas and Elizabeth twined their fingers together, clinking their steins of ale against each other proudly as they shared a kiss.)
