I initially planned this update being the more humorous Trisha chapter but then I hit a block and this happened. So, technically speaking, this was all the block's fault. This is set in the month-long timeskip between chapters 177-178/season 2, episode 20

... Well, enjoy!

As it had been since the nightmare had begun, the skies were choked with ash and soot and the air smelled of blood and death, thick enough that even their most experienced sometimes choked at the scent of it. In the aftermath of yet another raid, yet another wave of gray demons sent to batter at their walls, yet another of the territories under Liones protection ransacked, yet another series of horrific, horrifying events they just couldn't stop no matter how much they tried, there wasn't a soul alive who didn't feel the strain. And Gilthunder, acting as the escort for the scant few they'd been able to save during the last demon raid, felt it worse than almost everyone else.

The village they'd been in had once housed just a little over five hundred. They'd only (barely) been able to save fifteen. They did their best, they always did but it was too little, too late (like it always was, these days). They were overworked, overstretched, and just so far out of their leagues, it wasn't even funny, more so because he was absolutely sure that—

He could do this better. If he were alive, he could've saved them, he could've driven away all the demons and—

It wasn't the time for it and Gilthunder knew but he couldn't help but think it as he trundled along with the mangled few they'd gotten out from the meatgrinder that had once been renowned as one of the most scenic places to visit in all of Britannia. Fifteen. They'd saved fifteen out of five hundred and those fifteen weren't anywhere near in good shape. He himself had badly burnt his arm blocking a gray demon's kamikaze strike. And yet, this was a better result than most. This was actually one of their more successful missions. This.

It makes him sick that this was what counted as a victory these days and he has no one to blame but himself for his weakness and the Commandments for everything they'd done, both to him and to Britannia as a whole.

(In his ideal world, he could stop the Ten Commandments, end them, make them pay for all they'd done with blood and steel.

In his ideal world, he wouldn't have died the way he did.

In his ideal world, he would never die.)

He closes his eyes and forces his thoughts to the situation at hand. "We're here," he calls out to the tents that now lined the road to Liones and the evacuation centers in the capital proper. "From Izema. I've brought fifteen, all injured."

As usual, the healing tents were close to overflowing. Given the state of emergency, acting in their capacity as the overall heads of the druids of Britannia, Jenna and Zaneli had called on druids from all the corners of Britannia to work in conjunction with the kingdom knights to aid in the fight against the Demon Clan—yet despite the best efforts of the hundreds of healers who'd complied with the order, there was never enough of them to fully handle the constantly growing number of those... afflicted, for the lack of a better term, by the Commandments' attacks.

Yet, for all the strain they had to be feeling, so far, all of the healers he'd met had remained nothing less than absolutely professional. At his call, three figures dressed in the distinctive cowled, white robes of a recognized healer came rushing to the cart behind his horse, their staves already aglow with the beginnings of healing spells.

"Thank you. We'll take them from here," one of them told him briskly, though her gaze was fixed on her patients as her companions began to chant, their staves all pulsing in time with their incantations. "Good work. You should get some rest." Then, without looking away: "The Diamond Tent has been reserved exclusively for you knights. My colleague, Tana, will see to your injuries there. Get that arm of yours looked at before it falls off. Some of the other knights are already there."

"Certainly," he says tiredly. "Thank you."

In truth, when he heads off to the so-called Diamond Tent, he has no intention of seeing a healer. His arm wasn't that bad and he had no intention to waste anyone's time or energy. They just didn't have the luxury to spare healing minor wounds, not when the healers were so overworked, there were so many who still needed saving, and there was just never enough of them to go around.

Never enough. Just... there was never enough of them to go around. Whether they be knights or healers or anything in between, there was never enough. There hadn't been since—

—This wasn't the time to be thinking about that.

The only difference between the so-called Diamond Tent and all the rest was the Holy Knight's sigil emblazoned on the entrance, stark against the white canvas. Aside from that, it was the same as all the rest. Inside, it was stuffy, the air thick with the scent of blood and sweat. A number of cots were set up within and, as expected, more than one was occupied by his fellow knights, some of whom he could recognize. There was Jericho, dozing fitfully in a camp chair next to an unconscious Gustaf, and Marmas, working out the dents from his armor. Howzer was nowhere in sight. He tries to hope for the best but it's been difficult to stay optimistic ever since that day, two absolutely hellish weeks ago. If even he could fall—

—out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly spots a diminutive figure with a head of fluffy, dandelion-yellow hair, two strands going up in distinctive cowlicks.

His breath caught in his throat. He doesn't realize he's moving until he's already right behind that small, familiar figure, all but lunging as what felt like actual hope soars in his chest, not at all marred by the disbelief that he could be alive, that it could actually be—

"Meliodas?!"

The figure turns and it's—

"Excuse me?"

... not him.

Of course, it wasn't.

The stranger stood at around the same height as his lost idol of a mentor and had the same head of fluffy, dandelion-yellow hair. But the face, voice, and figure were all decidedly feminine, and her eyes, though similar in shape, were closer to blue than green. While she was small, she was unmistakably older, perhaps at around her thirties. Her robe and staff, symbols of her status as a druid healer, further highlighted the differences between them. From behind, the hair had looked identical but now that she was facing him, he could see the braid that fell over her shoulder, solidly blonde at first glance but threaded with silver at the second. She was not him. Of course, she wasn't.

Meliodas was dead. He already knew that. Why would he even think otherwise? He'd seen it for himself. His old friend had died, he hadn't been able to do anything but watch, and now the world had gone to hell and he was just, as he'd been with his father and all the tragedies that followed, too little, too late.

He's so caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn't realize she's speaking until moments later.

"—I'm sorry, sir; I hadn't noticed your arrival," she was saying, her voice soft. Her gaze was concerned as she examined him, her staff glowing as she tapped it to his injured arm then to the bruises on his face, healing them instantly. Even reflecting the golden light of her magic, her eyes remained unmistakably blue. "Are you alright, now?"

No.

"Y-yes," he manages. "I'm sorry—please, excuse me."

Eyes burning, he turns on his heel and flees the stuffy confines of the tent without looking back. He can only hope that she didn't take offense, that she didn't hear the quiver in his voice when he'd spoken because—

Nothing was alright.

—He doesn't think he could've kept it together if he stayed there even a second longer.

"Was that Gilthunder? What's up with him?"

Ban had barely entered the Diamond Tent when Gilthunder had barreled past him. He didn't look hurt or anything, so he wasn't too worried, but still. They weren't exactly close but he owed it to him, at least, to look out for him.

"I'm not sure, sir," an unfamiliar voice replies. "He never told me his name. I have healed his wounds, however. Are you here for healing as well?"

His lips twitch up in a smile he doesn't feel as he turned to face the stranger. "That's a good one. You new here or something—" Then he gives a start as he fully took in the sight of her. For just a heartbeat, he'd thought it was—but no, of course not. But at the same time...

"It is my first time in this area," she was saying, seemingly oblivious to his blatant curiosity. "But I've been a healer for many years if that's what you're asking."

"... I recognize you," he says suddenly, making her blink at the non sequitur. "You're... one of the Captain's kids, aren't you? Your dad, his name's Meliodas, isn't it?"

She stares at him with open surprise. "You know my father?" she asks softly. "And... of me?"

He nods. "He's shown me pictures. You're... Trista, right?"

"Trista is my younger sister. I am Tristana," she corrects. She didn't sound offended. Her expression was curious as she looked at him anew. "You may call me Tana if you would prefer it. And you are correct. My father is indeed the warrior, Meliodas, and my mother, the druid, Alyzabeth. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir...?"

"Ban," he says, maybe a beat later than he should've. He'd been staring... "The Fox's Sin of Greed, Ban."

It hadn't been difficult to recognize her. After the funeral, whenever they drank alone together, the Captain loved to show off pictures of all of his kids, both living and dead, boasting about them and their many achievements, a list that included things from inventing longevity potions to learning how to tie shoes at age four. He pretended to complain back then but they were good memories. Some of his best.

Now, they only make him hurt.

"How are you acquainted with my father?" she asks, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Your dad was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, same as me. He was my Captain," he says brusquely. Then, with some hesitation: "... And he was my best friend."

For all the good that did for him.

"Ah, I've heard tales of that group. Although I hadn't known my father was the same Meliodas as the Dragon's Sin," she muses. "It's been quite a while since I've last seen him. Is he well?"

... fuck.

"He's dead, kid," he tells her bluntly, voice bitter, knuckles turning white. Fucking hell, his kids didn't know yet. In all the chaos that happened, he'd never even thought about—shit, how the hell were they going to tell them? He'd promised him he'd look out for them all those years ago but when the time came, he forgot they even— "Sorry you had to hear this from me."

All the blood seemed to drain from her face. Earlier, he'd thought she looked older than her dad but now... she looked like a kid. A lost kid. "I... are you sure?" she asks weakly. "Please, are you certain...?"

He tries to sound gentle but the pain, the grief, spills into the words, makes them sound sharp as knives. "Saw it with my own eyes. I couldn't stop it."

She took in a deep, shuddering breath, knuckles turning white around her staff as she seemed to try and recompose herself. He lets her. If there was anything he could do for her, he would do it. He'd promised as much, long, long ago.

"How did it happen?" she asks, at last. "My father... how did he die?"

Like a lamb to slaughter. He was butchered. I couldn't save him. I couldn't stop them. I'm sorry.

"There was a fight," he says, instead, all in one breath. "The Ten Commandments, all of them. He didn't make it."

Tristana closed her eyes. "Oh," she whispers. "Oh, Father..."

Even now, after all the death and despair he's seen since the Ten Commandments had begun their takeover in full, the pain in her voice makes him feel raw inside all over again, makes the guilt and grief burn hot in his throat. He wants to say something, anything, to make her feel better but he can't find the words to say.

So, instead, he says: "I'm sorry, kid. I tried to save him."

Despite everything, despite her having been the one to have been told she'd just lost her father, she's the one to reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you," she says, her voice soft and pained but gentle and without recrimination. Her hand was a comforting warmth on his shoulder. "Thank you, for trying."

It's not your fault.

I don't blame you.

Thank you, for trying.

He can't goddamn take it. It's fucking hysterical, that's what it was. He laughs and laughs until his chest is aching from the burn and the others in the tent start staring at him, either out of concern or irritation, he neither knows nor cares, but he can't help it. His best friend is dead, he failed to make a damn difference when he came to save him, and here was his kid, who didn't know her dad died weeks back, fucking absolving him of his sin and even thanking him for trying. It was just so... so typical.

I can't believe this. Fucking hell, Captain. You, your kids... one of a kind, all of you. You're all unbelievable

"You really are his kid, aren't you?" he has to ask. "You're just like your dad. And I don't mean that as a compliment," he adds gruffly, though without any heat.

She smiles at him. This was the first time they've met but the expression was a familiar one and it makes him hurt. "You aren't the first to tell me that. But thank you."

He closes his eyes, looks away from that smile. "Have you heard from the others?" he asks, instead. "Your siblings, are they safe?" I swore I would protect them. For all the good it did to him.

She closes her eyes for a moment before answering. "I've heard from some, not all. I know that Tam and Trisha have closed access to the school and that Tristen's grandmother took him into hiding, but I've yet to hear from anyone else. I'm sure they're fine, however," she adds, with a faint little smile. "Father raised us knowing to defend ourselves."

He snorts a laugh, this time mostly genuine. "That sounds like the Captain I know," he says. "What about you, kid?"

She smiles as she raised her staff, setting its tip alight with a small ball of sparkling light. "Though I cannot fight as I know my father could, I can defend myself. My mother had been a powerful druid and I'm sure you're well aware of my father's capabilities." Then she raises her eyes to his level. "I know I would never last on the battlefield but I will help you to the best of my abilities. I am an adept healer.

He doesn't mean to but he actually smiles. "I know," he says, almost fondly. "The Captain bragged about you for hours, once. He's really proud of you."

"I know," she says, smiling, eyes twinkling. If it weren't for the color, he could almost pretend that—but no, of course not. "He'd say it all the time." Then, she pauses, looking at him carefully from the corner of her eye. The expression was so heartbreakingly familiar, it made him want to scream, to break things, to go beg forgiveness.

Instead, he just says: "What is it?"

"Lord Fox's Sin," she begins, and no, by all the creators of their shithole of a world, she shouldn't be calling him like this.

(She should be cursing his name. Her dad died because he failed him)

"Just call me Ban," he interrupts gruffly, eyes scrunched shut. "Any brat of the Captain's can call me by name."

"Sir Ban, then," she corrects. "You know of me, correct?"

"He showed me a bunch of pictures of all of you," he says, with a nod. "It was hard to get him to shut up about you all, once he got going."

She looks down. "You do not know how unusual that is," she says quietly. "You must understand, he normally keeps us a very well-guarded secret. He must have trusted you deeply."

He snorts. "For all the good that did him," he says bitterly.

"And I'm sure it was a lot," she interjects. She meets his gaze evenly when he looks at her, her blue eyes calm and unyielding and, so similar to her father's, he has to look away. "Sir Ban, despite how I may seem, I am far older than you may think," she says, expression solemn. "I—forgive my presumption but I'd already known my father for decades even before you were born."

He barks a laugh. "I can guess. What are you trying to say, kid? Get to the point."

She smiles, though the expression was a sad one, an understanding one, a heartbreakingly familiar one. "Sir Ban, I have not seen my father in many a year but I'm certain that whatever happened, he wouldn't have blamed you."

He stops.

He thinks of that awful day, that awful moment, when, at the peak of his power, his body burning with stolen strength, all he could do was watch as the seventh sword pierced his best friend's heart and the light faded from his eyes

He thinks of the fucking corpse Elizabeth, heartbroken, grieving, and gods-damned delusional, insisted on keeping with her in the Boar's Hat, lain out over what had once been its living owner's bed, a body repaired but lifeless and dwarfed by its own bed-sheets.

He thinks of the day when they'd reunited after he'd left for the Fairy King's Forest, before it all went to hell, when he understood he'd been forgiven even before he'd begun to apologize, when, without once referring to it directly, his friend had let him know he cared about him.

And he thinks of how it felt back during the moment of the incident, when he'd stood over his already battered friend as he was bleeding out, when he readied himself to try and kill him for Elaine, his friend not once looking at him with hatred. Only understanding.

His eyes burn for the first time since the week after the sight of his best friend's corpse had been seared into his eyelids and he has to leave because he knows that if he sees her looking at him again like that, with that same understanding, he won't be able to handle it.

"I know," he says bitterly. "He was a damned good friend."

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves, and if he's shaking, she does not comment. She only watches as he disappears from her field of vision. He never once looks back.

"He is a damned and good man, that is very true," she whispers in his wake, hands clasping together around her healer's staff. "And I know he wouldn't have even thought of blaming you."

Then she releases a sigh, looking up to the ceiling as if hoping for a sign.

"Once he comes back, I'll make sure to tell him to let you know that, Sir Ban, because I'm sure you're a damned good man, too."

Fun fact: Tana's mother is the same Alyzabeth as in my oneshot Stagnation. The reason she and Meliodas had left her druid clan was that Alyzabeth had gotten pregnant with Tana. Complete accident but one they were very happy about.

Alyzabeth would die within the year of Tana's birth. Meliodas was completely out of it when he did what he did. Merlin would stay with them even after he'd come back just to make sure he wouldn't relapse and because Tana grew up with Merlin around, she was told of her mother's curse very early on. The guilt for doing what he did when Tana was there and needed him nearly ate him alive and, in this universe, he hasn't repeated it since. Out of the kids he has, though she doesn't really remember, she's the only one with the "privilege" of having gone without both parents for any length of time.

Anyways, all feedback's appreciated and I hope you have a nice day