Chapter Text
The champion rallies the crowd having finished his trial of the goddess amber first with barely a wound. He had entered with nothing but a stick, just as the others had, and although his clothes are burned, his skin is unmarked- giving his species away to those paying closer attention. He stands before the cave of training, Ishtar’s valley full of spectators, but it’s the Druids closest along with a small girl around ten years old with dark hair that notice. “A demon.” The priestess hisses, alerting the royal family beside her. The king and the lady of honor, his lovely daughter with snow-white hair and a bosom unlike he’s ever seen before, study him closer in response to the proclamation.
After providing his name, he pays no mind after simply gracing the lot of them with a grin before soaking in the cheers. The young man searches the crowd, only pausing in his waving when he sees those he is looking for. Chandler, beside Cusack, and his younger scowling brother between the two older men. He nods to them, indicating he will accomplish their goals, the first obstacle has been cleared. With this win he can free his demon brethren and somehow the key to do so is with the death of the princess, the chosen Goddess Apostle of this decade.
Of course, with only the four of them left the history is a little blurry and it isn’t like they had a guide book on how to revive their lost. All he knows for sure is the Goddesses mass murdered his people, sacrificed them to build this world and he will right that wrong, no matter the cost. It’s all he’s thought about since Chandler and Cusack found him and his brother, starving on the streets. They saved them, showed them the way, taught them everything they know.
“Meliodas! The Hero of Britannia!” The blonde druid priestess who hissed his race moments ago steps up, her staff raising into the air and just as the people below start to quiet the clouds open above and a soft misting drizzle begins. He turns to the druid Priestess, satisfied with the sour look on her face knowing the rules prevent her from stopping him as tradition dictates, fate decides who wins the trial.
“Jennah.” The King steps forward, angling his shoulders to stand between the Priestess and the crowd at his back. “This cannot happen! The darkness, and my daughter’s life, is in the balance. To grant him this, the consequences-”
“Stop.” The voice is like dancing chimes in a summer breeze, and in the cold drizzle, Meliodas feels warm. He looks to the sound, finding the Goddess Princess herself stepping forward. Her hips sway and her eyes find his for the first time. They are blue, like the sky on the rare clear days their ruined world has. He is one of the lucky ones, he’s seen the sky three times in his life, but the faceted sparkling in her puts those memories to shame and the only thought that breaches the haze he’s fallen under is how lovely she is to look on. “Continue the ceremony. Fate has chosen.”
Bartra is a strong king, Meliodas has seen this before but as the King stiffens and steps back he wonders if he would have put up more of a fight if this princess had been his real daughter. The Apostles are always given the title of princess and raised with every luxury. Any semblance of pity over her father not fighting for her to live is replaced with scorn at the thought of how easy her life must have been, while he struggled, fought, and was molded so harshly under the forge fires of his own surrogate fathers.
Only the barest hint of kinship forms, as he knows this mission is a suicide one and his fathers raised him for this slaughter. No one has ever returned from the wastes and it is his task now to escort her across them. Their fathers know they are going to their deaths, yet all parties are silenced so easily. He doesn’t break their eye contact as she stares into him, as if asking him a question, and as Jennah begins her speech neither of them is listening. Something intense sparks between them, he watches as her breathing shallows, feeling his own chest close up before opening as if something inside is trying to reach out.
“Meliodas.” The Druid’s voice is bordering chastisement and he shakes his head to focus on the priestess, and the ceremony he’s been training to fool his entire life. “I will ask again.” Her tone is firm, harsh, “Do you accept the task of protecting the Goddess Apostle, Princess Elizabeth, with your life, to deliver her to the Celestial Temple where she may continue her duty and save us all?” Meliodas swallows, slivers of darkness growing in his eyes as he smirks knowingly.
“I do,” he says, knowing it’s supposed to be a vow but refusing to give his words any clout, nor really think about what he agreed to or the way she phrased it. The crowd cheers but his black orbs zero in on Princess Elizabeth and he takes great pleasure in the parting of her lips paired with the slight flush that dusts her pretty cheeks.
“The world’s fate is in your hands, Hero,” Jenna finishes, rising her staff and the clouds above swirl creating a vortex over them all. Elizabeth turns to the dark-haired child, bending to speak to her before kissing her forehead, the girl’s brown eyes filling and spilling over with tears. The winds are too harsh for him to make out the words she speaks to the child, then she turns to her father and falls into his embrace, obviously soaking him in for the last time.
Elizabeth looks brave as she strolls forward but this close, Meliodas can see her eyes shining and her bottom lip barely quivering. They stand face to face, her about a half a head taller but she is thinner and appears fragile with her emotions shining. He scowls at her when a single tear escapes, dismissive as he turns to their next destination. The gate of the tower on the edge of their territories, the wasteland's entrance is through there.
The great scourge, the wound left from a war three thousand years past, has not calmed. The vortex above funnels, reaching down before twisted to touch the tip of the tower Jennah points to with her staff, the gate before them. “You may enter the tower for supplies and your sacred weapons. Farewell, good luck, and be mindful.” The priestess’s voice rises over the deafening winds and they both turn to the stone tower reaching into the air attached to the border wall that keeps those inside safe. The building is three stories high with a point at the top, and not a single window.
Elizabeth strolls forward with her shoulders back, her head high and he follows, expecting her to shake or collapse, but she doesn’t, nor does she look back as she reaches the wooden doorway of the stone column. The open back of her tight outfit draws his eye and he looks greedily over her bare flesh.
She enters, almost proudly and a few paces after, he steps in too. The stone walls curve, the ceiling sloping up like a dome and the rotunda floor shines with an inlay of luminescent stone that loops in a jagged triskelion shape. The doors close behind him on their own with a snap that rings with finality sealing off the winds, the silence startling to the point that his spine straightens, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“It’s this way,” Elizabeth murmurs, pointing to an open archway to his right and he warily steps forward to look down it. The hall is short but the room just behind that makes his heart race and his excitement grows. Blades, bows, and spears line the wall he can see, hanging on the stone to showcase the various sizes and styles. He is drawn in, walking that way with sure footing, only pausing to read the words above the entrance slowly as he is out of practice with the written word, ‘Sacred Treasures’. It’s rumored that each weapon forged here has an innate power, one that is awakened specifically for its master.
The entire room glints with metal, stone and sharp edges. It’s a dream come true for Meliodas to have his own magical weapon, one that suits him. He passes the wall of heavy weapons, barely giving a glance to the spears and ranged bows, his eye is on the swords and he stands before the wall in awe of all the choices.
He’s so enthralled he doesn’t notice Elizabeth has taken to his side, that her gaze is searching the same wall. It isn’t until he hops up, snagging a short sword with five perfect circles cut out of the center of the blade that he realizes she is so close. “That’s Lostvayne.” Her soft voice reaches him while so deep into his mind. “It’s been here for thousands of years. It’s one of the most powerful pieces but it’s always overlooked due to its size.”
Meliodas steps back, slashing it through the air and tossing it from one hand to the other, finding its weight perfect, its length suitable to his stature. “You’ve followed your instincts,” she notes, and he finds her slight praise brings him a bit of contentment. He dislikes it, frowns at the effect her voice has on him but figures it must be her latent magic.
To calm himself he lines up behind her and with a few slashes of his sword is happy to deduce the right angle it will take to slice her throat with his ‘Sacred Treasure’. He even snickers to himself how foolish these people are to give him the very weapon he will use to destroy them. It takes him another ten minutes of testing out his blade for him to realize she’s still staring up at the wall of swords, seemingly having not decided herself.
Just as he’s about to speak up, she points. He follows where she indicates seeing a winged sword, it’s blade jagged and shaped like a feather with a hilt of shining silver that ends with a rounded blue sapphire almost as captivating as her eyes. Two little sharp feather ornaments decorate where the handle meets the blade. Just looking at it makes him uneasy, knowing the magic within is opposite his own and will do some heavy damage if it’s turned on him. His eyes narrow and she has the decency to flush.
“It calls to me,” she defends softly, but the harshness to his anger smooths as she arches her back and two sets of pearl white wings erupt from her back, explaining why it’s open. He’s never seen it before, only heard rumors of those descending from Goddesses having inherited some abilities and he wonders what else she can do.
Elizabeth stretches, prying the sword from the wall and she glides down, her toes stretching in her black shoes to tap to the stone floor once more. “Is it too long?” She asks, extending it out before her and he scowls, eyeing her disdainfully while wondering why she would want his opinion on such a despicable sword.
Silently, he steps away, curiously looking around and wondering if all cities are stocked this well. With just one of these weapons he could have made a mint and looking at his chosen treasure now he knows he’ll never have to live off the swill and crumbs he’s accustomed too. He may love the weapon already, but his priority is to kill the princess in order to free the demon clan and live comfortably and peacefully afterward for the remainder of his days. If he lives. He huffs, glaring at the mural painted above of goddesses uniting with the other races.
Demons are omitted in the piece, still treated as undesirables to this day.
“Supplies are this way.” The princess silently toes around him, pulling a paper from her side satchel with a little heart clasp on the front that shifts as her hips do. “I have a map, it’s marked with each of the safe places to stop between jaunts. We have to make it to the temple by the full moon and deviating from the marked path is dangerous, deadly.”
He snorts, following her as they enter the circular entrance once more, going opposite the weapons room. As they cross the room, Meliodas slows to curiously look down the final unexplored hall seeing that it leads to a heavy metal door with a large bar across it, unlit sconces along the walls.
When Meliodas catches up to Elizabeth, a room of dried foods, waterskins, bags and sleep sacks along with travelers clothes of all sizes. She points to a side sash style backpack that has a sheath attached. “It looks like it will fit Lostvayne.” Meliodas tests her theory and when it proves true he carries his new bag with him to the supplies and then the clothing, not saying a word in thanks.
He glances her way when he’s made his selections noticing she is packing away food, tallying up on her fingers. With a shrug, he strips from his rags, leaving his old clothing where they fall as he jabs his feet through the black pants. They are reinforced and he takes a moment to simply feel them, enjoying the pleasant feel of something so rich gracing his behind. It’s then that a soft gasp pierces the silence and he turns to the Princess.
She’s wide-eyed, hand over her heart with a new backpack at her side stuffed full. Elizabeth stares at his bare chest, her face pinkening and Meliodas cannot help the cocky smirk that plays at his lips. Brazenly, he rubs his hand over his chest and down the middle of his abs to follow the little trail of blonde hairs in the V of his hips. “What?” he questions knowingly and she turns away with a flinch to stare at the bedrolls behind her.
Meliodas finishes dressing, chuckling to himself before gathering the bare minimum and cinching the bag over his shoulder. To make sure the sheath works and to get used to the new position of drawing his blade from behind his neck, he practices the move. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that her sword is snapped around her waist. He watches her select a dark blue cloak and then a shorter one of brown that she walks over and offers it to him.
“I doubt we’ll need it.” He notes, feeling as if he needs to act superior to her simply because she is a princess. She’s under his protection now, and a sly smile spreads as she folds her chosen clothes away, donning her own cloak before heaving her pack on her shoulders. Meliodas can tell she has overburdened herself but speaks naught a word as she tucks his cloak over her arm.
“Have you...” she trails off, her eyes wary, “Do you know what you are in for, what you’ve agreed to as my warrior?”
A dark flash of contempt overcomes him, his green orbs bleeding to black as he pins her with his gaze alone. She blanks, startled and he hisses low, “I can fight. Guiding you to a temple will be simple, what else do I possibly need to know?” Elizabeth’s lips move, opening and closing as if trying to speak before she clams up, nodding, accepting his answer. For her, she thinks it might be better this way, that his understanding paired with not liking her much will be to his emotional benefit when this is over. After all, his main purpose is to fight but it’s following their arrival, when she completes her duty, that his true test of strength will arise.
Meliodas turns, leading her through the tower purposefully and feeling as if he’s won their little argument. To him, if she expected anything beyond getting her to the temple he will not comply, he has his own goals once they get there. His fathers expect it. “No one has ever returned from the outside, they say it’s wastes, the scourge and storms still raging from the war. I don’t trust it. Do you know what they say about my kind? Ha! I bet it’s a paradise out there.” He snorts, giving her a backward glance. “Maybe no has returned as here is the real ruin, I know if I had another option, I’d take it.”
Her eyes drop from his arrogant face, unsure herself. Elizabeth knows there is suffering, she isn’t a shut-in as she’s trained here with the druids for years, has traveled through the slums of Brittania; but she knows her knowledge of what it is like to be a Demon in this realm is extremely lacking. It’s why she stopped her father from preventing this partnership, she believes everyone has a choice, that people are not born evil.
Still, she is sure the outside world must be uninhabitable, or nearly so. It doesn’t make sense not to utilize it, if it was able to be sown. What she does know, as her warrior lifts the metal bar securing the door as if it’s easy when she knows they are solid for reinforcement, is Meliodas has a lot of built up rage inside him. She’s seen it leak in his biting words and intense stares. Elizabeth wonders why but knows it is unwise to establish any kind of connection with where she is heading.
Where the bar gave him no problem, the doors do. He pushes his shoulder against it until it slowly creaks, inching outward. Sand trickles in from the crack, a rush of heat entering the towers hall and the air shifts as if it’s suddenly gone sour, heavy. Meliodas stands, letting the door snap shut as he reaches out and snags the cloak from her. “It’s fucking wretched out there,” he surly explains, shaking out his hair where little bits of dust scatters.
She’s quiet as she ties back her own hair and flips her hood up as he situates his pack after raising his own hood. “Map,” he demands and Elizabeth shuffles it from her personal side satchel to present to him. He looks it over, studying the thing and with a long sigh, seems to take this seriously for the first time. “Stay close to my side, we have a long day's journey through that heat. Breathe through your nose and keep your head down.” With a flick of his hand, he returns the map before bracing his stance wide in front of the door and heaves with a great thrust to push it open.
With a quick tip of his head, she knows he wants her out and she abides, raising her cloak as the winds are forceful as if they want her to stay away. Elizabeth obeys, breathing through her nose and staying close as her demon hero slips out, the doors slamming shut behind him but she doesn’t lower her head. Instead, she looks out at the desert wastes before her.
Dust clouds obscure anything beyond twenty or so feet but she can make out the shadowed stone formations reaching for the sky, which is tinged tan and grey from the sand mixing with the storm above. There is nothing. She looks one way and slowly rotates to the other and it’s just endless, dry, nothingness. “Oh,” She hushes, not knowing what she expected but surely not this.
Not nothing.
“Let’s go,” Meliodas gruffs, holding up the arm of his cloak to shield his face as he resists the winds. She mirrors him, stepping where he’s stepped, close behind. Elizabeth has studied the map herself but without a clear view of the milestones and indicators, she’s mostly guessing that they are going the right way. She assumes that’s how he’s navigating as well.
With a heavy heart, she hopes they make it. So many lives depend on it, because if she doesn’t, what she sees now, the dry dusts of what used to be civilization, will be exactly what becomes of Britannia. Her eyes water and she pinches them shut knowing it’s too dry to spend any bit of hydration on tears. She’s known her fate for too long to be bothered by it now.