Chapter Text
Losing himself in his thought is a common pass time for the prince of darkness. For he does not have anything else to entertain. His mind flies to different scenarios, things he wishes he could do, could see, yet he never strays to far. For there is a boundary, one he can not cross. A dream he cannot touch. Dreams of warm campfires and the smell of rain. The shivers that prick his skin. The dew sliding off of grass as he lifts himself onto his elbows.
The laughter of a companion. A friend.
But these thought have caused him no good.
For the king had always watched him. When he was young these thoughts were snuffed out like a candle. A match dragged thru the sand until it no longer burned. Always the same mantra of ‘why dream of such life when you already have a perfect one, one of power, one that guaranteed greatness?’
Yes, the life of a prince does guarantee greatness, but he still wished for a life without training regiments and bloody knuckles.
But he did not understand that no was not an option, for the boy was to young. He held to much hope in his eyes for it not to be ripped at a moment notice.
But he was no longer a child who spoke freely of their wishes. For that will get you killed. Instead he was now a monster, a being of power. That hope that meant the world to him as a boy, his only sign of escape, is now gone. Leaving behind a field of dead flowers.
He holds these imaginations far back. Where he would never see. And instead dreams of war and bloodied fingers. He dreams of different strategies or teaching Zeldris how to polish his sword.
His thought do not wander far. He is to composed to do so. Out of fear or respect? He has long forgotten.
He is far from composed right now.
There is not a moment were they aren’t clashing swords. They are enemies after all, opposites sides of a war. Icons of their respected races.
Meliodas is the prince of darkness, leader of the ten commandments. The most feared demon in his time.
And the man standing opposed to him is the sun.
He remembers the first time they met. Mael was powerful, that was clear at first glance. All it was at the time was someone new, someone interesting in this unending war of death. With the snow white wings and a white sigil in his eyes, signs of a goddess.
They fought for hours. And It was the time of his life.
But thru everything there was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. In its place was a sign of responsibility, of an ode to his people. That he would bring down the monster that tormented their realm. Meliodas was no doubt the monster he had sworn to slay. And the archangel was close, he would give him that.
It did not take long for his own people to ask for the goddesses head. And trust me when he says he tried. But the power of the sun stands opposed to his darkness. They are equals.
He waited, for war to taint the mans eyes. For the anger to cloud in as it did him. But it never came. Instead the determination faded over time into a blank stare. Blue eyes that once shined with the sun was now dulled. And he hit harder and faster every single encounter.
He was just a boy thrust into a uniform to sizes to big and a war there was no guarantee they would win. He was just a boy and he had a name and a favorite color and a family.
Mael technically still has these things. But it’s not like parts haven’t been taken away. He is an archangel. He has tarnished his name with blood. He has broken down his spirit. And there is a reason why its just him and his brother.
In his experience, the blank stare the first signs of loss. Soon enough he will drive himself to anger. Like Meliodas and his own brother. It feels wrong watching the emotion disperse from the archangel, from Mael. But it was nothing but expected.
The fights were less and less about ending the enemy and more just killing time. What else would Meliodas do if it isn’t bother his favorite angel with a fight to the death.
And then they stood alone, in a field of rot and flies. A field of crushed yellow flowers under the bodies of the fallen. They are the only people alive for a few kilometers. Fighting for what seems like a blur but has probably been hours maybe even days.
He feels hungry so it must have been longer then a day now.
They are in stalemate. His sword pressed up against the toned neck of the taller goddess. Nestled under his ears, his white hair falling around it, some clumps shorter then others. The mans face is covered in blood(he is not sure whose) and grime.
His armor chipped and cracked around his ribs, his breathing shallow. It was a lucky hit, really. But it was a strong one and had definitely broken a rib or two. His hand is covered in scars from earlier battles and bruises. Cuts litter his upper arm and travels further into his back. Another lucky hit. This time with his claws. His hand is strong as it holds ever so still. Using the last of his magic to point a shard straight into the demons neck. The blood already seeping down from the front.
It would not be just any injury. This he will not heel from. At least nowhere near fast enough to guarantee survival.
He is surely caked in dirt and dried blood, he can feel it when he moves his mouth into a frown. How the dirt catches on his eyebrows. They full be here forever if this goes on. If one of then moves they are right in the open. And if they stay here locked in place they might as well start talking about their days.
If he moves the sword even in inch from the goddesses neck, he will die. There is no doubt about it. Mael will pierce his neck with magic strong enough to scar and he will be left to gurgle on the blood until the ever beautiful rays of sun burn him from the world.
But his dilemma doesn’t matter in the end.
He feels the shard retreat from his skin. He watches as the goddess ever so carelessly moves his own sword away from his neck. Ever so gently pushing it from under his ear, until neither opponents have weapons drawn on the other. And Meliodas is stunned. How easily he had put his guard down, how he had nonchalantly pushed the demons own sword away from his body. This is not some sparring match, it’s a fight to the death and yet he acts all the differ.
He is wonders why he didn’t kill the man at a moments notice. He should have, it was right there. All he had to do was move his sword into the mans neck. Gut him and take it back to the capitol as a sign of power. Use the mans own feathers as a cloak, and keep the perfect blue eyes in a jar to forever admire.
Yet he let the angel do what he pleased.
Mael spares him one last glance and begins walking towards the middle of the field. Meliodas can only watch him dumfounded as he tries to recollect his thoughts. To once again hide behind his façade perfected over time.
He activates what ever magic he has left and shoots it into the air. It isn’t anything hostile the prince deduces. He knows what hostile looks like from the angel, this is not it.
The ball unfolds itself into a sigil hung high above in the air. And it starts to snow. Its reminiscent of the dark snow attack that the lower demons use. It turns its victims into ash. It seams this does something relatively similar. Every body the snow touches start to disappear, goddess or not. The ‘ashes’ sparkle into the ground giving life to the flowers underneath. The yellow flowers begin to bloom once again. Covering a battlefield into something of beauty.
Mael unfurls his wings, readying himself for flight. Entirely planned to leave as if he hadn’t just done the stupidest thing in his life.
“where are you going.” Normally his voice is monotone, emotionless, nothing Is to get past. But now its wavering. Curiosity maybe? Or more.
“home” the angel says. As if it was obvious. Which in his mind it was.
“why did you do that? You left yourself exposed. I could have killed you”
“but you didn’t”
And that was that.