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Oneshot Name: Blank Regret

Normal POV

"Please, kill me."

The request is soft spoken - a swollen, cracking voice that carries over to him on the smallest of breezes. The soft smile he sees there speaks volumes more of that pain, its bittersweet quality twisting and tightening his chest. She's not shedding any tears, but he can see them anyway.

It isn't the first time an enemy has requested an honorable death from him, and he's sure it won't the last, but the woman's earlier words and the melancholy that clings to her form like a weighted cloak helps him recognize the burden she is carrying on her frail shoulders. He can't erase the image of her tearful (tearless) smile from his mind, and with a jolt he realizes why.

It was relieved.

Meliodas feels his gut coil with white-hot understanding, a feeling that only grows in intensity as Gelda of the Thousand Temptations explains herself in a voice like a quiet, empty song. As they train their gazes on the scenery of the ruins of Edinburgh, Meliodas fights not to look at her more than he has to, lest he buckles under the pressure in his chest.

"And Zeldris was the executioner."

Gelda is silent for a moment longer, no doubt reliving her memories. He clenches a fist when he remembers that to her, these moments with Zeldris were her last. To her, they were only yesterday, despite feeling the years flow past her in the sleep brought on by the seal.

Sensing the unease and anguish in Gelda as she moves to speak again, Meliodas finishes the story for her. "He didn't kill the vampires, but chose to seal you all instead…" He feels more than sees her head move to look at him, and he meets her half way. "And he did it for you."

Gelda turns a heavy gaze away from him, directing it back to the scenery once more.

"But… it's fine." It's not. He's unable to move his stare away from her. "I can't fight against fate."

And with that, he knows he cannot deny her. A memory rises, unbidden.

"We can't fight against fate."

Elizabeth has both of her hands settled gently on his cheeks. The day-time blue color in her eyes is dulled to the underlying dark cobalt he knows has always been there with her sorrow.

They're sitting on the crest of a green hill, surrounded by gorgeous greenery. The hill slopes gently down into a sea of flowers. It's a meadow they frequent – one he has come to love. So why is it then, that he can barely see any of it now?

He's tired of their game of hurt-and-heal, push-and-pull. They've played it more times than he can count, each of them hurting the other in an attempt to cut ties, end this, protect the future.

But it's the first time Elizabeth has declared their situation hopeless outright.

And Meliodas finds that he can't breathe anymore.

What Gelda says next has him clenching his fists, feeling the metal of his armor dig painfully into the skin of his palms and fingers.

"He's of the proud demon clan."

"You're of the demon clan, Meliodas."

"While I'm of the treacherous vampires."

"And I'm of the goddesses."

"And I'm already weary." Gelda confesses with a sigh. A powerful pang shoots through his chest, wracking down his tense arms and into his tight fists.

One hundred and seven. One hundred and seven. One hundred and seven.

And oh, he's so very tired. He hadn't lied that night, when he drank his thoughts into his mouth, for once allowing them to reveal themselves, with Zaratras.

"I've tried it all."

"No aim or goal," No purpose. No meaning. "Just to keep drinking blood and live." Gelda's voice reaches a sorrowful note he has heard too many times in his long, long life. The sorrow of life. "I don't want to live a life like that anymore."

He closes his eyes as her words resonate deep with him in low, powerful notes. How many times did he try and end it all, in the hopes of never allowing Elizabeth to meet and remember him? In the hopes of allowing her to live out one last peaceful life before joining him in never-ending sleep? In the hopes of finding relief in the afterlife?

Meliodas swallows down the bile in his throat that rises when he remembers that he's the one who is keeping them apart. As long as this sword is his to hold, he always will be. Its handle seems to press harder into his back, his shoulder blades tingling and burning in rising awareness. He is a thief of his own brother's happiness.

"So please, kill me."

And this time, he doesn't resist. Because he knows she and Zeldris will never have a chance to meet again. It didn't matter if the seal was broken. The Seven Deadly Sins would serve their ultimate purpose of destroying the Ten Commandments, and they would have to relive the pain of separation all over again anyway. He doesn't resist because he knows her pain.

"I understand."

And Gelda knows he does. She knew that he understood from the moment she began her tale and saw his powerful shoulders sag under an invisible burden. It's the only thing that explains his prolonged life, after all.

The vampire princess stands up just a little straighter, more than ready to face her end. She sighs wistfully at the unnatural moon of Edinburgh, allowing her emotions to swell in her breast. She wants her last thoughts to be of Zeldris. Of their rendezvous in her home castle. Of the swirling intensity she remembers in the dark, bottomless pools of his eyes. Of his burning ambition. Of the warmth of his chest when they clung to each other, unwilling to ever let go. Of his hardened face and pained eyes - a surge of emotion causing him to grasp at straws for some solution - as he approached her and her kind on the execution grounds.

She feels Meliodas' surge in power and realizes her death will be swift and near painless as she is completely obliterated by his darkness. Eternal slumber will welcome her into its arms, encasing her in them with a comfort she can find nowhere else.

Gelda lets herself look at her savior one last time. The mark of his clan swirling on his brow comforts her in its familiarity. She notes with slight regret the tears pooled at the corner of his eyes.

Meliodas can barely read the words "Thank you" as they tumble from her lips in a light tremble – her last breath – and the pillar of darkness swallows her whole. It clears away in no time at all, his demonic powers with it.

He stares hard at the gaping hole in the ground, the only evidence of their meeting.

Gelda of the Thousand Temptations…

He feels respect, duty, loneliness, sorrow, guilt - nearly everything tumbling in his chest. He knows it had to be done, her wish had to be granted just as he would expect someone to grant his if they could, but that doesn't stop him from staring down the inky blackness as he tries to pull himself together.

I won't forget.

He wouldn't, and he hasn't, so why, why is he only facing it now?

Why is he reconsidering his every move that night as he looks into the enraged face of his brother?

Estarossa was easy enough to convince, the younger having always been his admirer and a little flighty. But Zeldris swelled and flourished under ambition, the driving force of his being.

It's made him powerful. Almost a worthy rival. It's also made him smart.

Meliodas supposes that explains why he can't even bring himself to raise a brow in care when his brother roars, "The only reason you even want the King's power is so that you can dispel the curse that's been placed on you and that woman," Their eyes lock together, Zeldris' face contorted in blistering rage and Meliodas' impossibly hard and impassive. "Isn't it?!"

"That's right," Meliodas says easily. "That's why I came here to take the power that our father, the Demon King, had lent to you."

His mouth keeps talking for him as he rapidly considers that night, images flitting over his mind, and how he came to terms with it. He comes to the empty discovery that he no longer feels anything for that night in Edinburgh, nor his actions. And as his cloak of darkness clashes with Zeldris' weapon, as he wrenches his brother's arm behind his back and up between his shoulder blades in an oppressive hold, Meliodas sees the answer.

"Zeldris, I know the reason why you're so obsessed with becoming Demon King."

The younger tenses in his hold, muscles winding up even tighter than he thought possible. Fear and anger swim across his vision, and he would thrash against Meliodas' hold if only his arm weren't twisted so far up his back, so in a last-ditch effort to escape this madness, he screams.

But it's too late, something in Meliodas echoes quietly. He can't think of a single thing that can stop him from playing this card anymore – not the cruelty of it all and not even the memory of his past self, the one that cried into Elizabeth's bosom in fear of becoming this.

He sees Edinburgh in his mind's eye – I'm a failure of an older brother – and opens his mouth to speak.