Summary: After the Holy War, Britannia is at peace... except for Elizabeth Liones. But after making a discovery one sleepless night, the chance for healing finally begins.

A/N: Welcome to another oneshot! This is both dedicated to and the original brainchild of TheGreatLlamaFish. I wrote this ages ago based on some drawing she had shown me, and I'm excited to finally publish this. Thank you so much my dear friend for sharing your amazing work with me and allowing me to run rampant with your awesome head canons.

It was quiet, and cool, a soft breeze coming through the open window. Outside Britannia lay at peace, asleep. It had been thousands upon thousands of years, stretching all the way back, nearly until time itself began; for once the world was filled with creatures, there was struggle. Yet this night was calm.

All things rested, except for Elizabeth Liones. She stared at the ceiling of the bedroom, listening to the trees rustling outside and the faint snoring of the man next to her. It had been hours since they had climbed into bed, talking, yawning, then a soft kiss leading to another, then another, until passion blossomed. It was an evening of contentment, one that happened more often, now that Britannia was settled. They had waited more years than she cared to remember to have such an evening.

Yet even with the calm and the cool and the reassuring feeling of having him next to her, Elizabeth was unsettled. Something felt heavy on her mind, but could not place it. She had locked the front door, not that a thief in the night would have much chance between the one who owned the tavern that was their home and the pig that made his bed behind the bar. She had put away the last of the scraps, so that any mice or boars looking for a late night snack would be sorely disappointed. She had remembered to pay the baker for delivery and to send the broken stool out to be repaired and to buy handkerchiefs to replace the ones he always seemed to lose track of during the day. Nothing was remiss.

Despite the ease of the day, Elizabeth's heart sat uncomfortably in her chest. She turned her face to see the rise and fall of his shoulders and back as he slept, and it made her smile. It was ironic how much their sleep patterns had changed: after delivering Britannia from the demons and goddesses and putting a final end to their war, Meliodas had slept soundly every night, the first time he had done so in the millennia of his life. Elizabeth, however, had not slept a full night since, her nights plagued with dreams and worried thoughts that seemed to escape her with the daylight.

She took comfort in the way his body moved with each slow, deep inhale and exhale. Meliodas slept on his stomach, turned a bit to the side, his back to her as he faced the window. The light blanket they shared was twisted between his legs, one on top and one underneath; his head sank into the two pillows propped on his arms. His body was bare, having not bothered to dress after their lovemaking, and Elizabeth traced her eyes over the lines of his toned muscles, outlined in moonlight. She was glad that after all that had happened, he had at last found his own peace.

But Elizabeth? With a quiet sigh she returned her gaze to the ceiling. The ending of the war was a chain around her neck that still made her weary. All those years, blissfully unaware of who she was and what her part was in the neverending cycle of death that had plagued him… she deserved to feel unease now that the rest of the world had it.

At times like this, Elizabeth would count. Nearly four hundred Holy Knights, the last remaining armies of Britannia, had stood against the Demon King as he emerged from Purgatory; when Meliodas had destroyed his power, the goddess clan then made a play, but they were ready for the betrayal. Four hundred Holy Knights had entered the battlefield, but less than half returned. So Elizabeth would count, remembering the names of each of the fallen men and women that had given their lives so that she could finally live her own.

Sometimes the counting was soothing, and she would be asleep in minutes; other times, it left her shaking and panicky, and she would move on to others: those who had died in Liones, including her uncle; the ones she had met as she roamed the world in the Boar Hat; even before that, the ones who had been killed by Hendrickson, possessed by a demon who escaped because of her blood. So many names to commit to memory, but Elizabeth had done it. She wanted to know their names, so that it was not in vain. How many people had to die for her safety, for her happiness? How many people were without their loves tonight, while she lay here now, next to her own?

Silently she slipped from the bed, bare feet padding to the hooks on the back of the door so she could pull on a robe. Elizabeth needed to write. It was an outlet that she found to be useful, when the truth of all that had happened pressed inwards and threatened to collapse her soul. She would write their names and her own memories of herself and the war until the pressure eased, the thoughts that had been so torturous now out of her mind and safely on paper.

It was dark, and she did not want to put on a light; the moon would be sufficient for writing, since it did not matter what it looked like. But the drawer in which she kept her journal was empty of it, for some reason; frustrated now, Elizabeth began to hunt around the room. She checked her other drawers, and the table by her side of the bed, and moved the pillows on the window seat to check behind the cushions. Nothing was found on the dresser or the table, so in a final attempt she opened the closet. She patted down her coat, checking the pockets, and did the same to Meliodas'. With nothing to find, Elizabeth stood thinking for a moment, before rummaging around on the shelves. Her nerves had settled a bit, but finding the journal was almost on principle now.

There were the typical items she expected to find: extra blankets, linens, an old pair of boots, a bin of hats and scarves, books that she had brought from home. Elizabeth pushed them aside, wondering if Meliodas would have mistakenly tossed her journal in thinking it belonged with the other books, when she came across one she had never seen before.

Curious, she pulled it out, but when she still did not recognize the book she went over to the window for more light. It had no title on the binding, and was a bit of an odd shape; but when she opened it, Elizabeth realized why. It was not a book in the traditional sense, but a sketch book, its pages filled with artwork, wayward papers stuck in between with even more pictures.

Her own journal forgotten, Elizabeth sat on the window seat to examine them closely. On the loose pages were detailed sketches of the Boar Hat, designs for the sign, the menus, even the uniform. There was a page of Hawk with different expressions that made her suppress a giggle; on the back were little drawings of the Sins, their own characteristics unmistakable. She felt her chest growing tighter as she looked closely at each one. Not only was the talent clear, but the care and time for each one was plain. When did he have time for all this?

Other papers held landscape pictures, some in pen and some in pencil. She recognized some: Liones castle, the fountain in Bernia, the Sacred Tree, the city wall of Camelot. There were others, too, that she assumed were from previous years, previous lives, of armor, and houses, a lake, a ship, a carriage, a mountain range.

She thought of all he had seen and done in all the terrible years of the curse, and a memory surfaced. This happened, sometimes; having three thousand years and over a hundred lives, Elizabeth would get caught up in something she had seen or done, understanding if she let herself surrender to it. Surrender she did, closing her eyes, and she remembered that she knew this about him. Meliodas had always been an artist.

A bright sunny day, a grassy hill
Meliodas sits on a low branch of a tree
"What is that?" she asks as she approaches
His hands fumble for a moment before they go around her
A laugh as he grabs her up
"Is there something in your pocket?"
Cheeks flushing now, a truly remarkable sight, and she won't just let it go
A small, leather-bound journal
Pictures, simple but beautiful, and he won't look at her
"Did you draw all of these?"

Elizabeth laughed to herself as she opened her eyes. It was something he did from time to time, when he had his own time, which wasn't nearly as often as she had wished for him. And she had exclaimed over the beautiful drawings, asking him for more, teasing him when he was embarrassed. There were other times, too, when she would discover this part of him again; why had he stopped?

The loose papers were placed carefully to the side before she opened the book. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, although later Elizabeth would wonder why it was a surprise at all that every sketch inside the book was of her.

One by one she turned the pages, examining each for several minutes, the only sound the thudding of her heart. Elizabeth sleeping, Elizabeth smiling, Elizabeth in the tavern uniform, Elizabeth in a dress from the palace, Elizabeth in her wedding dress. A page of just her face, with different expressions, her eyes always bright. Another of her back, her hair cascading down to her waist. Some were unfinished, but some exquisitely detailed, like one of her sitting on the ground, looking upwards, as if at the sky. Yet what was most shocking to her of all the pictures, were that they were of her; not the other Elizabeths, not even her original form, none of the girls he had met and loved, not even Liz. They were of her, herself, the princess of Liones, his last Elizabeth.

Her hands were trembling with each turn of the page. When did he even do this? There were dozens, at least, in various stages of completion, but she was certain they were all within the time they had spent together, this time. There was one of her in nothing but a generously cut gown, which made her press her lips together; another found her staring at herself laying on her side, her body naked. But they were all beautiful, and his love for her showed through clearly. Her body in each was more perfect than the real thing could ever be; her eyes filled with more life, her smile more charming, her expressions more loving. Is this how he saw her? The idea brought a bit of mist to her eyes.

Then, she turned to the final page, and gave an audible gasp. It was her, Elizabeth Liones, but with wings. Four huge, white wings, heavy with downy feathers but nearly leaping from the page with detail, stood out from her own shoulder blades. Elizabeth looked over her shoulder in the picture, her face a study in poise and grace. Looking at this picture, for a moment, she felt as though she were the goddess that she strived to be, deserved the heavy legacy that came with her blood. She could not tear her eyes away from the beautiful creature on the page. Surely this one was meant to be pure imagination; how could Elizabeth herself be so amazing, so breathtaking?

"Elizabeth?"

She jolted at her name and looked up. Meliodas was leaning up on an elbow, sleepily rubbing his face. "Are you okay? Why are you out of—"

Heat bloomed on her cheeks as he finally registered what she was doing. Immediately she knew it was no good to deny, and anyway, what could she possibly say? There was no way she could ever hope to forget what she saw, but her heart sank a bit when his expression turned from confusion to terror. Was this… not what she thought it was?

Elizabeth dared a glance up, and her face burned when she saw a very unusual sight: Meliodas was embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth pursed together, and she watched as he swallowed thickly. "Where did you find that?" he asked tightly.

"I was looking for my journal and I…" The awkwardness was nearly unbearable now, and she huffed in frustration. "I forgot you liked to draw. I'm sorry."

Meliodas bowed his head, and when he looked back up she was relieved to see him smiling sheepishly. "I figured you had. I haven't shown you these in a long time."

"Why not?" Elizabeth frowned. "They are… wonderful." Meliodas' eyes went to the side, so she prodded, "Why wouldn't you share this with me?"

"I used to," he said quietly, still not looking her way. "But one time I did and… there were pictures of before. When you saw them…" He cleared his throat and swallowed again. "You started to remember things."

"Oh." The meaning was clear, and the air between them was thick now with tension.

Meliodas' shoulders sagged a bit. "It was my fault, and I felt so guilty that time for bringing it on… after that I never kept the ones from the past. I didn't sketch anymore after that." He peeked up at her through his bangs. "Not until you."

Elizabeth's breath caught. She looked over at the book and sighed, "I knew they were pictures of me. I could feel it somehow." Then she giggled and smirked at him. "Even the naughty ones."

"Oh, you saw those too?" he laughed, sitting up on the bed. He smiled at her as he rubbed his hands on his thighs. "Those uh… were after we married. I promise."

"Mmm hmm," she teased. Her mouth twisted into a little smile as he reached down for the pair of shorts that had been tossed to the floor. "So these weren't from before? Something to enjoy on your own?"

"Elizabeth!" he yelped in surprise. He stood on one foot as he slid on the clothes, nearly falling over as he lost his balance.

The tension now broken, she threw her head back and laughed, her body shaking. He grumbled as he padded over, making her giggle again when he finally plopped down on the window seat next to the book.

Gently Meliodas took the book from her hands. She watched him quietly as he turned one page after another, peering over the top of the book. "Can you tell me about them?"

Meliodas shrugged. "I would draw these at night, when I couldn't sleep. You were good at keeping me up at night." He smirked at her for a moment, as Elizabeth dropped her gaze. "I would have shown you, but it was never the right time. Now that things have settled down, I haven't felt the need to draw like I used to." He chuckled softly and closed the book. "Drawing you always helped when I would worry too much, but I don't have to worry anymore."

She looked at him then, the feeling of sadness coming over her. All these years he had tried to handle things on his own, trying to protect her, but unable to do the one thing that brought him any peace. She surged forward, her hands cupping his face, and Meliodas looked at her for just a moment in surprise before she pressed her mouth against his.

They kissed slowly, and she felt him tense against her as her thumbs stroked his cheeks. Elizabeth tilted her head a bit, pressing slower, deeper, wanting him to feel what she could not bring herself to say. They had apologized to one another so many times, and she had begged her forgiveness for her part in his burden until he had finally made her promise to never ask again. Elizabeth had agreed—but how could she have known that she would continue to find ways she had hurt him, even now?

So she kissed him, licking his lips the way she knew he liked, gently stroking his skin with her fingertips. By the time she pulled back, her heart was racing. "Meliodas," she whispered against his lips, brushing her forehead along his. "Will you draw me again?"

He laughed as she looked in his eyes. "Really?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Please?"

Meliodas grinned, and a moment later Elizabeth found herself pulled across his lap. He took control of the kiss this time, nipping at her lips as he untied the robe. "What should I put on?" she asked breathlessly as he trailed his mouth teasingly down her neck.

"Nothing," he murmured. His hands slid around her waist and he yanked her closer. His palms slid down around her hips, dragging along her backside, and Elizabeth laughed as he left a wet kiss on the top curve of her breast.

"If you keep this up, we won't get to the picture," she sighed. Her head fell backwards and she felt him grab the back of her robe and tug on the fabric. Slowly it slid down her shoulders, and she peeked through hooded eyelids to see him gazing at her bare body with a salacious look in his eye.

"You're right," he said. "This now, drawing later."

Elizabeth squealed as he picked her up, reaching the bed in two long strides before she was being pressed against the mattress and Meliodas climbing over her. His hands were roaming her legs as he nibbled on her neck, but Elizabeth was determined. "Meliodas! Please!" she scolded, still laughing, pushing on his shoulders. She dug the heel of her foot into the back of his thigh, prodding to get his attention. "Drawing first!"

It was meant to be a joke, so when he climbed off her with a grumble, Elizabeth huffed out a laugh as she caught her breath. Would she ever get used to this amorous side of him? All the years and all the lives they had together, all the times they were together, he had always held back, there was always this sense of it ending. She could not feel it then, but looking back, she knew it now: the way he looked at her a bit too longingly, the way he held her a bit too long, the way he was careful with her, as if she were a piece of china that could easily break.

Elizabeth leaned up on her elbows, sure he was undressing; to her amusement he was rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a pencil a moment later. She watched with a smile as he pulled a chair over and lit the lamp, and she blinked in the light as he settled himself sitting backwards in the chair, bracing the sketchbook on the top of its back.

Suddenly nervous, she quickly closed her legs and sat up. "What should I—"

"Stay just like that!"

Elizabeth froze, still leaning on her hands, the robe in a pool around her wrists, one leg drawn up slightly against the bed. "Meliodas? Why—"

"You look perfect. Now just stay like that."

Immediately he got to work, his brows drawn. The only sound in the room was his pencil scratching on the paper and her own unsteady breathing.

"You don't have to do this right now," she whispered.

Meliodas glanced up at her. "Yes I do," he said, his voice a tone she did not recognize. His eyes went back to his paper, so Elizabeth continued to sit on the edge of the bed, not moving.

"Should I at least close my robe?" she asked after several minutes.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "That's a very silly question," he answered.

Meliodas went back to his picture, so Elizabeth took the time to study him as well. It was flattering to know he still desired her so much; that after three thousand years, he still looked at her in a way that made her feel more than beautiful. But she felt the same way too, her heart skipping a beat the same way it did the first time they met, and she saw a demon who was fierce yet handsome, terrifying yet thrilling. Elizabeth did not know if it was love at first sight, if such a thing even existed—but it was something at first sight, for sure.

She allowed herself a little smile as she thought of him then, and now. He had been so devastatingly handsome then, the darkness making his boyish features seem all the more threatening, because it turned him into such an enigma. But as he changed right before her eyes, the way his features went from hard to soft, the color of his eyes go from dark to shining, Meliodas had become truly beautiful. Elizabeth remembered clucking over his wild hair the way she still did, even though secretly she loved it, loved the feel of it in her fingers, loved the way it fanned out against her skin when he nestled against her. She remembered grazing his cheeks, just as she did tonight, softer than one would guess for someone who had done nothing but work and fight his entire life. And the first time he smiled—gods, that had been such a heart-stopping moment, the first real, true smile without cruelty or derision, and it was towards her, for her, and in that moment she had sworn to find a day when that smile could come easily and without any fear.

They had found this day, finally; at least, he had.

Her earlier melancholy came back in a rush as Elizabeth drew in a breath. As if he knew—he always knew—Meliodas asked, "What were you doing up?"

She flipped through a bevy of excuses, but settled on telling the truth. "It's hard to sleep sometimes, after all that has happened."

Meliodas nodded. "What else?"

Elizabeth frowned. "Isn't that enough?"

"What's happened has happened," he murmured. "Why can't you let it go?"

Her fingers squeezed the edge of the bed, digging into the blanket. Why couldn't she let it go? Why couldn't she just accept what had happened? Move on, live her life, enjoy this time with him. She had earned it, hadn't she? And if not for herself—because she hadn't earned it, not really, she didn't believe it deep down—then for him. Couldn't she leave it behind just for his sake, so she could spend her energy on making him happy, finally?

"I want to," she whispered. Elizabeth's eyes stayed steady on the floor, not wanting to see if he was angry with her, or pitied her, or was frustrated—or all three. "I want to, I want to be someone who can forgive and let go but when I think about everything that has been done, all that Britannia went through, all you went through—"

"Leave me out of this." The scratching of his pencil paused momentarily before picking up again. "Tell me why you won't let this go."

Elizabeth blushed, flustered, feeling ridiculous now. "I'm not talking to you about this while I'm—like this," she whispered.

Meliodas did not answer, but continued his drawing. An uncomfortable silence settled on the room, and Elizabeth fidgeted nervously, silently fuming at herself and him. What was once a fun and sexy idea now made her feel ridiculous, and she fought the desire to yank the robe closed and bury herself under the blankets. His question haunted her and hot tears threatened in the back of her throat, her skin on fire from her embarrassment. Yet she struggled to do this and remain still, not wanting to ruin something again for him.

Over and over she thought of his question: why won't you let this go? Such an easy one for him to ask, Elizabeth thought with a twinge of resentment. But that was wrong, and she knew it; how could she fault him for finding peace, after being without it for so long?

This was why she could not move on: her trial had not yet ended.

"You have suffered, Meliodas," she said slowly, quietly. "When the queen cursed me, it was a curse on you too. I would die, but you would live: your burden was greater by default. I got to have peace. There were years between lives when I was in ignorance, when I didn't know, and I could live a good life. But you… it never ended, not once."

She realized his pencil had stopped, and she glanced over to find him looking at her with a confused expression. It was a bit startling to see him this way, her demon who was always so sure of himself. Elizabeth realized she was laying herself bare now, in every sense of the word; with a bit of a sob, she finished, "That's why I can't let go. I need to hold on to this until we are even."

The confusion turned to pain, then, which pierced her heart. Will she ever, ever stop hurting him?

Meliodas stood, dropping the book on the chair. He moved towards her, and Elizabeth snatched the robe over her arms, looking away. He was going to tell her it wasn't her fault, that she shouldn't blame herself, that he was the one who had caused her pain. It was all lies, lies that were meant to make her feel better, but lies all the same. Elizabeth was tired of the same hollow reassurances. They wouldn't change what happened. They wouldn't bring back the people who died so that she could live.

But instead, he knelt on the floor in front of her, his arms slipping around her waist as he pressed his head against her stomach. "Elizabeth," he murmured, and startled, she brushed her fingers tentatively through his hair.

The robe was not tied, and he rubbed her back, his fingers digging into her as he kneaded her flesh. "Elizabeth," he said again, his voice soft, "you are worth it."

"What?" She looked down with a small gasp. That was not what she had expected him to say.

Meliodas looked up at her, pressing into her hand that went to cradle his cheek. "You were worth it," he said again. "You're right, it's not even. It never will be even, because pain is not something you can compare. But I don't care about any of that. It was worth it all, because you were worth it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "What are you saying?"

He smiled then, a genuine smile that made her heart skip. "Every minute that I spent with you was worth a hundred years of pain. No matter how hard it was to lose you, I always got to have you again. It was worth it to me, and you still are."

"No," she whispered. "I could never give you what you wanted. It was a terrible—"

"You know what would have been terrible? Not being cursed. Not having met you, not being saved by you. Having to die on that mountain, next to you, and it being over. Not having the years we did have. Not having this, right now." His smile was so sweet, she thought as if she could drown inside of it. "Every tear, every moment of heartbreak, was worth it. Because you are here with me now."

Elizabeth hung her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. "Don't you believe me?" he whispered.

She did not know what to say, so she said nothing. But Meliodas leaned in, his lips pressing lightly against her stomach. "I'm so glad to be here with you." The words tickled a bit against her skin. "I want to be able to hold you like this. I want the smell of your skin and the taste of you, I want to see you, I want to hear your voice." One small kiss after another trailed in a slow circle as he spoke, and Elizabeth's stomach trembled with the softness of his mouth and voice. "The curse took you from me, but it gave you back too."

His hands slid around her now, resting on her hips. Elizabeth breathed deeply. Meliodas kissed the top of her thigh as he breathed, "I would live another three thousand years under that curse if it meant holding you just like this."

A tear splashed onto her leg, and Meliodas looked up at her sadly. "Do you still not believe me?"

"I do," she answered in a choking voice. "I swear I do."

Instead of answering, he kissed the inside of her thigh, and then his mouth moved between her legs. For a while Elizabeth forgot everything, only aware of the heavy drag of his tongue against her and the maddeningly slow build of a throbbing need for release. Then he pulled her hips forward, tilting her body to gain better access, and when he kissed her body deeply Elizabeth was lost.

When her skin was flushed and her blood on fire, he moved, pulling her forward again until she was braced against his hips; then Meliodas was thrusting inside of her. The world spun as he pushed her legs up, her hips hanging off the side of the bed where he held her firmly. He stood next to her, his own hips sliding forward and back in a pace that left her breathless with its intensity.

"Elizabeth," he groaned, and she whimpered in return. His hands went to her waist, pulling her off of the mattress as he leaned down. He was buried inside of her and he pressed his forehead on her chest, but all Elizabeth could do was surrender herself to the sound of his voice and the strength of his grip.

"This is what I want," he gasped, and she felt the heat of his breath on her skin. "This is all I ever wanted."

The next morning, Elizabeth woke up from a deep sleep: the first deep sleep she had had since remembering herself. She let go a long, steady breath as the world blinked into focus, the light muted with the light rain that fell outside. With a bit of a stretch she rolled over, her body heavy but rested, to see the bed empty next to her.

A now-familiar scratching sound caught her attention, and Elizabeth smiled. Shifting a bit, she turned and looked at Meliodas, who was sitting in a chair, his brows drawn down as he focused on his sketch pad. The pencil moved fluidly over the paper, and as she gazed at him, she thought of how the hands that moved now had been broken, and covered in blood, and used to destroy. Now they were for making something beautiful, for serving drinks and weaving fingers through hers and sliding along her figure.

I should sketch him, she thought to herself. Elizabeth had never been adept at drawing herself, but the shape of his face and the way the fringe of his bangs fell into his eyes were so charming she wanted to capture it forever. The concentrated expression was for creating and not fighting, and her eyes traced his shoulders free from tension, the bare chest that held seven scars that were now barely visible, the toned arms that had held her a thousand times, one adorned with a tattoo that was a fulfilment to a promise to her.

Elizabeth continued to admire him, dressed in only loose pants, his feet bare as he sat comfortably in the chair. One leg was raised and bent at the knee to form a little table, the other swinging just slightly over the side, the outline of his calf muscles just a glimpse at the power that was inside his body. It would be fun to draw him, she supposed.

Her eyes returned to his face to find him looking at her. "Sleep well?" he asked.

Elizabeth nodded against the pillow. "Yes, actually. Did you?"

Meliodas shook his head. "Not at all. Had to finish this first." There was another minute of scratching, and then he stood and walked over, climbing onto the bed and holding out the book. "Here, what do you think?"

She knew it would be amazing before she even opened to the page, but when she saw the drawing at last, Elizabeth found it hard to breathe. She looked so beautiful, almost… heavenly. "This is wonderful," she sighed.

For a moment, the familiar twist of anxiety scratched at her stomach. How could she hope to live up to this dream of her that he had? Meliodas pressed a kiss on her shoulder, and she looked at him with a tightening in her chest. But then she remembered his words—this is all I ever wanted—and Elizabeth smiled, deciding then that she would be enough.