Contemplating The Reality That, Pretty Much Right After Birth, A Corrupted Cynder Was Almost Singlehandedly

Contemplating the reality that, pretty much right after birth, a corrupted Cynder was almost singlehandedly responsible for hunting other dragons to near extinction with the wars and dragon purges, leading to the general decline of all dragon civilization and culture, and then has to confront that fact and the subsequent guilt after she’s taken in by the very Guardians who she had imprisoned for years.

➤ `??? (  madestars  )

               “  Oh, uhh…  ”     𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒,  𝐒𝐇𝐄 tends to have an abundance of them more often than not,  but from the sudden question from a stranger out of nowhere it would only be natural to hesitate for an answer.   It was brief,  this was…  not at all the most farfetched conversation she’s had.   In a glance she can tell the boy is not a demon,  or nothing like the demons she’s met,  but it’d also be strange if he wasn’t.   Does she smell,  is her hair messy,  does she look okay?   No,  no,  and yes she looks great.   So,  what brought this up?     “  No…?  ”     What she fails to mention is that Hell itself has visited her,  and it sucked.     “  I agree those places all sound lovely, even school. Um, you sound like you speak from experience.  ”     Well now she’s curious and she has to know.   The only demons who’d know what Hell is like is after they die,  and he looks very healthy and alive.   He could have also at least said hello first.

         ❝ Yes. ❞ Yet it's clear he doesn't even think to elaborate on said experience. Maybe the deadpan or him waving it off with a nonchalant shake of the wrist gave it away. It’s not like it had any relevance to her anyways. ❝ So turn your life around or whatever. Read a book, get a cat, i don’t care, and swerve as hard as you can from there. ❞

         Without further preamble, the blonde shoved his hands into hoodie pockets and turned on his heel, set on continuing his meandering stroll. Self satisfied smirk in place, paying no further regard to the accosted citizen. Ah, spur of the moment job well done. His good deed for the day accomplished. Even better if it pissed off the old man. All in all, a good day’s work.

THE  FIRST  TIME

Zeldris hates his brother.

There's a special kind of loathing reserved just for him. One that easily survives a 3000 year time span. It taints any remaining fond memories of someone he had, at one point, cherished more than anything. It pushes him to stand by and watch while each of Meliodas' hearts be pierced by the dagger of their shared brother.

But yes, while these may have been the feelings Zeldris held onto after the betrayal / joining Stigma, his brother’s first death was still an event that shook what little was left of his crumbling foundation.

He was present, saw the entire affair unfold. Could barely breathe or stand when it was over but somehow he managed it. After allowing him to fully take in the sight of Meliodas' corpse, the Demon King then proceeded to simultaneously mock Zeldris about his failure to fully commit to getting rid of the vampires and to remind him that, even if he was his son, he wouldn't hesitate to ❛ put him in his place ❜ like he did to his ❛ miserable older brother ❜ Meliodas.

When he was ordered to carry out his duties as executioner ( annihilate Gelda along with the Vampire Clan ) he felt an all consuming anguish. He didn’t think he could ever feel that level of hopelessness again but when the Demon King and the Supreme Deity effortlessly wiped out his brother's defiance, a different kind of despair took hold but it was one just as potent.

The prince hated his father for all the suffering he's inflicted and reminding him how helpless he was in taking any meaningful action against him. He hated Meliodas for abandoning him for a goddess and putting him through this alone.

Most of all he HATED himself for not being strong enough to stop any of it.

➤ ` MELIODAS. (  rathfel  )

     a  long  awaited  greeting,  words  ran  across  the  space  between  them  like  a  newly  sharpened  blade.  except  the  tip  was  pointed  directly  into  his  chest,  and  meliodas  pressed  further  into  it.  teasing  to  break  the  skin,  to  break  the  tension  that  accumulated  to  allow  for  an  easier  movement.  not  expecting  anything  less  from  him,  his  voice  dripped  with  disappointment.  a  feeling  he’d  grown  used  to.

     a  traitor  he  was  hailed  as,  in  another  time,  a  hero.  brow  pinched  near  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  blonde  hair  falling  before  his  eyes.  a  brief  pause  as  he  brought  arms  up,  hands  smoothing  behind  his  head  and  fingers  interlocking.  a  foot  casually  kicked  at  a  rock,   ❝  well,  don’t  speak  then.  just  listen,  i’ve  not  come  to  beg  for  forgiveness.  ❞

         How far one had fallen, a pale shade of what once was, a waning moon. The dichotomy rendered this demon that held the title of brother once long ago barely recognizable. A portrait bearing the same frame, but painted over again and again, an obscure artwork left in it’s wake. Had it not been for the uncountable number of years spent in his company, the undeniable twinge inside signalling the arrival of one formerly admired so, he would've thought this being before him as some imposter.

         ❝ So you've crawled out of hiding for that. ❞ Daring to show his face, careless of heeded warnings others may have given him, for a worthless endeavor. That much, at least, aligned with the past. A speck of familiarity on that foreign painting.

         Zeldris hesitated to give him even that much. How many opportunities for that very act had been granted to Meliodas, only for them to be trod upon without a second thought ? Years later now he expected his words to be heard ? Surely an elaborate vile joke, being weaved with such lackadaisical confidence. A ploy to incite violence – if not to serve to dig into old ( fresh ) wounds he himself inflicted. Teeth grind, eyes narrowed further. ❝ You made your intentions clear a long time ago. ❞ He's deserving of scorn, nothing more, nothing less. ❝ There's nothing left to discuss. ❞

@sinxatoned asked: “ and the saddest part of all? you’ll cling to the good memories, as if there were any. ” // Demon King @ Zeldris. Bring on the pain.

►  ❪   POETRY  //  accepting  ❫  

         What was this supposed to be ? Some backhanded lecture meant for his convenience ? The subject matter briefly drew Zeldris up short, cutting through the middle of his own sentence with frightening ease. It's not as if far worse hadn't been said / done before but Father must have been in a particular mood. It's the sole time he saw him these days when they were alone, an occurrence that happened all too often with the castle far more quiet, lacking Meliodas' presence.

         It's almost systematic, how his body language shuts down. What little expression held in the king's presence sputtered, waning, furrowed brows smoothing out. The slightly questioning curve in downturned lips neutralized until a tense face was rendered bare of emotion. Everything perfectly measured, constantly aware of every little motion made, constantly weighing the possible repercussions of every single word spoken.

         (  it's a struggle not to suffocate  )

         When memories were but a shackle to contend with for the remainder of a life, it made sense to cling to the good ones right ? But for his own reasons Father seemed determined to poison that well. To layer each recollection (  regardless of past connotations  ) with corrupted spikes / reshaped into a warped simulacrum intent to twist and tear and harm the beholder, threatening to blur the increasingly thinning line between good and bad.

         A terrible thought / a hard pill to swallow. One so difficult that the king preferred to shove it down his throat; an effort to insist the verity of his biting intonation. The worst part ? It’s true. Doubt held no place here when faced with facts. That’s what made that silent hand gripping his hearts tighten, as though ready to rip them out of his chest. He should know better (  he DID know better  ) than to let whatever was said get to him. It still hurt, sincerely, to hear such words be delivered from on high. But after years of hurting, it barely registered beyond a dull sting anymore. It's barely a bother, only acknowledged a slight by the flicker of an abyssal, vacant gaze.

         (  a blade sharpened to perfection, lovingly crafted with utmost CARE to dig under his skin, another blood ridden, jagged wound to add to the assemblage  )

         He doesn't think he'll ever be able to reply to his father's standards.

         Zeldris' answer had a known clarity in his hands. Plenty of  ❛ good memories ❜ existed to cling to. Debating whether they fit the conventional standard of good or not seemed questionable at best, if not conscientious. Most (  if not all  ) of them involving him and his brother. He grew up in violence, watching his brother reap the lives of goddesses, crush skulls and take souls without an iota of mercy or regret. Nothing beyond the threadbare hints of mild boredom. Yet, Meliodas was there. The one enduring source of what he'd come to quantify as ❛ good ❜ in his life, however brief that flicker of a moment appeared in retrospect. He’d do anything to protect that. Anything it took.

         But he also knew that answer won't satiate the Demon King. All he cared about was the power, about the idea of being infallible and above such basic notions. Revealing the true thoughts under the surface was akin to wrapping a weighty noose forged from his own naivety around his own neck, begging for judgemental punishment. An intimately familiar infliction he's already fallen victim to beforehand. So, he needed a different answer.

         ❝ Memories are just memories, Father. ❞ They both knew that wasn't the case, not for him, a memory likened to permanent snapshot forever etched into the annals of his mind. ❝ There... isn't a need to assign overly sentimental value to them, to the point where they're labeled in such a irrelevant manner. No use fretting over them when they eventually fade. ❞

✰ @madestars

         ' I lived a pretty good life all things considered. ' 

       His epitaph for his impromptu grave, all he managed to think before the door's blown off it's hinges, death itself gracing the doorframe, a demon wrought from hell to claim his soul ( too bad Him already bagged it, what should he say - get in line?? ). Sure, the lighter from the selfie sent alongside the text was absent, flame flickering out and metallic casing disappearing down a sleeve with a flick of the wrist the instant he set the fuse of his brother's rage, but the remaining evidence is plenty damning of his sins. The perpetrator in question standing over the scene of the crime, a pile of things pilfered from Brick's room propped neatly in the center of the floor of his own.

         Limbs jerk, flailing from the sheer force yanking him upwards in an instant, willing his weight to defy gravity as he hangs from the fist dangling him lopsided off the ground. Well, he did pretty much ask for this to happen. He'd take full extra credit points though before he faced a second untimely death - it'd been painstaking to arrange Brick's things in a facsimile of a summoning circle, complete with a polaroid of piercing red eyes, matching messy hair, and a twisted scowl. The same pair of eyes currently burning through his head with his gaze alone, setting nerves alight as fingers twitch before stilling, a sheepish grin plastering itself over a pallid face.

         ❝ Uh-- Set fire... to the rain... ? ❞