3,000 Years

Merry Madness (March)

Snow melts; flowers bloom. Winter falls; spring rises.

March had always been a time that Elizabeth loved. After the long winter months of stretched out darkness and killer frost, the kind rays of the sun and the newly awakened light was always welcomed pleasantly. To Elizabeth, March was time when all was returning back to normal. New arrivals meant new beginnings and new beginnings meant new experiences to go through and new sights to see. March was new. March was fresh. March was-

"Elizabeth?"

He prods her arm, the limb flopping limply to the side. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Her skin was too cool, her complexion too pale; she was bent at odd angles, crimson stained her wings. He knew what was wrong with her. Dammit, Meliodas knew. But he just didn't want to admit it. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.

He didn't ever want to admit that she was dead.

"Elizabeth!"

......

March quickly sprung into December, December sleepily shifted into May, May excitedly spun into June and June reluctantly rolled into October. Meliodas had been lost without her, lost in his perception of time and space. He no longer aged, no longer changed, no longer faded. He ached. He ached and ached and ached - and no matter how hard he tried, the ache would never go. Never numb. Never change. Like him, the ache was ever-lasting. Ever-present. It wouldn't ever let go.

"Do I...know you?"

A lapse. A reprieve. He sees her one day, as if sent from the heavens, her bright blue eyes narrowed with scrutiny.

She stares down at him, her silver hair naturally curled. In her hands was a spear, the animal skins she wore stretched taught over her skin. Unlike him, she had changed. Morphed. Aged - no, she didn't age. She was the same, the same but different. Oh, so different. Right now, she was a warrior. A fighter. She looked nothing like the Elizabeth he knew - but at the same time she did. She did so much it hurt.

"I'm Meliodas," He blinks, beyond confused. She shares that confusion, that weird feeling of deja vu, but doesn't show it well. She hides it, a trait earned through a life spent with savages and death and suffering.

"Meliodas?" Elizabeth trails off, still awfully wary. Each syllable passes hesitantly on her lips, foreign and completely alien. As if voicing her fear of the unknown, her fingers remain tight around her spear.

This Meliodas was a stranger. A strange stranger. She was always told not to trust strangers. Nevertheless, she still took him back to the tribe - a repeat of their inevitable cycle.

......

October was when time returned. For a while, it ticked and ticked and ticked away like it always did. Days were no longer turbid and arid and dry; months were no longer stretching and distant and far. For the first time since she had gone, since he had held her lifeless form, time had returned to Meliodas. Time ticked normally. October turned into December, December trickled into January and January kicked into March. March...

"Elizabeth!"

It happened again. This time she was taken right in front of him.

"Meliodas!"

And again. A fire.

"You're a strange man, Meliodas. Never growing old."

And again. Like always, again and again and again. Never-ending, never-changing; just like him.

"I picked you flowers!"

Then, another reprieve. Another lapse. Like always, he was given hope, spoon-fed it through a slither of light. False optimism.