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Meliodas is in prison again, with the old goat, several sore limbs, and one hell of a headache. That strange puppet of his is steeping more tea in the corner, a pot of which he’s already been halfway through on the table. Gowther is still smirking at him, that smile that tells you that he knows way more about you than you do and he wants him to fucking stop but you know he won't, not until Meliodas answers his question.
“Tell me again, Meliodas. What did you try to do that ended up with multiple breaks on all four limbs, three cracked ribs, and a concussion, all of which are still visibly trying to heal?” He asked again, but this time instead of the mild concern he showed when he first answered it is being filled with mirth at his expense, and Meliodas would much rather not tell him again. “And speak clearly this time please, I barely heard you over your mumbling the first time.”
“I hit a tree, old man,” he growled this time, not looking at him, “trying to fly with more than one pair of wings.”
The old man doesn’t need to know why, he thought, forgetting the very good reason not to think too hard about things while he’s here.
“He was trying to imitate a Goddess he saw dancing over the moorlands a week ago. The one that he likes,” a third voice said in its strange monotone.
“Oh? Is that so, Gowther?”
Why, why does the puppet with mind magic have to have zero tact?
“And let me guess, you hit the tree trying to do something like you would with the normal set because you thought that it didn’t significantly change your flight, and for some reason or another, that lead to you hitting a stationary object or two,” the old man said with the widest grin he's ever seen on him.
“Yes…” He mumbled again, eyes averted still.
And oh, it pissed him off, and its definitely because he was wrong, just like when he thought he was in love with, much less liked that girl. Because he’s not.
But he looks up and the old man has that other look his eyes, one that he has seen regularly since he started teaching him everything that Chandler didn’t think he needed to know, and the man moves over to the desk in the corner to pull out a roll of parchment and some drawing implements.
His darkness thats always in in his eyes recedes a little, although Meliodas still doesn’t seem to know that this is one of the few things they lighten up for.
“So, my boy, would you like to tell me exactly what it is you tried to do, and ill try to teach you how to make it work next time?” Gowther asked him, already knowing what the adolescent (because Meliodas was still a child, not even 300 years old yet) answer would be.