Work Text:
The story begins long before Aurodon, long before the golden bridge whisks away the best things the Isle had to offer.
It starts with the first sunrise she sees at the Isle, mist swirling around and casting a blanket across the land. There's a new feeling that comes with it, blooming inside her chest as she watches the ever present darkness fade into something brighter, something lighter. She runs back home to ask what it is, why it feels different to when she causes chaos, and is hit by praise when she walks through the door as her eyes somehow glow brighter than anyone thought possible at her age.
Her talks of the foreign emotions are easily dismissed. Mother has seen her potential, has seen what lurks beneath her eyes; the power, strong and visible, and it's no wonder she's strived to become the baddest of the bad, for how could she be anything more than what she was raised to be? A gentle smile never formed, nor a happy childhood- merely a sneer upon a face too young to know the true gravity of missed opportunities.
It starts with tentative bonds being formed in the darkest, most hidden places the villains could find. Mother has a meeting, she'd hear, be as rotten as you can to the kids. Show them who's the boss here. So she goes off to do just that with an apple in her pocket, weaving through the cracks in the interior until she finds the first boy decked in blood red. As soon as he realizes he's been spotted, he pushes himself off the wall he was leaning on, tugs his beanie down, and turns to face his intruder.
He's like her, she notes, taking in his sloppy defensive stance, arms crossed and scarred hands balled into tiny fists. He knows, knows what the people here are capable of, knows what could happen, and the worry on his face makes her wonder how old he really is.
Realistically she knows they're around the same age, but he towers over her a good four inches and she knows she cannot win a physical fight. Instead, she allows her eyes to flash as a warning, displaying the power too many people crave. He relents easily, and she can respect someone who knows not to pick a fight they cannot win. He introduces himself to her, stating his name and his father's, before pushing past her and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Before he makes his exit, he holds up her apple and tosses it back to her. She's not experienced enough to mask her surprise, and he leaves with a smirk on his face. She's angry for a moment before realizing the returned fruit was a robber's way of showing respect.
She leaves then, satisfied with the information she's gotten. He could be a useful ally, she thinks to herself. He's definitely a thief, that's for certain, and it'll do to have some brawn backing her up.
She's moving now, gliding through tunnels too small to fit an adult, and runs into a child with blonde tips. He's small, huddled into a ball by the opening, and crying too softly for her to hear, but the shaking shoulders give him away. Before she can move any closer, a shrill Carlos! echoes down the tunnel and seeps into her bones. The boy's head snaps up, and he stands on wobbly feet before taking off into a sprint towards the voice. The fruit sits heavily in her pocket. Maybe she should've given it to him? He's limping, she notes, before berating herself immediately afterwards. Why should she care? He's scrawny, absolutely malnourished, and could not be of any use. Still, she remembers the name, remembers the black and blue eyes and the face covered in blood and tears (whether the blood was coming from his clearly broken nose or the large gash on his forehead, she does not know), lets the image stay until she hits the alleyway across the markets. There's a girl (young child, really, younger than that boy Carlos) with large glasses and a colorful apron there too, but she scampers off as soon as she notices another presence.
It's only then does she pause to get the oxygen back in her lungs, hands on her knees as she scans the stalls before her. A spot of blue catches her attention, and she's craning her neck to see who it is before the crowd parts and she suddenly has a hard time breathing all over again.
She watches, entranced, as the girl smooth talks to the older man behind a fruit booth. She's smiling prettily, waving around a hand to further dramatize her story, and before she can widen her eyes in surprise, the stall owner is laughing with his head thrown back, congratulating the girl with the shiniest red apple in his bin. He is thanked with a polite tilt of a head, and then the girl is off, fruit in a gloved hand. She's strolling the grounds once more, eying the variety of products they had to offer, before she is stopped by a shiny hook in her path.
He's scruffy and ragged, with a dangerous glint in his eyes that label him a maniac. She scrunches her nose; he's too wild for her tastes, seems too unpredictable to consider an ally. She's drawn back to the scene in front of her as the blue haired girl lowers the hook with her free hand.
He's saying something with a cocky smirk that she can't make out, but the girl leans forward, trailing a hand by his side as she whispers something in his ear that has him blushing like a tomato, smirk dropping off his face. She keeps talking, keeps moving her hand lower until he turns away and breaks into a sprint, too young to be anything but flustered by a pretty girl with the voice of a siren. He leaves the girl chuckling to herself, biting into her apple as he scurries away. As soon as he's out of sight, she pulls a small coin pouch out of her blue sleeve with a flourish, listening to it jingle as she continues chewing.
She's dumbstruck. Not only did the girl manage to get Harry Hook (the soon to be pirate who never had his feathers ruffled) running and blushing like a schoolgirl, but she had even stolen from him.
Who was this girl?
As if fate heard her, brown eyes lock with her own, a flicker of recognition flashing before a smile and a wink is thrown in her direction. Blinking once, then twice more, she prepares to wave her hand in greeting before stopping with a scowl. Instead, she moves her hand to her chest, feeling the rapid beating, and takes all of two seconds to see this girl as a witch who managed to spell her somehow. Why else would she try and greet someone she doesn't even know? Lifting her hand once more, she gives the blue haired girl the finger before huffing and crossing her arms, a show of defiance. She knows magic doesn't work on the Isle, has tried enough times to tell you that herself, but it's the only reasonable explanation as to why her cheeks are glow brighter than her eyes. She's expecting anger from the girl, maybe the gesture back, but instead she does something that throws her off her game completely.
She tilts her head back and laughs, laughs loud enough for her to hear from across the road. Then, she stops, stares her dead in the eyes, before licking her lips slowly.
Her legs wobble and she's staring again, in awe of the girl once more.
Who was she?
The girl brings a hand to cup around her mouth, seemingly ready to call her over.
She panics a little, not wanting to be in too close proximity of the girl (she's seen what it could do in the short amount of time she was watching her), but fortunately the earlier sound brings along another figure, an imposing woman who has the blue clad girl biting her tongue in her haste to stay quiet. The new stranger is covered from head to toe in black and blue, forcing the golden crown on top of her head to stand out. She snatches the apple from the girl, whispers sharply into her ear, and has them walking in another direction in less than a second. Her eyes follow them until they're no longer within view, until the last ray of light stops shining on the girl's tiara.
Tiara. How had she missed it? There was only one princess on this entire island yet she hadn't connected the dots. She even held a grudge for not being invited to her birthday party, obviously not as strong as she once thought considering she still did not remember the brown eyed girl.
(Years later, after she's stopped being angry with the world and still learning to love herself, the princess will sit by her and speak of an evening filled with sweaty palms, redecorated invitations, and a young girl who could not take the possible rejection of the pretty purple haired girl she sees from her window every morning, always too focused on some task to look in her direction.)
Sitting on the ground, she pulls out her long forgotten apple, staring at the shiny surface with a tilted head. The girl is long gone, yet her face still feels warm and the pounding is loud in her ears. A stirring she's only felt once long ago is sitting on her chest, threatening to constrict her lungs. She shakes her head to try and clear it, but the action only brings forth the image of ruby red lips and a laugh too melodic to have come from anywhere near this hellhole. She takes a bite of the fruit in her hands, slowly chewing as she wonders how she can be the baddest of the bad if a girl she barely knows almost brings her to her knees without a single blow.
It starts with a thief, all tall and strong, but can't keep his hands from trembling.
It starts with a boy who has no real reason to love yet carries the biggest heart out of them all.
And it starts with a stick-thin princess unable to grasp the concept of self love.
It begins gradually, through stolen moments she collects like precious artifacts, holding them closely as if they will break at the slightest amount of pressure. Because she knows the story, has read it over a million times, toyed with each and every scenario, yet each time the ending stays the same. When the book finally slams shut, the credits roll and no one, not even Maleficent's daughter can see what will happen.
The story starts and ends with Mal, and nothing can change that. And she knows it, and she had accepted it long ago.