Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     The last two years passed so strangely, somewhere between bliss and despair.

     Maleficent had promised to see Aurora at the christening — but the promise was empty. She could not earnestly maroon her daughter for almost a year, especially once she entered such an important period of her life. Despite the fact that after the marriage Aurora did not cease to be the Queen of the union between the Moors and Perceforest, she spent her pregnancy in the Ulstead palace where she could always retire in her chambers and rely on constant assistance of healers, quacksalver, medical astrologers, midwives and even the clergy. The fairy could hardly restrain herself from arguing with Aurora about it, especially when she had urged her not to meddle in the baby’s matters with any magic until it was born. She certainly had not meant to offend Maleficent by doing so, but the bitter taste remained.

     Still, she tried to visit her girl as frequently as possible — which was nowhere near as often as she would have liked due to affairs on the island that were as ceaseless as they were fruitless.

     The Dark Fae had rushed into open war against Ingrith because they had finally found a leader who would help overthrow human control and lead them to their home on the Moors. Well. Once that human control had fallen like iron shackles, a crown of the Fairy Queen had indeed been donned onto her head —metaphoric as it was, it was pressing on her temples and slipping over her eyes.

     Perhaps Maleficent knew how to lead hordes, knew how to sweep away guards with emerald flame, knew how to fight death. She knew how to build thorn walls and curse humans. But, if almost seventeen years of reigning on the Moors showed anything, it was that Maleficent was not a skilled queen in any other sense.

     Except the Dark Fae had lived in a different place all throughout these seventeen years and never knew about it. And never seen her before. No matter how vigilant silent observers of her fate they imagined themselves to be.

     It has been over a year and a half since that spring morning when she, along with the dawn, had led the wedge of fae flying to the island. And while at first it had seemed that with a prompt move back home everything would settle down and run its course like a river again, these days Maleficent doubted any part of that sentence.

     The first time she had got to stay in the Refuge, the Dark Fae, with Conall and Borra as their leaders, had been ingeminating about returning to the Moors. About it being their last true home, about being connected to it by history reaching back to distant, immemorial past. But that was precisely the problem: the past was distant and immemorial, while the past few decades on the island were still fresh, dear and significant for everyone. And so, once fae were given the opportunity to return to the Moors, many started doubting whether they actually wished to leave.

     No one broached the subject to her, of course — in fact, no one broached any subjects to her, at least any relevant ones. Indeed, the Fae seemed to ween that, with the advent of the mighty Phoenix, they would never have to think about aught again. There was someone to solve all their problems now, after all! There was someone to transfer full power to, to force into making decisions for all Fae. And “all Fae” were quite a discrepant folk.

     The Forest Fae retained some initiative, ready to move soon — unlike their desert, jungle and tundra brethren. The fae of the arid sand-dunes, for one, proceeded to brood over it — and brood over it for aeons, as if they got some of that sand in their brains. While at first they were as keen on the plan, later many noticed that the Moorlands provided no conditions they had been so accustomed to. They found fault with the fact that, unlike savannas and wastelands, the Moors had winter — and not just any winter, but seven whole months of it: with snow, slush, downpours, snowstorms, ice, frozen rivers and January blizzards. And that, unlike it was on the island, there would be no hideaway of their native sands and jungles.

     The Tundra Fae were not afraid of winter. What they objected to was leaving behind important cultural monuments, since many of them remained immortalized in ice or huge rocks. More than anyone else they were connected to something transcending magic itself and seemed scared to leave it all for the good life on the Moors with which they had nothing in common yet.

     In addition, the Fae still feared humans. And that, unlike all the other things, Maleficent could understand.

     During the war, the fae hoped to get rid of their offenders. Instead, they signed an agreement with them — a paper few of them had high opinion about. Paper was just paper, one can always tear it. One can always burn it. Not too long ago burning was all humans were about.

     And they were good at it.

     They were still holding wakes, even now, months later. Many have lost their brothers and sisters, their loved ones. Children have lost their fathers, sometimes even both parents. And although the custom was to sing praises to the past life of the departed, to believe in reunion, or to move on with their life in spite of death, in actuality the loss had left them in sackcloth and ashes. Even the surviving fae seemed but their own remains, having forgotten how to live. Some lingered outside at night like will-o'-the-wisp, circling the air, finding no sleep. They looked more gaunt and tormented by the day, like incorrupt relics. Some, on the contrary, did not leave the house, skipped the fires, and hardly ate. It was impossible to get through to them: they continued to live in the shadow of their own lost past, letting the stolen future pass them by. The older fae — those who lost not their parents, but their children — selflessly repeated that no one died, that the dead were still among them, invisible to everyone, but their speeches was never balm to the soul, only salt to the wound. Still, Maleficent would have preferred that delusional denial to the stark blank stares with which some were found standing on the icy peaks of the island outside, over the raging rocky sea — they were immediately removed from there before despair could throw them down. It got to a point that some began to suffer real physical pains even the healing magic of the Phoenix could do little to help. There is no cure for an aching soul.

     Maleficent could not help but be affected. Not when so many needed her help. After all, since the Fae grew to be so few, and those who remained could hardly pull off any work, all the vital processes arranging within the island froze like a river in winter. Not only because none had the strength to go, but also because many were not so sure anymore as to where and why they were going. And now everyone was waiting for her to decide for them and lead the way. The song of life that used to play inside stopped, and no one knew how to finish it — so they were expecting her to sing.

     Maleficent could not help but be affected. Many had decided that the demise of so many fae was an omen of what’s yet to come. That nothing good awaits them on the Moors. That they cannot live next to humans. At least not now and not in the near future. So they waited and waited and waited and thought and waited — and wasted, wasted, wasted her time.

     Maleficent could not help but be affected. Even though she knew she had the long end of the stick. She could have been among those remained on the other side of this huge river forevermore, but her mysterious magnificent pedigree had snatched her from the clutches of death and thrown her into the revitalizing fire. And she could say that, unlike the other Fae, she had not lost anyone.

     Except Conall died for her sake.

     And she had known Flittle and Leaf all her life.

     And she could not stop thinking about it.

     Staring into the twilight, she would see the midnight on which Conall had been killed, icy and heartless; as she watched the rising sun, she would remember the gold that had enveloped her when he had died. The gold in his eyes when he’d said he believed in her — why did he say that? Has she done anything worthwhile, was she anything but a handful of ashes? She could n0t even save him — or anyone.

     She could not stop thinking about it.

     All the flowers smelt like tomb blooms, all food tasted like gunpowder. When the fae were sitting round the fires, in groups, in handfuls — she would think about them still. When she was asked for help with harvesting, or distributing water, or teaching tiny fae how to fly, or deciphering old artefacts, or whatever else — she would think about them anyway. When she was asked to cure someone who could not be cured and she tried anyway — she would think about them. Flying every week or so to the palace to visit her daughter, looking at the soldiers for whom nothing seemed to have changed — she could only think about them.

     Maleficent tried to help them all, but the more she tried, the more she saw how these attempts were doomed to failure, the less she knew how to help herself. She had been living among the Fae for more than a year, and to this day she felt like a stranger. An outsider, a third-party supreme observer. These people were subject to her — yet she felt inferior and stupider than all of them. Even at these evening fires, the fae would nestle together — while she, just like the first time, would sit far off in sublime, deferential loneliness, as if death had overtaken her after all. As if she’d not fallen to the ground, reborn, and was not supposed to have learnt to live this life right at least after that.

     Everything was stark in ice. Nobody moved, nobody did anything on the Island. The human side was quieter still, as if for them there had been no war at all — and what was happening on the Moors, Maleficent had little idea these days. She would check from time to time, but the human attacks had stopped, and there was nothing to defend the Moors from. It was living its own life, unbearably distant all of the sudden. And she would fly to the island again: to listen to complaints, and laments, and doubts, to try to give advice about things she did not understand, to make decisions for those who no longer knew themselves, and then return to her cave, into cold solitude, sleep with one eye open and start over in the morning.

     She hated being there. She was ashamed every minute she was not there. So she would go back.

     And even when shortly after the wedding Aurora said that she was with child, when it had seemed that life had triumphed over death, the news had only added to her worries.

     All in all, for those nine-plus months she would see her family no more than once every couple of weeks — even less often in case with Diaval. And they would only cross paths in Aurora’s quarters or in the web of corridors of the palace: she rarely used them, having the privilege of bursting through any balcony windows, but Diaval would trail along them and must have memorised them just like he had with the castle of Perceforest. They would gather, the three of them — or four, if that obnoxious boy ingeniously chimed in as the spouse of their daughter — and would fish out tired hackneyed phrases and empty questions from each other, strenuously pretending that nothing was straitening them. Phillip had assumed partial responsibility for the affairs of the Union while his wife was in a vulnerable state, and, unless busy, would only ever talk about that. Aurora would speak either about the baby and upcoming matters, or about her own well-being, which was undoubtedly important and yet only upsetting, since Maleficent had been forbidden to provide the necessary and useful help. She herself would not share the affairs on the island, because they were not anyone’s business. Diaval would either spit nervous, ill-timed jokes, or would be generally uncharacteristically silent and simply watch them, despite being not a raven in the window but an equal member of the conversation. Often, if Phillip was not around, he would drive all the maids away and diligently take their place, helping Aurora sit more comfortably or passing necessary items and sweets from the table. If for some reason the queen was the one to leave, he would crack Maleficent a crooked smile and sit down next to her.

     Then he would ask how she was doing. She would reply that everything was fine — a small falsehood he would not be able to test. There was no point in sincerity — what could it lead to? He would have found out about the slightest problem and would have asked to come along to the island — but he was the last person that place was missing.

     In addition, he was hardly still her servant and was not obliged to follow her upon heels to distant lands — just as she could no longer bid him to do so. Of course, he would certainly comply... and what then?

     And so, if he was really trying to pry some news out of her, his attempts would be fruitless, which, apparently, irked him. Otherwise, she could not quite explain his edginess, his inquisitive looks, his strange signs of attention. Back then, at least, she could not.

     In this manner passed the months of waiting for the child and came the terrible day of its birth. Nothing ill happened to the child, however — despite all the efforts of literally everyone around it. Maleficent had been warned in advance and, having quarrelled with almost every Fae on end, she stayed in Ulstead not for a day, as per habit, but for a whole week, every second of which passed in languishing, heavy expectation. One morning they were informed that there it was — it began — and the dumbfounded, frightened Aurora was taken to a far off room with an enormous lavish bed and countless rags. She was followed by a procession of a midwife and her assistant, someone with a huge basin of warm water, honey and ointments. But she herself was not admitted under any pretext, and she remained, the most powerful sorceress of the kingdom, behind closed doors.

     And thus commenced hours, endless hours, when she could do nothing but listen to her child screaming and crying behind the wall. A bloodcurdling sound, replaced only by the muttering of Phillip, also escorted out into the corridor, as he was quietly praying by the window — and by some unfathomable moment when a small red head suddenly appeared from behind the door and urged everyone present to open cabinet doors and open curtains — to help the cause. Someone outside the window earnestly offered to shoot an arrow into the sky — and even took out a bow. If no one was screaming, then the seconds would pass in eerie silence, no matter how many moments it lasted. Even Diaval did not say a word in all those hours.

     It was endless nightmare. When, after a moment’s silence, a deafening cry of a child pierced the air, plunging everyone into indescribable awe, it seemed that the nightmare was about to end — but it was only gaining momentum.

     Humans were disgusting creatures.

     Instead of leaving the child with its own mother in the first seconds of its life, it was tightly wrapped and laid in a dark cradle in the corner of the room. Instead of visiting his wife who had accomplished a feat and miraculously come out alive, Phillip suddenly rushed to gather the godparents, led the midwife with this tiny red creature in her arms out of the chamber and towards the church, where, it would seem, a monstrous crime against an entire nation had been committed not too long ago. But that was not the point.

     Maleficent and Diaval only had time to share a glance and agree almost without words to split up. The fairy could not bear leaving her daughter with no one by her side, as well as leave the baby unattended, so Diaval, skirting the maids overcrowing right there in the corridor, darted into the room to their girl while Maleficent took off into the evening sky to the church entrance where the priest was standing.

     He, following the same inconceivable logic, first inquired whether the child had already been baptized, and only then, having received a negative answer, did he consider asking whether it was a boy or a girl. Only then did Maleficent find out that it was a girl. This little bundle, wrapped in coarse white linen, hidden from her eyes, was a little girl.

     Then the priest decided to go even further and, turning a blind eye to the cries of the barely born child, put some salt on her lips and asked the godparents if they knew the main prayers. And only after that did he bother to let them inside — in case of Maleficent, only after a murderous look in his direction, proving that sometimes a christening in a church is exactly a place for a fairy to be, this one in particular.

     Inside it was cool, dark, but not empty at all — seated on the pews on both sides of the were people whom Maleficent was seeing for the first time in her life, each so bedizened she could tell they had not spent the day worrying about their child dying in accouchement. The priest anointed the baby’s face with something shiny, then dipped her into the water, and then called her name.

     Mairead. Pearl. She liked it.

     The child was wrapped in a covering shimmering with pearls, and then the godparents approached the altar to read prayers. The fairy was no longer listening — only watching Phillip carefully hold his daughter in his arms, his eyes never off her. Looking at his face, one might even decide that this entire terrifying day never happened at all — so luminous it was.

     He was not the only one, though. Diaval, who had made his way towards her through the joyful crowd that had risen, also looked well-shaken and, as always, smiled crookedly, his black eyes glimmering. In a barely audible voice, he told her that Aurora was fine, there were no complications, and she felt all right, albeit exhausted. He had left her for a well-deserved sleep, her most faithful maid at her side. Squinting at the altar, he heartily complained that with all this church buffoonery he never even got the chance to look at the child.

     But Maleficent, for the first time since dawn, was able to breathe in peace. It was like a stone fell from her soul. As agonising as Aurora's absence was, as infuriating it was that a barely-born baby had been put through all those nasty procedures — winter chill, water, salt on her lips, crowds of strangers — she was glad to be there. It seemed that they were again watching as something was irrevocably changing before their very eyes — hers and Diaval's.

     Looking at his face, she could tell they were of the same mind.

     Apparently, on the eve of such an important event for the kingdom the raven had been dragged to a long session with the ladies-in-waiting: he had had his hair cut and preened and, by the looks of it, a new dress suit tailored. He was sporting a doublet superbly embroidered with silver thread, the patterns and buttons dazzling in the flickering candle flames. There were no feathers, so it looked especially tight-fitting and formal, especially with that high collar and suede inserts. To her surprise, he looked older — in a good way. Maybe he had gained some weight, or had his hair cut smart, or his eyes somehow changed — not all that different, just... Each time he looked at her, it was as though trying to telepathically convey everything he had been keeping back for the last few months. And his looking... When not trying to catch a glimpse of the baby or to cast his ‘spy’ look upon those present, he would only look at her. And while the lass was graced with omnifarious gifts, he stayed right next to her, just like before.

     She was glad to see him. She was glad that he was with her that day. Apparently he had been, too.

     Yes. Apparently he had been, too.

     Because the most persistent of the guests finally parted, and one after the other flew the days — the wee babe’s first days in the new world and the Maleficent’s last days in Ulstead before her next departure. Aurora often needed help yet would ask for complete privacy with the child, driving everyone and everything away.

     Because an event like this had nevertheless loosened the tongues of both Diaval and Maleficent, and they spent the remaining couple of evenings in each other's company in the room allocated to them on the balcony, talking about nothing special, and then about something special.

     And then... And then, to cut a long story short, they almost kissed.

     They were sitting in that stupid dark room and talking and making up for over ten months that had separated them, and he, as always, was cracking jokes and laughing at them himself with that terrible coughing laugh she had missed, and she groped for his hand. He smelled of pine and snow. And he said he had missed her.

     There was something else, she could not remember — or rather, she could, perfectly, but she did not want to. Something about her birthday — just around the corner. About some plans. About the time they could spend together.

     He asked her not to leave.

     And while she, painfully squeezing his hand, tried hard to figure out what to answer him, he tilted his head to her.

     She liked that he was sitting so close that she could feel his breath. Looking back, she seemed to even have known for a second what he was about to do. But the moment it finally dawned on her, before he could open his mouth to ask consent, she only fired out a no and whisked aside, pushed off and away.

     And then those excruciating suffocating moments of a thundering heart, of panting, ‘what have you done’, ‘what have you done’...

     Diaval begged for forgiveness, but it did not help, it made everything worse — if he was apologizing, then he knew that he was doing a wrong thing, knew he was wrong, knew she could not...

     She did not let him come near. She did not let him say another word. Fortunately, it was the last night before her departure. She left at daybreak.

     Back then — and for some time after that, some dark, evil time — she thought he had ruined everything. There were rules to their game, even though they had never been negotiated and after so many years they were as solid as a path drawn on sand off the sea. But rules they were — so fragile, but rules nonetheless. And then he had knocked her on the ground.

     It would seem love has long proved to be the longest blind torture in her life. It would seem she has long worked out what is what. And yet he managed to enshroud her like a cloud in the sky, and capture her with his... his delicate force, his dangerous gaze, his gift for filling any space with warmth, especially her heart. Yes, maybe he was able to capture her, charm her — and how dare he! How cruel he was to do this to her, knowing full well she could no longer afford this dirty game that love forever remained for her to be.

     And, yes, back then she had felt like he had destroyed everything, having crossed this line, having made the first move. And she had saved herself with the last of her strength by not believing him, leaving him, not accepting his gambit.

     Days, weeks later, when she came to her senses, she suspected that she had probably ruined everything, too. With each endless day that flowed like a sea, more and more it felt that in this sea she was a sailor who had moored for the night in a port city, met someone there, and the next morning returned to the salty waters, leaving him on the shore.

     That did not mean she was going to apologize. In fact, that meant that from now on she tried her best not to meet Diaval at all anymore.

     For many months the plan worked well, too well. Although both of them would visit the mother and her child, growing by the hour, in all this long time she did not see the raven even once — not even a receding shadow or a hoarse voice bouncing off the walls. If Aurora suspected something, she never directly demanded an explanation. Judging by the fragments of her phrases, Diaval had some kind of convincing excuse for such tactics. Maybe they both were silently working on this schedule, appearing only in turns, like squares on a chessboard.

     For months the plan was working well, even though she felt like a clay figurine slowly drying and turning to sand from the thoughts that would drive her into a stupor. Was been it the wrong time? Had Diaval taken his gamble at least a little later, would it have turned out differently? Had he come along to the island all those moons ago? Had she stayed on the Moors? Would she do anything if he tried again, if he gave it another go, one more chance? What if, on the contrary, he pretends as though nothing important had happened? What if it is nothing important to him? What if he turns away completely, becomes estranged? What if all this had not happened at all, if he had not said anything? If there had not been twenty years of friendship between them to have let this happen?

     For all the sorcery Maleficent has done, there was no villain more wicked than nature, as it gave her eyes to see everything that was sailing past her imaginary ship — everything that could have been. Obstructions to her line of vision were but the oncoming waves and tides: affairs on the island and endless worries, which she wanted to get rid of so much that even the distant, wingless, boring quiet life in the marshy bosks was perhaps a good memory. Who would have thought she would ever miss those times — the times when she at least knew what she was doing.

     For several months the plan worked well: short flights to Aurora and Mairead. A tiny tot with dark locks and huge light eyes, amazingly inquisitive. Always something in the fist or in the mouth: sleeves of dresses, noses of toys, wooden tools or black feathers. A dangerous thing — she once had to diligently take it away. The apple fell not far from the tree. Maleficent could no longer pity Diaval for anything else, so she pitied him for that.

     And the island. Shrouded one day, simmering the next.

     For several months the plan had worked well, and then came cold, slushy, frosty, snowless November.

     November had Mairead's name day coming up.

     By that big day Maleficent has completely turned into a shadowboxer — she was expecting a blow from any side and therefore was swinging her fists into the void. And although she tried to ground herself — what’s gone is gone, and what was coming was already on its way — it was all to no avail. She did not want to see Diaval. She really wanted to see him, but did not want to meet him. She wanted to meet him and not talk to him. She wanted to tell him everything that was on her mind.

     In the end, she did set off with the dawn, and by noon it turned out that Diaval was not even the biggest problem.

     As ever, it was humans.

     Unlike it was with the christening, the venerable parents have decided to keep little Mairead's name day away from castles and servants, in a cottage where three genial silly pixies and their golden-haired niece once lived. Aurora had long intended to visit the old hut and was even going to get some of her childhood items and sentimental trifles to pass down to her baby. Therefore, instead of a solemn celebration, it was meant to be a sit-round gathering for the closest ones.

     Silly them.

     Instead, all the Moors, half of Perceforest, and almost as many busybodies from Ulstead gathered at the hut which used to barely accommodate four. Landing in front of all this screaming ceremonial, Maleficent could already tell she would not last long. 

     Inside was no better. Some Perceforest misunderstood genius was chanting congratulatory songs that were making food get stuck in her throat, the Moors’ small fry kept getting under her feet, and Maleficent could hardly squeeze through, even with wings tucked in. In addition to fair folk and the troubadour, present were Aurora’s faithful maid, a dressed-up jester and several ubiquitous guards — for all their stern stupid mugs, they kept letting inside humans completely unfamiliar to her. Most of the furniture had been carried into the backyard through the postern, leaving but a huge table laden with viands against the far wall. And even this way the place was stuffed to the gills.

     She found Aurora. She was holding her daughter — more a clockwork toy than a bairn: she was always spinning, flailing her arms, dropping a rag doll on the floor and begging for it back. Although it would have been endearing under any other circumstances, now it was adding to the already unquenchable rumble. Aurora, being Aurora, smiled from ear to ear, greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

     “Oh, hello! I'm so glad to see you! My apologies, I can’t hug right now,” she laughed, holding Mairead in her arms. “A little more visitants than we anticipated, am I right?” she smiled, glancing about, and yet Maleficent noticed the nervous arch of her eyebrow. “I believe it was a good call to bring a few cooks along — everyone can eat up. By the way, you have to taste the food, they— Mairead, come on now,” she frowned when the babe said goodbye to her toy again, only to crave it at once. “They should be done with the pudding right about now. It’s a pear pie, yours and Father’s favourite! We'd better tell them we need more— Mairead!”

     Maleficent peered behind Aurora’s back into the kitchen corner, where a couple of cooks were puffing, poring over the stove, enveloped in steam and heat — and against their background she spotted a black figure standing sideways to her.

     Of course, it was at this moment that he turned his head in her direction.

     Diaval's eyebrows shot up.

     Damn.

     “I’d better hold her while you do it,” Maleficent sentenced herself — and in a moment received a screaming wailing child heartlessly separated from her mother, into her arms. “Not in my ear, if you will.”

     But there could be no negotiating with a child — she dropped the toy again, and Maleficent magically picked it back up and dusted it off. Moreover, the fairy was left perilously open to anyone peeping from the other side of the house — the way someone was right now — and she, driven by her burning cheeks and weakened legs, moved away as far as the tiny space of the hut would allow. Meanwhile the songster was pushed off the pedestal and replaced by a jester. The purpose of the latter immediately became clear — the princess in her hands all but leaped out of her grip with glee. And then at once, out of nowhere and at her feet, came a horde of human children, some in brocade, some in rags, and stopped with gaping mouths. Maleficent was stuck like a tree struck by lightning among the grass, except that said grass was also singing and dancing to the most monstrous music invented by humankind.

     Naturally, Princess Mairead joined the choir. Even a tight bandage over the ears did not save the fairy. In addition, overwhelmed with delight, she dropped the doll again — Maleficent did not even notice until someone pulled her by the hem of her dress and held out a plump hand. Maleficent crouched to get the toy — and when she got up, there was a person standing behind her.

     “That’s her, that’s Maleficent!” said a man she had never seen in her life. He nudged an overdressed pink boy. “Can you turn my son into something?”

     “What? ...”

     “Transform me!”

     “I do not transform... children,” found Maleficent at last. “Certainly not on someone’s orders—”

     “Maleficent!” whirred right in her ear. She only had time to look up — Thistlewit was fluttering over her head. “Maleficent, King John is looking for you—”

     “Mother!” came from the other side. “I hate to interrupt, but could you kindly keep an eye on the kitchen, please? It's Mairead’s feeding time, I'll have to go upstairs. Prithee!” She pursed her lips, and Maleficent carefully handed the child to her mother. Her ears were still buzzing.

     Surprisingly, even after that, the human duo did not disappear.

     “Any beast would do!” assured the father. “My son worships you!”

     “Worships? Should I tell the Church?”

     “Transform me!”

     “I only obey the Queen,” Maleficent said and waded towards the kitchen, pocketing the forgotten toy, past the parting children, the jester, fluttering whistling pixies, past the noise outside and the music inside, past the maid hurrying after Aurora and skirting the fairy — and someone who resolutely did not move out of her way till the very last and crashed into her shoulder, and who — “Look where you’re going—!” — and who turned out to be Diaval, staring in her wake, dumbfounded.

     She did the right thing by immediately turning away and quickening her pace.

     The scullery was its own peculiar chaos. The two cooking ladies were hardly managing, and Maleficent knew too little about cuisine to know exactly which spell to use. Something smelt suspiciously bitter.

     “We can help!” Thistlewit chirped above her head.

     “Darling, don't!” Knotgrass interrupted. “Surely you remember what happened that time we were baking a cake for Aurora’s sixteenth birthday—”

     “That was only because Flittle was the one baking it!” she squeaked, but fell silent at the mention of Flittle. Damn. They were all still not used to it.

     Irritated to the tips of her fingers, Maleficent watched the cooks’ hands move, one kneading the dough and the other cutting the cheese. She still smelt something.

     “By the way, Maleficent, King John is loo—”

     “I see you're not busy with anything — you could transform him right now!" came from behind her. She nearly smacked the man with her wing — given enough space, she might as well smack him.

     “Transform me!” shouted the boy, chewing on something. Maleficent leaned closer to his cheeky face.

     “I only transform humans when I'm angry,” she hissed. “You don't want to anger me, do you?”

     “I do!”

     His whim drowned in a startled scream and a sigh of one of the cooks — in a second, with trembling, flour-stained hands, she pulled out from under the oven what probably five minutes ago was a pie. Heavens…

     “Give me that!” Maleficent barked, about to snatch the baking sheet from these sad sacks — but then felt not only the usual, but the magical heat on her hands, and the order changed. “Put it down!”

     They obediently left the platter on the table, and for a moment she was left alone with the burnt masterpiece. Only for a moment.

     “At last I found you!” came at her shoulder — and King John materialized nearby. “Always such a pleasure seeing you. You know, I just wanted— Oh my God!” he cried, staring at the culinary arts before him.

     “We were just trying to help!” Thistlewit squeaked.

     “Help?!” breathed the king. “But you wrecked havoc! I know you are barbaric forest creatures, but still—”

     “Hey! I recall you promised my son a transformation!”

     “Transform me!”

     “All right, all right, we shall put it aside for the time being. In fact, I have long wanted to ken... You see, virtually two years have passed, and—”

     “We'll save the pie!”

     “—and I wanted to ken whether you perhaps have any plans to turn my wife—”

     “Transform me!

     “—back into a human?”

     “Don't touch it, Thistlewit!”

     “Um, Father, have you seen Aurora by any chance?”

     “She's upstairs, Your Highness! Knotgrass, we must—”

     “You see, I consummately understand, she committed... a genuinely unpleasant... act...”

     “What is she doing upstairs?”

     “Transform me!”

     “…and we did not optate to take this matter to Lickspittle behind your back, especially since—”

     "It's just one spell, what's the worst that could happen?”

     “—it doesn’t cost you anything, just one transformation…”

     “Transform me!”

     “What's going on?”

     “Just one spell, just one transformation!”

     “Transform me!”

     “Just one transformation!”

     “Transform me!”

     “Just—”

     “Transform me! Transform me! Transform—”

     “Enough!!!”

     She hardly recognized her own voice. As if in a storm, first a lightning flashed through the room, a green squall radiance, and then rumbled the thunder born in her throat. A flurry of clamour came along: someone's astonished gasps and shrieks, the clang of a baking sheet going ruining to the floor, some kind of piercing inhuman squeal.

     And then everything fell quiet, as after falling into deep water. Even the buzzing in her ears was gone. For a second, everything was just that: the astonished faces of humans, alert fair folk — and then a pig grunt resounded at her feet.

     The sire, with a frozen smile on his face, stared at his changed child, the kids huddled, the newly-made piglet spun in place, brushing the baking sheet and the pie on the floor. Somewhere behind them all, leaning on the arch between the rooms with a lazy smile, was the jester.

     Jester. This is who she has become. What was placed on her head as a crown became a jester's cap.

     “Are you all right?”

     She knew whose voice it was. It was the last person she wanted to hear.

     With undisguised contempt, she looked at the swine, at his father, at everyone present. She slapped her sides. Serves them right. Serves them all right.

     Forward, forward — she marched to the back exit, past the parting crowd and the flour-showered cooks, out. The door swung open with a bang — and with the same bang it slammed shut.

     She stepped out into a cold November day, into the company of furniture moved outside — some noise in the distance came and immediately stopped, some dark spot stirred and disappeared behind the wall. Must be one of the frightened humans running away. No matter. She needed a respite. A very long respite before—

     The door creaked. Damn.

     “Unbelievable.”

     Thank heavens, it was Diaval. At least he... Enmity turned to relief.

     “Tell me about it!” she spun around, scowling. “That crazy human scum—”

     “I am talking about you.”

     Obviously, relaxing even for a moment was a mistake.

     “So this is all my fault?” the fairy hissed.

     “Is this truly how you wished to spend this day? ...”

     “I didn't wish to spend this day in any way—”

     “…Turning children into pigs? Are you even going to turn him back?”

     “No!” Maleficent grinned, standing up straighter, even the autumn chill failing to cool her blood, to stop the noise in her ears. “I am not turning anyone back! It was a one-time offer, a deal of a lifetime!”

     “Oh, so that’s how it works now?” Diaval suddenly shouted — she even turned around. “That I can believe! Thank you very much!” he spat, throwing up his hands, his eyes burning. He walked over to the open chest. “Since when do you play low tricks left and right?”
“Since I was born! Or have you forgotten whom you are addressing?”

     “Could have forgotten by now, to be honest!” he muttered, peering, and only a second later lowered his head. He ran the toe of his shoes over the chest. “What the hell is your problem? Why not just spend time with everyone?”

     “What is my problem?” the fairy simmered. “Apart from the fact that I am being pulled in all directions all day?”

     “Well, perhaps…” he trailed off. “Perhaps it truly is not what you’re used to, but it’s not that—”

     “Oh no, I am perfectly used to it! That is the only way I live!” Maleficent yelled. She almost liked being right. Diaval raised his head. “But how can I expect you to understand?” she shrugged — and threw a hand towards him. “That is what you have always wanted — for everyone to live happily ever after — haven't you? For everyone to use me as they please!”

     “Forsooth, that is exactly what I’ve always wanted,” the raven gave a joyless laugh. “My heart’s desire, isn’t it.”

     “What is my problem, you ask?” echoed Maleficent, bristling as she stared ahead at the distant black tree line of the Moors. Where they should have returned almost a year ago. And yet. “All I want is for everything to go back to the way it used to be!” she managed. The simmering gave way to boiling. “Before I became a puppet in the hands of anyone who finds me! When I could do whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want, to my heart’s content! And not constantly burden myself thinking about what others will think or feel, or what every step I take will mean to others! Or what I am doing wrong! When I was not controlled by humans, not influenced by Fae, not ordered around by my former servants! All I want is to be left alone!”

     Diaval twitched.

     “Everyone has already left you alone!” he cried, frowning as he took a step forward. “For almost two years!”

     “You don't understand what you are talking about.”

     “I don’t understand?”

     “And you have no right to speak to me like this.”

     “Really? I have no right? I don’t?” Diaval's voice quavered as though he choked on air. “Have I right to speak to you in the first place, I wonder?” he grinned. Shook his head, “I have no ri— Yet you have the right to do anything! For all your being pulled in all directions!” he took a step forward. “You can visit your pregnant daughter only when you feel like it, you can leave your own country without a Guardian! You can leave me without wings for a whole year, leave me a human!” He stepped forward — she stepped back. He stepped back too. Pursed his lips. She turned away. “You can avoid me all along, not say a single word to me all year, brush past me like we don’t know each other!”

     “I’d rather we didn't know each other!” she fired, facing about, throwing up her hands. “I’d rather not know any of you! All of you!”

     Diaval froze in place and exhaled. Wonderful. End to this nasty dance. Checkmate.

     “...You don’t mean that,” he said only in his normal, if not particularly hoarse, voice. 

     Maleficent smiled.

     “Oh, I do.”

     Diaval remained standing. His gaze flickered across her face (Ha! As usual. As in the old days), but he frowned and tore it away.

     “As you wish,” he tossed — and then turned around and walked back inside.

     Finally. Now it was all over for sure. Now it was just Maleficent and the long-awaited silence. Cold fresh silence of the overtaking winter for a self-igniting bird. She took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of steam. It did not help. She was still angry. She could not stand that cursed ramshackle any longer.

     A blink of an eye — and the fairy soared into the air. Higher, higher, away from here, up.

     For a whole hour the autumn dark clouds were cooling her down — a minute more and her nose, fingers and wings would have completely frozen. Then she landed in the middle of the Moors and went for a walk. The sky was like iron — a dismal, shiny grey of an approaching thunderstorm — she could already feel the chill sinking to the ground. But no matter how cold it was outside, inside everything was still bubbling and smoking, as in a cauldron with a brewing potion. Some people just had to pry every possible feeling out from her!

     She kicked the stone in front of her, watching it fly off a step — and be in front of her feet in a second again. She kicked it once more.

     If this feathered oaf expected her to be an exemplary kind pixie, then he had another thing coming. Hell! Unprecedented audacity! He has been free for a twinkling, and there he goes thinking she is the one doing his bidding now! She is a Dark Fay, a Phoenix, after all, a bird on fire!

     The stone lay before her again, soulless and hard. She picked it up and threw it away without aiming.

     Someone screamed.

Chapter Text

     Someone screamed.

     Maleficent twitched, looked around, peered into the distance, but found no one. Soon enough the cry rang out again, hoarse yet piercing, “Help! Please! Oh please, someone! Anyone!”

     With a sneaking suspicion of whom she was about to see, the fairy crossed the gray slush-bound clearing and landed next to a tree. Two sharp ears were sticking out at its roots. Her guess was confirmed.

     The sorceress had only met Lickspittle once before, on Aurora's ill-fated wedding day. This goblin appeared out of nowhere right next to her when she shifted back after plummeting from the tower, and handed her the spindle — the very weapon of retribution that had to be destroyed in order to restore freedom to all who deserved it. She had not known the first thing about him, and she had not been interested in finding out — but rumours about the identity of this big-eared dwarf got wind fast.

     To begin with, he was, in fact, not a goblin or a dwarf, but a pixie, although he did not look much like one. To be frank, Maleficent doubted she had met anyone of his kind on the Moors. But a pixie he was, which made it all the more astounding that he had worked for Queen Ingrith for so long, devotedly devising weapons against his own people. No matter his motivation, no matter the hearsay regarding his deal with the queen spreading all over the Moors like fog, she could not completely forgive him — nor could the Fair Folk, who seemed to shun him even now, since he was so helplessly stuck in the roots.

     She raised her arm — and with it, damp, dirty roots burst out of the ground, releasing their prisoner. He was lying still, his eyes shut.

     “How does one even get stuck in here?” she said in a sonorous voice. Two ears twitched nervously.

     “Maleficent?” he gasped, his eyes like saucers. “What are you doing here?”

     “What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’? I live here!” the fairy shouted. “I am not dead yet!”

     “But—”

     “Get out or get crushed!”

     Lickspittle squirmed in place, skidding through the sticky brown mess as he scrambled out from under the trap. Standing up to his full height — barely reaching her waist — he showed her all his innumerable teeth in a wide smile of gratitude. Even as he crawled out into the light, he seemed mired down. Maleficent saved him from this trouble with a wave of her hand — the back of his doublet was clean again, and then the fairy noticed two bumps on his back. Her wings tingled.

     There it was, the only reason why the Guardian of the Moors had not thrown the traitor out of her lands when he had beseeched to come back. He was stripped of his wings. She could not refuse him. He had suffered enough.

     However, she was not going to make small talk with him. She could not do it anyway. That short lesson never got its continuation. So, leaving the rescued victim to his glee, she turned around to resume her angry procession.

     Naturally, it was not meant to be.

     “Wait, wait up!” yelled Lickspittle in her wake. She heard some desperate squelching and quickened her pace. “Where are you going?”

     “Nowhere.”

     “What a coincidence, we are heading the same way! Just kidding, just kidding. Ha-ha,” he rubbed his hands. He reached one out to her, “In all honesty, I am going home — I live quite close now, pretty much in the next hut, a beautiful place. And, you know,” he looked up, “something tells me that we’re in for a thunderstorm... I reckon everything is conducive to waiting out the bad weather under the roof. Let's not wet your pretty wings. I can even treat you with a thing or two.” He gave a crooked smile — and, when she eyed him, apologetically put out his palms, “It’s the least I can do in exchange for your saving my life.”

     Ha! She had once been granted much more. Once upon a time... Before he... Before both of them... Before they lost their heads, and...

     “Of course, I’ll understand if you decline, given that we aren’t exactly on a friendly footing… And you must be busy with today’s event…”

     And to think that he had once been her servant! And now he dares flout her! Dares lord it over her! That blasted bird! He just…

     “…and you, being the Phoenix and the Guardian of the Moors, the leader of the Dark Fae, must always have lots of things to—”

     “I am available,” she said.

     And ten minutes later they were in his shack.

     More precisely, she was calling his dwelling a shack to herself until she went inside. Once she finally straightened herself out of the crouched position she assumed to crawl through the front door, she could only stare around, bereft of speech.

     She had never seen such an elaborately designed space. Although the door was tiny, the ceilings in his hut were royally high — and each wall was taken by huge dark cabinets crammed with all sorts of things. In the twilight that reigned inside, she could barely tell anything, but she could make out thick woven book spines tumbled on one side, bouquets of flowers looking down sadly from a vase like drooping heads, a whole pile of packages, herbs and stones catching beads of light, another pile of bundles and jars — lots of jars. A heavy smell hung in the air.

     “Watch out!” came at her feet — and Lickspittle flew — nay, drove? — in front of her. The air crackled and rumbled. The pixie was standing on some kind of bizarre pedestal with a handrail, deftly handling the lever. One! — and he drove off to the side. Two! — he went up, as though by magic, grabbed something from the upper shelves in his clawed hands. Three! — with the same crash, whistle and clang, the contraption descended and moved in the opposite direction, to the table.

     “Weren’t you through with all this?” the fairy called after him — he stopped at a huge long tabletop. There was not an inch of empty space on it — but there were scales and weights, magnifiers for every eye and taste, huge clay pots and cast-iron trays, candles and lamps, flasks and feathers. Stacks and bundles, mortars and pestles, corks and lids, tongs and tweezers. Books left opened, with sweeping black letters and blots on the pages were laying next to a huge lens on straps and some kind of leather mask. He pulled it over his nose and mouth, hooked on his huge ears, and rubbed his hands, warming himself.

     “Oh, I've only just begun!” shouted the owner of all this nonsense. He took something from the table and, driving aside, tossed it into the hearth hitherto hidden in the darkness, stroke a pair of stones — and almost immediately gave life to a fire. He returned to the workbench. “Now I can finally do what I want, do my searching freely!”

     Maleficent stepped forward to the table, ducking under the jugs hanging from the ceiling. She had better watch her wings and horns. And this is where she is to be wined and dined?

     “And what exactly are you searching for? The philosopher’s stone?”

     “Ha-ha! No, something far more exciting,” he wiggled his ears — and then moved away again and returned with a book picked up from the table. He flipped through a couple of pages. “Alchemists have some interesting stuff to offer, though… For example,” he reached for a huge convex lens and directed it over the page, holding the book out between the two of them. The picture suddenly became large and shiny. “Here, look at this little abomination.”

     What she was looking at was a green circle with a head.

     “Ouroboros!” Lickspittle declared. “A serpent that devours its own tail. It symbolizes eternity, infinity, the circle of life and death, self-destruction, constant rebirth and dyi—”

     “Enough!” Maleficent shoved the book right in his hand — he staggered. “Another word about eternity, infinity or rebirth and I shall strangle someone,” she said, glaring at the tome. She would have tossed it into the boiling cauldron too, but that might ruin the taste. She has not eaten a crumb at the party. “I remember being promised a spread.”

     Lickspittle smiled. Small white teeth.

     Using a lever as though it were his hand or wing, he glided from one side of the table to another, folding, heaping, throwing away until there was enough room for at least two saucers. An orchestra of glass bottles, marble mortars, and gnashing wood played along to the gurgling of the cauldron and the pleasant aroma coming from there that partially killed the strange stench. She almost liked it here. There were no large windows — or medium ones, for that matter — but the clouds must have parted a little, and even the sun came out. Gold seeped into the room, and the wood seemed warmer, as well as the inscriptions on book spines — and as for the cullen skink that he proudly served them and the scones going with it, they all seemed yellow and ruddy.

     “Bon appétit!” he said then, turning his peculiar machine so that its handrail became the back of a chair. She sat down on a low stool across from it, her wingtips brushing the dust on the floor. Even doubled over, she was a couple of heads taller than him.

     The potatoes were quite tolerable, the haddock gave off a pleasant smoky taste, everything was just right. All that was missing was some good ale. But she was not going to drink from a stranger’s jug.

     Lickspittle was eating quickly and almost timidly, which meant that soon enough he would be done — and they would have to talk again. Delaying this moment, she lazily tried to read the inscriptions on the books. Something there, it seems, even ended with the word ‘...Magic’ . Nearby stood a huge pitcher with obscure contents.

     “I thought you were only doing this to bargain freedom from Ingrith,” she uttered.

     “Well, you could say that,” Lickspittle shrugged his shoulders — the plate he set aside chinked. He put back the mask he had taken off for the meal. “I really wasn’t… thrilled about serving her, even though she provided me with an excellent laboratory, on par with this one…” He lowered his head. Yet he jerked it up at once and flashed her his small green, almost yellow eyes. “But I had always been interested in science, even before that. And she was not the first to try to employ my wits.”

     Ah, yes, the rest. ‘Concerning the Marvellous Power of Art and of Nature and the Nullity of...’

     “You better not say you worked for Stefan, you little bastard,” the fairy hissed.

     “Oh, the things you say! I didn't work for Stefan at all — he wouldn't even let me, because I'm a magical being. I have only seen him… a few times… And he did not leave a good impression at all.” He lowered his gaze. “I’ve seen him bring in your wings…”

     She managed not to twitch — not even with the tips of her wings which seemed to remember more than she did.

     “Brrr, it was horrible,” he babbled. “I wouldn’t be able to work under him — especially since he kicked me out of the court soon as he settled on the throne! Didn’t even ask me for a deal like you’d imagine he would…”

     “Were you working for King Henry?” Maleficent cut it. With seething hatred she remembered him, and his army, and their horses, and their armour, and their iron, and their powder, and their fire.

     “King Henry was trying to work with me,” Lickspittle pressed, “in the last weeks of his life. But he didn’t fulfil his part of the agreement either.” He slammed his small fist on the table. “No one appreciates a good contract these days… All these monarchs do is get rid of talent once it costs too much, and then pick it off the streets, forcing it to labour in pitch darkness in the their palace basement just to earn the right to live! Ingrith took me as an exile, and then in the blink of an eye I turned into a slave,” his head drooped. Even his hairy ears went floppy, as though under the weight of resentment. “Don’t know why I believed her lies that she would ever give me freedom — she only ever took it from me. She took away my wings...”

     She winced. She was not good at comforting. She could hardly comfort herself — not when her head was still buzzing from the last hours, their howling, noise and burning bitterness, and all the months before that, and the blood-red battle over a year ago, and twenty years of war, king after king… Her heart was pounding. She was looking at Lickspittle and seeing clouds of scarlet smoke in the sky, and she felt sick. She was looking at Lickspittle and seeing a bleeding back, and that made her sick too. She was sick of the smell, both now and back then.

     “But, those are all tales of the past!” he shook his head, straightening his yellow hair. Leaned back. “Now I have a new life! The world’s my oyster! I can go anywhere, anytime. No obligation to anyone but myself...”

     For goodness’ sake…

     “How wonderful,” Maleficent muttered, putting down her plate, turning away. “A vile swamp goblin lives a better life than mine.”

     “Do I?”

     “I can't believe it either,” she huffed. She wanted to tilt back too, but there was nothing  to lean against — but with wings she would not have been able to anyway. She was sick and tired of everything. “What’s this god-awful smell?”

     Lickspittle raised his eyebrows, sniffed about comically, and waved his hand. “Oh, that’s comfrey. Foxglove and comfrey.” He pointed to one of the flasks, stalks of dull flowers, blue and purple, prosaically protruding from its neck. He got up and piled the plates one on top of the other. Got going. “You know, it heals wounds, soothes irritation... Works well in tinctures, helps with swelling. You can get good money off of it or exchange it for... something like this,” he raised the same book from the table. “But what is there for you to envy?”

     “You have just answered your question.”

     “I have sedative herbs…? Ha-ha! I got it,” he waved. Came back — still holding the plates. He forgot the fork the first time. “Don't envy me — I’m the one to envy you! You have freedom from everyone, you can exercise over any magic, even the most dangerous, instil terror, subdue anyone...”

     “Oh, can I,” Maleficent moved her fork across the table. “Subdue anyone, huh. These days I should be glad to subdue my own servant. To say nothing of the rest…” the fairy hissed, not letting go of the fork. At least the cutlery was not iron, yellowish and warm instead — but this did not mean that she liked to eat using them. Even here, these rules and expectations… “What you call liberty is onerous devoirs. Freedom from everyone! As if!” she chuckled mirthlessly. “I’d say it’s more like a noose you long for a breakaway from.”

     Ding! Lickspittle dropped the plates on the table. They clanged and rang.

     “Why didn't you say so!” he cried, twitching his ears. “Why, aren’t you lucky to end up in my abode — that’s what I do!”

     “Do what?”

     “Magic transactions!” came from afar — he was rushing away with plates.

     “I thought you make weapons and suck up to tyrants?”

     He hobbled along again — with a bottle of dark glass. “That was a service. It took some time. Now I can do what I do best — please others!” he grinned. “Come on, come on!”

     “Great,” Maleficent muttered. “That’s just what I needed.”

     “Let’s see, let’s see...” Lickspittle thumped behind her, rummaging around on its own shelves. There turned out to be a lot more bundles than it seemed at first. They crinkled and rustled and appeared not even white, but almost yellow. “Eureka!”

     In a second’s time he was facing her again, this time with a huge sheet of parchment, promptly unfolded and smoothed before her.

     ‘Deal of a Lifetime’.

     The headline gleamed yellow gold, shimmering in the lights of a running candle flame nearby, a dying fire in the hearth. Drawings and edging, just as skilfully painted, sparkled with ochre and cinnabar. Deal of a lifetime. And at the bottom: ‘Free from worries’.

     “Just think about it!” Lickspittle said, unexpectedly warm. “You will have it your way, whenever and wherever you want, without watching every step you take — you won’t have to think about anyone, to take anything into account!”

     “Oh yeah?”

     “Oh yeah! Everything will be as you want, just like the halcyon days! Back when things made sense!”

     She looked at the illuminated letters, and her head was spinning... Lickspittle was staring straight at her. Maleficent shifted her gaze. Huge sheet. Ornate incipit. Paragraphs of blackletter.

     “All right, spit it out: what's the catch?”

     The pixie laughed — his merriment bounced off the handles of the jars and hid in the yellow baskets. “Catch? There is no catch, only my gratitude — for saving me today, and for the fact that I was once rescued from the claws... the hooves of Queen Ingrith,” he assured, snatching the inkwell from the table and pouring a dark, watery liquid. “There’s no catching. There’s only one small, just one tiny detail, just one—”

     “Tha-a-at’s what I thought,” she got up from her seat, ready to leave — her head immediately responded with increased paralyzing pain. Oh... well... “Well, what do you want?”

     He raised his head. “A day.” 

     “…A day.”

     “See, now that’s one generous easy bargain — two days for the price of one!”

     “You’re asking me for one day?”

     “Well, naturally!” He almost jumped on the spot and nearly spilled the ink. “Deals don’t work just like that, let alone magical ones, you must know that. Any service calls for payment,” he shook his head, “especially one that changes the very course of your life! And, rest assured, by the time you’re done, you won’t be the same! And all that for just one day!” Once again, he drove off to the hearth with din and clatter. 

     ‘This contract, made between ...’, a huge dash for the name, ‘ ...hereinafter referred to as ‘the Customer’ of the one party, and  ...’ , a huge dash with Lickspittle’s name already written, ‘...hereinafter referred to as ‘the Executor’ of the other party witnesses that the said Executor by this indenture covenants and grants for the said Customer to provide a service.’

     With crunch and rustle, the fire went out, melodic rumble taking its place.

     ‘The Customer instructs, and the Contractor assumes obligations to provide the following services: ...' , and then in sloppy handwriting: 'Wish Fulfilment: Absolute freedom from the past life for two days'.

     ‘The contractor undertakes to provide the service personally no later than ...’, and again by hand: ‘At the signing of this contract’.

     The pixie came back with a quill.

     ‘For the which works in manner and form aforesaid well surely, substantially, skilfully and workmanly in good proportion to be made the said Customer shall content and pay to the foresaid Executor ...’ And in words: ‘One day’. Next to it came some kind of separate column with small squares, text and an empty line. ‘The cost to be paid to the aforesaid Executor in the form following, that is to wit: ...’ And again: ‘At the signing of this contract’.

     “Well?”

     ‘This contract is made in one copy and is valid until ...’ And a scrawl: ‘Forever’.

     The edge of Lickspittle’s smile was visible even behind his mask.

     “I don't like the sound of that,” she droned at last. “Too fishy.”

     “You have nothing to fret about,” he waved a wrinkly hand. “No one will be any the wiser that you were gone — after your journey you shall return right to where you left, not a minute will pass! No one will miss you, no one will bother you with unnecessary questions. But like I said…” he pulled back, “it's up to you. You are free to choose.” He laid the quill down on the table between the paper and the inkwell and casually adjusted the mask. “Of course, if you decline, that’s fine. I get why you wouldn’t trust me. I know I still have a bad reputation.”

     She ran her eyes along the edges of the page. She had a choice, and she was going to take it seriously — like everything in the world. Although she was tired of weighing her every act. Drawings, drawings — thankfully, no text, no small print. Only people, green ornaments, dark letters — some finer and some bolder, even and straight. Maybe there is no catch here. She was tired of looking for them everywhere.

     “…So what day would I have to give in return?”

     Lickspittle relaxed his shoulders and spread his arms. “Oh, well, I don’t even know, any day would do. Of course, it’s best to choose one from the distant past, one you don’t remember anyway — you won’t feel sorry to give it up. There is a column for the most frequently used options in the contract,” he pointed at the lines next to ‘one day’, “although, of course, you can come up your own.”

     Maleficent regarded her options.

     “My birthday?” she frowned. “I reckon that’s not a day to just hand over to someone.”

     “Oh, that’s nothing! Especially to you! You are the Phoenix! A birthday? You’ll have hundreds more!” he chuckled. “I will make do with just one.”

     Maleficent watched pensively as he turned the paper towards him and put a dash next to the words ‘birth day’ and signed the paper at the very bottom. All that was left was for her to sign.

     “Perhaps it’s worth trying,” she said.

     Perhaps she needed time for herself. That was exactly what she was just talking about! She needed to rest — without vile duties and expenses from all sides. Without the crown pressing against her temples, without the buzzing in her head, without the problems of the fae, and the humans, and the Moors, and her family, and her own... inexplicable... Everything will be as it once was.

     “That’s what I’m saying, time-off and time-out! Two days and two nights, until dawn — absolute freedom from everyone!”

     “Yes. Freedom.”

     Out of sight, out of mind. She took the quill.

     “No looking back!” 

     “I should never have looked back. Or think about every action.”

     “You can stop now. Go ahead, sign it.”

     She dipped the quill. Took it more comfortably. Brought it over the line. Started writing her name. ‘Ma’ .

     “Go on,” Lickspittle smiled.

     ‘Malefi’. Lickspittle jumped up, pulled off his mask. The quill glided smoothly in her hand, freely, despite the table shaking.

     “Sign it!”

     ‘Maleficent’.

     “Sign it!” Lickspittle cried — and suddenly froze. “You… signed it?”

     The fairy lifted her head to meet his astonished, almost humbled golden gaze. “As you can see,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders. “Well, egghead, what happens now?”

     “Now… now…” Lickspittle grinned with all his teeth. “Have a good time-out!”

     And vanished into a cloud of gold dust.

     And then the quill disappeared, and so did the table, and the walls all around flew up and tore to pieces, black tiny shreds, rushing along with her in a gold whirlwind, spinning, colliding, hitting...

     Maleficent spread her wings. She was thrown back further, as if from a blow. Headlong into the gold abyss. Gold, gold, cold wind and a scream — a dissolving scream, getting closer, like a ghost, to her throat...

     She was screaming. 

     And then she hit the ground.

Chapter Text

     She fell to the ground.

     A thud, some pain. It knocked the wind out of her. For a second, Maleficent remained where she was, eyes darting about. Where has she come to be?

     At first glance, nothing around has changed — except that now the fairy was alone, without her big-eared companion and his shack. But, soon as she got up, brushed off her wings and gown and gazed around, it became clear that she had indeed been transported somewhere.

     By the looks of it, she was in Perceforest woods — she could tell by the shrubs and the general lifelessness. Nary a soul in sight, nary an imperceptible trodden path winding the snowdrifts — only an untouched off-white canvas mixed with earth and withered greenery. The air was cool and crisp, and it smelled of snow. The bare trees set their tops against the golden skies.

      It was dawning.

     So the day must have started all over again? Not bad. She got even more time. All those hours at her disposal — two full days — spread before Maleficent like a beautiful deck of cards. Unbelievable.

      She had to walk a little — she could have taken to air, but it was better to take a breath and ruminate on what had happened, even though her wings were tingling with anticipation of the long-awaited freedom. She strolled forward, straightening the branches of trees fallen under the snow along the way. Just like the old times. It was relaxing.

     She met no one, and the silence was sweet, as was the solitude. For the next two days, she planned to savour it as much as possible while it lasts, and no one would catch on. Of course, once it’s over she will have to plunge back into the abyss of affairs and requirements, but at least she will be able to start with a fresh mind, on a second wind.

     So she spent a while doing her usual work with a skill honed in almost a lifetime — after all, she was the best at tending this land. Better than at communicating with kinsmen or humans, or sorting things out, or everything else, anyway. There was no responsibility, no crumbling expectations of her own. No one was relying on her, and she was not looking for anyone, even in cave shadows and strangers’ faces, in boring slow-flying pathetic lookalikes.

      No one was staring at her with a searching gaze and no one was hurrying her. And the day was still young.

     The snow was crunching under her feet, over time her nose stopped tingling from the cold, and the sun even slightly dried and warmed her wings, damp from falling onto the slush.

     Then she could not waste a minute longer — the sky was beckoning her.

     Sure, she could fly before, but those were only trips home from the island or to Ulstead and back. She rarely stayed longer than one day and would usually leave the same evening, which was not an easy feat — she had to save her energy. Those flights were not exactly thrilling. And flying within the premises of the Nest was either next to impossible, with all its dark wicker dungeons, or simply boring. In a year and a half she has studied every inch of the green forests, so painfully similar to her home and yet only similar, of the windy desert lowlands and rainy jungles where dense vegetation would hamper her every movement. The snowy peaks were the most tolerable place to race, if not for the dismal cold. But no matter what corner of the island she roamed searching for her past love of flying, the problem stayed the same — there was no sky. The arches of sharp mountain peaks overhead were hiding everything, even the sun, admitting only a fraction of its rays, a transparent waterfall to touch tiny patches of land and bounce off rocks. No clouds, no wild winds, no flocks of birds.

      She would often be accompanied by little fae, very young children — and it was, undoubtedly, very touching: both their trust in her and their charming clumsiness. Except, due to their age and inexperience, they was terribly slow and required constant surveillance — Maleficent could hardly pick up even half of her usual speed if she wanted them to be able to keep up.

     Sometimes, come she wander the desert lands, adult fae would tag along — usually Borra or Shrike. But her rapport with Borra was surprisingly bad, and he seemed to never quite sense when she was growing tired of his company — or his inaction on the resettlement of the Fae, the cornerstone of their every conversations. Usually he would evade the topic, and then shy away with a face as long as a fiddle, and Maleficent could only deduce that the current situation tormented him as much as it did her. And it was very galling.

     Then, of course, she would be angry with herself too — for expecting some progress from him, as if he was in charge. After all, he no longer had to assume any responsibility. She was the Phoenix, those were her problems to solve. And yet the feeling that he should and could do more would not leave her. And she did not like flying only to ponder the things she could as well ponder standing, anyway. To put it simply, she did not like his company.

     Shrike had been a good companion for a while — she was fast, she was funny, she did not take offense at her biting phrases. But then something began to change, and Maleficent watched with concern as the dark wave that washed over everyone rise over her head too. She should have known what the crux of the matter was — Shrike was not secretive at all and would go on and on about Percival, the stately Ulstead warrior she had been seeing. Obviously her chatter was tiring, but Maleficent would get over herself — Shrike managed to make her stories detailed yet not overly soppy and snotty. She would twaddle about his blindness to her “obvious” signs, his faith in divine powers, and his “charming” baldness. Whatever that meant.

     But over time, the nature of the stories changed: they became short and almost anxious, especially as the voices of uncertainty and fear among the Fae grew louder. That shadow of doubt fell on Shrike as well, until she finally proposed that it might be best to leave everything with Percival as it was, if not to call it quits altogether. She said she had been having a hard time explaining to herself why she was nurturing a relationship with a man who had carried orders to destroy her kind without a second thought. Charisma and optimism alone were not enough to believe that his opinion on fair folk had changed so quickly. 

      Her decision seemed to be well-weighted — Shrike would weigh it every time they took to the air. And still the parting broke her heart: she looked no different from her grieving brothers and sisters, even though she was mourning a death of a different kind. That overwhelming sorrow found its manifestation in flying with Maleficent, in unsettling, jumbled, gloomy thoughts rendered out loud and difficult to unravel — especially on top of everything else. They exacerbated the already unenviable position in which Phoenix had found herself. And then that mistake with Diaval... After that, she did not wish to hear about anyone's matters of the heart.

     Such were her flights on the island — either besetting sorrow or unnatural slowness. It seemed that no one could quite equal her, no one could catch up with her and yet not annoy her with their presence.

     Now everything was different.

     It was reminiscent of the day she could finally fly again after everything that went down on Aurora’s sixteenth birthday. Of course, Maleficent had managed to fly a bit before that — around the throne room, that very night — but that had only been out of fear and need. For the first week or more after that, her wings were mercilessly sore from all those years of imprisonment. She took great pains to learn to use them all over again — but once that day came, and she flung herself off a cliff, only to soar again... there was nothing sweeter. 

     And now the clouds were welcoming her with an orchestra: the whistling of the air in her ears were her strings, the wind tangled in her feathers was her percussions, and her wings were beating harder than any drums. She did not need to listen to anyone, to look after anyone — she could just watch the clouds rushing around her, all golden, beige, peach, milk, orange — moving away from her quick gaze. She could just feel the invigorating autumn chill fight against the sun rolling up his sleeves to devote his day to his glorious splendour. Surprisingly enough, it was warm in the November high currents. Was that a part of her wish fulfilment, too? How lovely.

     Higher and higher she rushed until the ground beneath her looked like a huge tapestry embroidered with all sorts of colours. The mountain ranges were folds on it, the half-lit hills were scattered beads, strips of snow and the stretching blue meandering river was magnificent embroidery, iridescent in the gold of dawn. The world beneath her was waning crimson, burnt brown, fading green, crystal grey. The horizon was lined by the fields on the border of the Moors and Perceforest — some dull yellow, some emptied sad black. But even they were not spoiling the picture, they only emphasised it — they deepened the shadows of mountain ranges, the dots and lines of bare trees.

      But how could she look at them any longer when the jubilant firmament was waiting for her! She was in a race against herself, against the clouds, against the rising sun — and whatever the outcome was, she felt like a winner. The north wind blew in one ear and, blowing out of the other, took along all the heavy thoughts, with the weight of which she would never fly this high.

     She seemed to be there for an eternity before her feet touched the ground again.

     To her own surprise, she landed on the outskirts of the city — she has never been interested in this place, even when Aurora still lived in the castle. She was not fond of meeting humans face to face — and the sentiment was mutual. They would crawl out on the streets to gawk at her, and that was the last thing she needed. But today it should be different, right? Today everything should be the way she wants. And she wanted everyone to leave her alone.

     “Everyone” did not let her down. They outdid themselves, even.

     It even reminded her of the christening — the very first one. In a good way, of course. It was the way everyone hid when they saw her, and even closed the shutters. In a matter of seconds, it seemed that not a soul was left on the street she was walking along — only some kind of rattle and distant conversations of those who were yet to learn of her presence.

     Wonderful.

     Her pace majestic and measured, she strode forward, relaxing her wings.

     She rarely came here. Not this year, for sure. Maleficent preferred to fly without stopping or respite, straight to Ulstead, through its open windows. The last time she had been here was... It was back when Mairead was born, if her memory served her right.

     …Yes. It had been back then.

     Back then the holiday spirit has overtaken Ulstead, and Perceforest, and the Moors to boot. Everyone who could, were celebrating — and those who could not were pulled out of their homes and holes and forced to celebrate. Maleficent was just one of those unfortunate victims.

     They spent the first day in Ulstead with Aurora, but then she was eventually dragged along to the centre of Perceforest. To “breathe some the fresh air”. That was Diaval’s excuse.

     Those days it was just as cold, if not colder, and sleet bound every ground and surface. Humans were vigorously clearing roads and passages to their homes, climbing onto the roofs to knock down icicles and thick snow crust with brooms and rakes. Everywhere there was rumble and babel, now and then snowballs would whistle and crash — into neighbours’ walls at best, into some child’s poor head at worst.

      Well, and one snowball hit Diaval right behind the scruff of the neck, and he spent the whole way whining and laughing.

     Maleficent was doing her best to pretend she was not enjoying herself — Diaval had no such problem. He was still rocking on victorious waves of jubilation from the little girl’s birth, and no snowballs from Perceforest buffoons could dampen his fervour. The fairy barely kept up with his stride — he was walking ahead, facing her (that was why he had not foreseen the attack), and babbling with his mouth open, as if the cold December weather posed no threat to him either.

      He said something about the birds leaving to winter in warmer climes, about only the bravest ones remaining here, about having spent the past month helping hang and arrange decorations all over the city in honour of the upcoming holiday, and her missing out on all that. About Perceforest townsfolk knowing him by sight at this point (hence all these liberties and bounty in the form of snowballs). About having made good rapport with one elderly inn hostess who would now offer him hot stew, caudle or something stronger for his help, despite seemingly never having remembered his name. About all the holidays approaching: Christmas, the date everybody was intensively preparing for, and one more special birthday — her own — the date no one had ever prepared for yet Diaval brought up anyway. None of those things were things Maleficent asked about, and yet she found herself listening, because it was the first time in forever that they were talking for more than ten minutes.

     The streets were teeming with awfully bundled children: in scarves and red lined hats, in gloves and mittens, in chaperones and hoods — not even people but furry blobs of brown, yellow, green and red, little handfuls of lentil. The two of them looked like madmen in their black attire. But at least Maleficent could rely on her headpiece — the raven, on the other hand, had left his head uncovered, getting his ears redder than the kids’ hats. He had been testing her patience all week, as if begging to catch a cold.

     She actually said something about it that very evening. Something about catching a cold. He had opened the balcony doors with his ‘isn’t this beautiful’ and she told him to close them, because she was not going to stay and brood over him with concoctions and handkerchiefs to blow his nose. He even smiled his lopsided smile at that.

     And then the rest happened.

     But before that... Before that, they had another stroll, the last one — a little vespertine saunter, with the winter sun hidden for the night and passers-bys following suit, with only rare lights remaining on the streets, dim blinking eyes of houses lit from inside. The snow was glistening, their breaths were making clouds, and Diaval never got himself a cap — he did, however, drop by that good old lady and take a nightcap. To be fair, it hardly affected him, except that it gave him a light step. There was no hiding from the cold — her knees were freezing. It reminded her of their ambles around the Moors of the days of yore.

      There was not a cloud in the sky, and the stars were winking at them from the inky heights, barely shedding their light, and Diaval's hair looked almost blue. He was breathing on his palms and kept his speech terse — and yet, he refused her offer to turn him back, as if he still wished to speak.

      And, hell, did he speak! Oh did he speak his mind. He sure did.

     Wherefore was she thinking about him now? She was spending her day alone. They had not seen each other for a whole year.

     It was morning, not evening, and it was warm, and she was alone, and she was free, and there should be no place in her mind for bitter memories. Today and tomorrow, everything should be fine.

     She marched on, the sheet of the contract in her bosom in the layers of her dress, glancing around, banishing the shadows and frost that disgusted her, reminding herself of the rising sun and the dawning day. Not of all the things gone, but of all the things ahead.

     Perhaps she could spend the day somewhere far-off on the shoreline, by the rugged cliffs, where Ulstead, and Perceforest, and the Moors, and even the Nest would be merely specks and lines on the horizon. She could watch the cold sea and rocks, after all. Torment the fishermen if they disturb her peace.

     The Perceforest townsfolk must have seen her thoughts in her face — hence all this hiding and scattering. She made a turn, anticipating even more terrified dwellers.

     There were some people left outside. Their heads dropping, a pair of women was hobbling along with huge sacks on their shoulders and backs. A man in a large straw hat was standing by a covered harnessed wagon of impressive size, its metal walls gleaming in the sun, and clumsily adjusting a saddle that was obviously worn out and too big for his thin horse.

     Maleficent stopped in her tracks.

     The man stood hunched over, his hands a little twitchy. He shook his head in dismay — the hat was sliding lower and lower over his face.

     The hat. If it was not for the hat, she might not have any doubts.

     But it could not be him. He was dead.

     And he has been dead for over six years.

     She ordered herself to move, but her legs failed her. At the same time, it seemed as if she was rocking in place, like a boat in bad weather.

     Silently, with a ringing emptiness in her head, she watched the man — show your face, oh don't show your face — fix the saddle, scold the mare. Maybe she was just seeing things, maybe she was simply going crazy.

     Or maybe the voice was familiar.

     The hoarseness, the unbearable incomprehensible dialect.

     Stefan was dead. Or perhaps Stefan was standing a hundred feet away from her.

      Oh, what devilry is this. Maleficent shook her head, glanced again — no, he did not look like him. He did not. Even from afar, even from the side. A trick of light.

      Her legs finally obeyed her — she took a whole step forward. He stayed oblivious.

     No, he did not. The beard was completely different, thicker and longer. His bearing was almost the same, and that shrivelled raisin of a face — but all humans look like that. His hair was the same colour. But it was not him.

     And what a delusion it was! Heavens. Perhaps she was going round the bend, thus all these horrors creeping into her head on their own accord. You’d think now she ought to come around. Instead, she seems to only be losing her sanity faster.

      Heaven... It’s because she was thinking of Diaval. Stupid chain of associations — why does it always come to this? Every time she thought of him, she’d think of their last meeting — and what didn’t happen — and what had happened ages ago and where it had led. Like a brand on a beast of burden. Even now, after almost a quarter of a century.

     A loud swearword, a raised hand — and with a confident gait the man skirted the horse and burst in under the tent of the nearest building, slamming the door — disappearing from her eyes.

     She took off. The construction had no shutters. Why the hell did she take off? It was not him. She was sure now. Still, she wanted to take a look — if she did not, curiosity would swallow her whole.

     Holding her wings tight, she ventured close, past the horse, the fallen barrels, and the papers with drawings and words nailed to the wall. She crouched at the low lattice windows. Unfortunately, not only was the glass cut into small circles covered with patina, but those circles were cloudy and opaque, as if faceted, like in the pixie aunts' hut. She could barely make out a thing. On the other hand, that way they could not notice her either.

      The man was standing with his back to her. A vest, dull trousers, boots. A down-and-outer with a gray mare — not a king. Even through the door she could hear the ear-piercing Scottish eloquence.

     Heat rose to her face — with an effort she told herself to pull herself together. Whatever it is — and it can only be one thing — she can always fly away and get on with her day. And forget about the curst dead twin of this wretched man for fourscore years. He must be rolling over in his grave now, cackling at her...

     “Dark Fay!” suddenly came nearby. “She’s one of them!”

      Maleficent turned her head — one of the women who had been carrying the load huddled timidly to the side — her fierce face, however, was not quite signalling fear. She pointed her finger straight at the fairy.

     Something shifted on the other side of the window. She twitched.

     “You reckon she ran away?” the other peasant squeaked.

     “I think so... Hey you!” she cried.

      “Shut up!!! She will kill us!”

     There was movement in the stall. Perplexed, Maleficent glanced back and forth, at the window and at them, back and forth again, window—wall—street, back and forth, window—wall—paper—

     Paper. Words. ‘Wanted. Dark Fae. Great bounty for every head’.

     “Not if we beat her to it!” hissed one of them. Maleficent was assessing whether or not to stun them with magic.

     “What if she's enchanted...?”

     Bounty on the head! She tore the poster off the wall. Nasty sound of ripping paper.

     “Who cares!” she called. “They’ll pay us anyway!”

      Bounty for every Fae’s head! They had signed a treaty with humans! They had agreed to a truce! And it has not been two years! ‘For every head’!

     “Dark Fey!! Dark Fey!!”

     “Where is he?!” the other yelled at the top of her lungs. “Where the hell is he when he’s needed!”

     From behind the door came, “I’m feckin’ comin’!”

      A wave of her hand — the sacks caught fire — the women shrieked and recoiled — the man burst into swearing — she soared into the air.

     The man and the women were squabbling, quieter and quieter, further and further away.

     Clutching a torn leaf in her hand, boiling like a brewing potion, faster than the wind, she rushed exactly whence she came — to the forester's cottage.

     The guests did not like her thrashing? They have seen nothing yet.

     Unbelievable. Impossible.

     For a brief moment, Maleficent did not even care that Aurora had a baby, that she has not been doing her job as a queen as hard as she could before. It did not matter. If not Aurora, then Phillip or King John — she will find someone to call to account. Someone to raze to the ground.

     They had promised her a truce. They had promised all of them — all the Dark Fae — humans had promised a truce. Unity. Peace. They did not keep their promise. She should not have been surprised.

     What was surprising was that no one had even deigned to tell her, not one damned soul. Neither her own daughter, the queen of these lands, nor the crazed Ulstead autocrats, by whose will the paper had been signed. The guards dutifully kept their mouths shut. Damned Lickspittle did not say a word. Not a single living soul. Even Shrike, who visited these places. Even Diaval.

     The trees rushed under her, as if making way. Heavens. Well isn’t this wonderful! She wanted as little as two days of freedom for herself, two days of peace — how dare she! The problems turned out to be even bigger, even more dangerous. And she had been none the wiser. The goddamn Queen of the Dark Fae — as good as blind, or sleeping, or dead.

     And — worst of all — it meant the fae were right. When they did not want to move, when they avoided human lands, when they saw the barely past war as an omen of a new wave of cruelty. When they did not believe humans. They should not have, and she should not have.

     She was almost there. The fields gave way to the Perceforest woods — sparse, deciduous, bare and yellowed, buried in filthy snow.

     And then to top it all off, this strange vision, this hallucination — like a ghost in the flesh. He completely bewildered her, and these two strange news mixed up, lost their meaning.

     And what now? Bloodshed, carnage — again? She could not allow it. There were too few fae left. And this was just not the answer — no matter how tempted she was to wipe out anyone who condoned this with her own hand. This had to be nipped in the bud before it could burgeon into a deadly weed. Once she has everybody perfectly scourged and crucified for betraying her trust and turning a blind eye — then she might tell them that measures must be taken. These bastards had better shove some coins down their throats if they are so hungry for money.

      She was reaching the familiar clearing — just as lifeless in its autumn attire as she left it — or, perhaps, even more lifeless: it seemed that during her absence, three times more snow fell than there had been. Has it been snowing?

     She landed near the main entrance. Spread her wings. Lifted her chin. And froze. All was quiet.

     But that was not the point.

     The forester's hut stood before her — rickety, overgrown with leaves and moss, yellowed and sinking under the weight of snow on the roof. Ancient.

     It has never looked like this. Now she could not even resort to the presumption of her insanity. The shack, although it was considered a shack, has never been so deplorably deserted, so rundown, so... dead. Settled under dirt, greenery and time.

     She had a premonition of something.

     Maleficent rushed to the door — “Aurora!” — strangled by rust and vegetation, it did not give in. She pushed with all her might — “Aurora!” — and the door collapsed, raising clouds of brown dust. The fairy stepped forward into the painful blue twilight.

     Inside she beheld more dust, more filth, and even a huge fetid puddle — right beneath a hole in the roof. The light spilling down through it was faint, but Maleficent still made out the outlines of furniture — furniture that should have been outside for the time of the soiree. Its arrangement was unusual: everything was not quite in its place, not the way the pixies had put them when they had settled here. The table was not supposed to stand so close to the fireplace — or half in the water, bogged down and mouldering. She took a step back — a fat rat darted past her.

     Like no one has lived here for ages.

     A chill ran down her back.

     What happened here? Why did the hut stand as though abandoned, eaten up by nature? And if there was no one here, then where was everyone? What could have happened while she was gone? Or was the passage of time different here? How long has she been gone?

     No. No, this part was not in the deal! She gave up only one day, not an hour more. The two days of the treaty were to begin from the moment the treaty was signed. Lickspittle could not take more or move her to another point in time. So it must be something else.

     He could not have deceived her. She read the entire text.

     With a heavy head, with a pounding heart, with strangely weak limbs, she stepped outside, her eyes on the collapsed roof. Something whistled overhead — perhaps blood rushing to her ears. She pulled out a contract from her bosom.

     Same letters, same words. ‘Absolute freedom from the past life for two days’ . ‘...The said Customer shall content and pay to the foresaid Executor one day’ .

     No, something was whistling overhead.

      ‘At the signing of this contract’ .

     She glanced up, but saw no one, only some yellow lights. It can wait. Her gaze returned to the paper. There were no letters in the drawings, no small print, no matter how she turned the paper, and—

     The whistle was getting closer.

     What on Earth is it? She raised her head. Something was swiftly flying above her — not even something, but someone. This someone stopped over her head and suddenly became a familiar face with horns.

     “Borra?” Maleficent cried. “What are you doing here?”

     “It's a Fay!” he shouted at the top of his voice. Well, yes she was? Since when is that a surprise? Oh heavens, she must tell him about the bounty... She could not even wrap her head around how to deliver the news, where to— “We've got another one on our hands!”

      The rest of the fae flew up to him, creating all this hubbub — she recognized a couple of faces. Ini, and Shrike who was... Who was rushing straight at her with a heart-rending cry.

     Maleficent narrowly dodged the attack, flapping her wings as Shrike nearly hit the ground headlong. Instead, she continued to circle her, baying, and the others joined in the wonderful roundelay.

     “Take her from three sides!” Borra shouted. She did not like the sound of that at all.

     “What in the hell is going on here?” she hollered, utterly bewildered — she’d better take off, not look up at them — and the fae laughed, gaining momentum. There was something wrong with them. At this point she would favour that explanation over any other. And just like that her patience snapped. She has had enough of wrong things.

      A lucky second — just a moment before Ini charged, Maleficent detected the movement of her wings — and shot a wave of magic right at her, knocking her to the ground with a shriek. It did not feel good. Especially now that, as Ini was close, the fairy could see exactly what had changed in their faces — their eyes. They were bright yellow.

      Ini grinned.

     “Looks like we've got a real troublemaker here!” Shrike shouted, not slowing down, rummaging through her bosom. Now it was obvious that her eyes had also changed their… “This should pacify her!”

     ...colour.

     In the blink of an eye, she flung something onto the ground between Maleficent and Ini, who immediately recoiled in fright. She had better recoil, too, then — with a loud flap, she finally flew up and saw a golden, almost yellow flower of smoke swirl on the ground at her very feet. Not even smoke — some kind of powder. For some reason, she really did not want to get caught in it—

     Whistling.

     And something seized her hand.

     The pain, the burn — so piercing and unexpected it was, almost to the bone — she was pulled back — she tried to keep her balance — something grabbed her shoulder — she gasped — she was thrown again, up for some reason — she turned over — the pain pulled her along.

     The sky turned before her eyes. She was blinded by pain. She flapped her wings until she rolled over properly, but pain coiled around her like a snake, and laughter exploded over her head. Arduously, she looked up.

     The Dark Fae were flying in front of her and around her, each with a smirk or a scowl and eyes of the yellowest colour, each holding a black shaft joined by a length of chain — chain ending in something that clawed at her like a manacle. She could not look down at her hands.

      She needs to do something.

     She mustered as much strength as she could, and the maw of one of the locks burst open — she suddenly tilted and capsized again — her wings could not carry her, and the support of one of the chains deprived her of balance.

     Time to get out of here.

     Flapping her wings, she tried to roll over to unwind the remaining chain — she succeeded: she freed herself, but sank even closer to the land, sideways, her wing nearly grazing the ground. Bad. Very bad. She cannot fall.

     Then she beat it as best she could to straighten herself and get rid of the second trap gripping her shoulder her like a burning arrow. It did not matter. She gained altitude. Shrike was right in front of her, easy to set sights on. She squinted, took aim....

      And fire pierced her leg.

     She staggered, tipped over — and then could only swing hanging in place, captured from both sides, fresh pain whooshing up her leg like lava. The chain shook — she rolled over on her back, facing the rushing gray swaying sky. Now Borra was directly on course. One of her hands was still free. Got to try again—!

     “Time to calm down,” a pair of citrine eyes told her.

     And something of the same yellow-gold shade flew towards her and exploded like a blossoming flower.

Chapter Text

     “—gettin’ out of hand! It was one thing when I had to look after his damn court—”

     Her hands were hurting. She could not open her eyes.

     “—his every feckin’ candle and mirroa-AH-H-h-ar—!”

     She did not like his voice. Did not like the emptiness in her head. She was shaking — her very heart was shaking in her throat. She could not move.

     “And now I hunt monsters to beat me up while I hunt some more monsters like—AW!!”

     Everything lurched sideways. It suddenly got so hot that, conquering herself, she snapped her eyes open.

     Gold, nothing but gold. A room. A tiny rumbling swaying room — made of gold. Golden walls, golden bars of the opening. Behind them — a stooped man on a green horse, wearing a golden hat. The hat was familiar. She knew the face should be too. Why should it?

     She struggled to breathe. To even move her eyes. Something was burning in her chest.

     He turned in profile — a livid face against the green sky. Oh, how silly of her. Of course it’s familiar, why wouldn’t it be? That’s Stefan.

      Who?

     That is Stefan. It was Stefan. It was—

     Maleficent jerked in place and rushed forward — except she did not. Instead, she felt as though scalded. Not gold. Iron.

     Iron turned her blood into boiling water.

     This is all his doing...

     This is all his doing!!!

     She wanted to claw at him — but she could not feel her hands. She wanted to scream — she screamed — but only something inarticulate escaped her. It hammered her temples. Stefan turned around with a start — sunken cheeks, gray eyes...

     He… how is he… What the hell…

     Her head was pounding. Her body was throbbing. Stefan was alive. Stefan was alive — and he had somehow tricked her.

     But Stefan was dead. Dirty, scruffy, wrinkly — at her feet. At the foot of his own castle.

     She is seeing ghosts...

     The cart rocked, and she skidded aside, against the iron wall — she hissed.

     “Serves you right!” Stefan breathed from outside, nonchalant. “Now you can’t even blink yourself! A witch's glove for a real witch. Eat shit.”

     She still felt a painful heat along her side — the cart continued to rock as if on waves. There was so much iron around, and she must have been unconscious here for so long that even her magic had given up — the old burns did not heal properly by the time she was tossed around and given some new ones. Not a single thought was forming in her head, as if something was clogging her mind — like a wall of fog she wanted to go around but could not. She could not even move.

     “Wriggle all you want! You can't escape,” the man snorted loud, pulling on the reins.

     Think... She has to think... She could only think of the pain in her hands — from her fingertips to her wrists — they hurt like they were being roasted on a fire, but she could not even have a look.

     Her eyes seemed to be fixed, frozen and half-blind, on a patch of green sky far ahead, slashed by bars. Where are they... What is he doing here? And whither... Heavens. Whither is he taking her? Why can't she—

     She slid to a wall like a pile of rocks, iron touching both her wing and hip. She still had no control over her own body, could not order it to move away — as if she were but hovering over, watching helplessly as it was tossed to and fro.

     “Told you not to wriggle. It’s pointless anyway, you can't do magic.”

     Desperately Maleficent begged herself to look away, at least to take reins of her eyes — and finally looked down — and saw her wrists shackled. Long chains stretched to the opposite corner of the cart, lost in the darkness. The pain inflicted by them was so strong and constant that she did not even notice right away — so piercing, so throbbing, so—

     She suddenly found her tongue.

     “You monster!” she screeched, leaping forward — and everything was fire: her hands were burned again, and a terrible sting stabbed her consciousness, as if someone pierced her with a clear sound or settled a swarm of bees in her head — as if her managing to move with all her will aggravated the effect of the poison. This racket — crackling, squeaking, splashing, buzzing — broke into a sharp blow and a horse's bray, followed by choicest swearwords — and another thwack. She tumbled onto her back.

     “Don’t even breathe at me, you carlin!” Stefan then cried. “I am not losin’ my job over you.”

     Funny — the floor was wooden. And the ceiling had another small opening she fixed her gaze on. Green sky, light green. Up in it were the same fae that found her — they have just hit the horse with a stream of magic.

     She tried to find the strength. At least for words.

     She needed time. Her mind was switching from one pain to another. From her swallowed rushing heart to burning hands, to unbearable nausea, to blind eyes, to dry mouth... Whatever it is he had done...

     “Stefan, you immortal fiend,” suddenly poured out of her, “I shall drag you to the Otherworld for everything you’ve—”

     “Listen here, you lunatic, you must’ve got me confused with some other Stefan!” the man yelled. “I've never seen your mug in my life! I advise you to—Ah-h-h!” A colourful lightning struck his horse again — it swayed, and so did the cart, and Stefan, and Maleficent swayed too — straight to the mass of chains waiting for her on the floor. “I advise you to get used to it, you devil’s spawn! This is how it’s goin’ to be from now on. You belong with the other limbs of Sata-A-A-A-Aaah!”

     With a crash, his horse was stricken again — she glided to the wall, facing the window — and he fell silent. The steed, bone-tired and jaded, got slower still, barely moving its legs — but at least the cart was rocking less now. There was no beating anymore — Maleficent imposed no more questions. She could not force herself to do anything, to say nothing of forcing others. Her strength left her completely, and her head rolled to the side. The pain was getting worse. She fancied she could feel the smell of burning already. Her fingers were numb. Everything lost its meaning. Or perhaps everything was awfully simple but she was just failing to see it — failing to think. She was plagued by an unbearable sound, then terrifying silence — she must have slipped away entirely. How long it has been — she had no idea. By the time she started coming back around, they were already in the city.

     It certainly wasn't the main street she had walked down this morning. Here, on the outskirts of Perceforest, were yellow cobbled streets — the rest of the world seemed mired in dust, so fuzzy, desolate and old it had become. Houses were watching her with their collapsed stairs, seeing her off with broken windows, taking off their hats — sloping roofs — as a greeting. Townsfolk poured out of them, all the same brown and yellow colour, worn and broken — their looks gloomy, their pitchforks sharp, their faces indistinguishable. They floated past like sinking boats as the wagon swayed by on its way to the palace. Had Maleficent not been overwhelmed by the stench of her own smoking skin, she might have known what the air smelled like.

     There was some clamour of the crowd — something about fae, or witches, or fairies, it did not matter — it mattered that various objects flew into the sky, and something even hit her cart — Maleficent’s line of sight was too low for her to see what it was or to become target. They were shouting about the king, and about the soldiers, and whatever else — the sounds were all a mash.

     One moment she was still crying inside from the pain in her wrists, tearing and eating away — and the next someone was pushing her out and snapping an iron cuff around her neck.

     She felt a little better, if she may say so, now that she left the iron cell. She blinked for the first time in ages, even though her vision was just as blurry. It now occurred to her that it was very odd that the sky was green. Stefan passed from sight and never reappeared. Her head cleared somewhat, and she even took a breath or two. The same stench she had felt was reigning here, between the walls of the corridors, and maybe even in the walls themselves.

     Knocked down, gasping, burning from the inside, Maleficent was all but dragged up the stairs and corridors and led into the throne room.

     At first everything was drowned in black, and then yellow glares broke through. They turned into candles and torches: on the walls, in people’s hands and under the ceiling — an enormous chandelier that swayed from the doors slamming. Then in the darkness she started making out silhouettes — wings and horns, fanged smiles. She was carried along between two rows of armed soldiers and Dark Fae — and now, with only comparatively insignificant pain around her neck, she stared at them, incredulous. They stared back, from the ground, from the balconies — dozens of pairs of identical yellow eyes. Even their posture was the same: arms at their sides, staring straight ahead. As if on cue, they hissed in her wake. Someone laughed.

     She looked towards the sound. Right on course — Lickspittle.

     Lickspittle?

     “Oh, Maleficent!” he cried — the echo of his vile voice spread far, bounced off the chandelier. She was hauled forwards — he fluttered closer. On wings. “There she is! Have we been waiting for you! Come on, we’re not barbarians — take that eyesore off her neck, let her speak!”

     They led her to the steps of to his royal seat, through hails and chuckles, with a measured clang of iron on the cold dusty floor, and now the fairy could see the shining gold of his mantle, a table laden with food, could hear the ringing of jewellery as he hopped off it. His huge pointy ears were adorned with sparkling gold earrings, not even a stitch remained of the gray robe of a scientist — an embroidered doublet took its place. The beard was trimmed, and his head was graced — hidden! — with a massive inlaid crown shimmering in the lustre of the flames.

     The fae who were seizing her let go of her arms. Lickspittle motioned them to move away, and they did so, joining the ranks and assuming the same posture. Lickspittle stretched his face into a smile as he took in the hall.

     “I can’t welcome you enough. What an honour — you are the one who made all of this possible!” The next second he was right at her ear. “Well now, tell me, how are you enjoying your time-off so far?”

     Maleficent yanked her wing with all her might and knocked him off his feet. In doing so she twitched — and blazing pain swept through her wrists and neck, which had not yet been healed. Everything was abuzz.

     “All right, you freak, spill it out,” she seethed. “What have you done?”

     “Oh no, Maleficent,” the pixie’s eyes flashed, “It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what you’ve done! Thanks to you, I got the kingdom!” his eyes scanned the throne room in all its flaming lights and yellow gold. 

     Even her consciousness fading, Maleficent realized she was being sold some kind of humbug. “And how is that?” she strained.

     “How?” he screeched. “Oh, let me tell you — no, let me tell you all!” he laughed — and sighed, “Ah, but this is such an ungrateful audience, no one here understands a thing...”

     She watched his departing figure — he sat atop his own table in front of the throne, among the plates. She stared at his golden shoes. Or maybe they were a different colour. He dangled his legs. She was dizzy.

     “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a king, a king named Henry, who wanted to conquer the neighbouring lands teeming with magical creatures. He even asked for my help to create the perfect weapon for the case. Agreed to make me king after his death in exchange for it... But tough luck!” A triangular smirk cut his lips. Maleficent imagined King Henry as she saw him last: clad in iron, with a snow-white beard, a thousand wrinkles on his face, humiliatingly past his prime, unforgivably cruel. “The contract turned out to be a trick…” Lickspittle twirled his beard between his fingers. “He died as soon as he signed the paper.”

     “He died because I wounded him in battle!” Maleficent growled, despite the burning poison sweeping away all her thoughts but pain, pain, pain — got to get rid of it, now, now, get out, crawl out, fly out...

     “How could you when you never existed?”

     A hitch.

     “You’d better start making sense, you dirty little—!” A spurt — they jerked her down to the floor, and she landed on the hanging chains. She could barely feel her hands.

     “Do I need to spell it out for you?!” boomed Lickspittle. “I must have overdone the foxglove…” he grinned. Cast a glance around. “Laugh!” The fae hooted, dreadfully synchronized. Lickspittle approached her with short steps, palm outstretched. “You gave me a day from your past, a day you wouldn't even remember,” he cooed, “a day you were a mindless little baby...”

     He walked away again, took the golden goblet from the table... But his words...

     “And you took the day I was born…” the fairy whispered. Lickspittle smiled.

     “No, Maleficent — you gave it to me.”

     His smirk was of the ugliest kind. No riches have changed its bitterness, crookedness, spitefulness — they have only multiplied it. Standing on a gilded table, surrounded by fallen goblets and crumbling dishes, accompanied by the laughter of fae and the clang of iron, he was a demon.

     Maleficent was gathering her strength.

     “Well, you can enjoy this while you can,” she leaned forward, “because when the time is up—!”

     “Oh really?” the pixie muttered. “You haven't heard the best part! Since you were never born, that could only mean that your parents never had a child, and the Phoenix line never went on. And I took away your birth day, so, well, you know...” Lickspittle pouted. “Once these two days come to an end, so will you.”

     Maleficent was doused with water. Or perhaps shot in the side and knocked into the sea again — something fell on her, something heavy, cold, drowning out the sound.

     The shadow of death that had already embraced her once swept past her — cold, soulless, infinitely deep. Devouring everything, never giving back. Almost never — a miracle had once helped her out of its plume, its unfathomable emptiness. Now there was no miracle.

     Now the only thing awaiting her was emptiness.

     From it she tried to draw at least a word, at least a thought. At least a name. After what seemed like a thousand years, she finally found it.

     “Where is Aurora?” she squeezed out. “Where did you—”

     “Ha! What nonsense!” the pixie roared. “You don't get it at all, do you!” Lickspittle spread his hands, small eyes fixed gold on her. The voice resounded through the hall. “You! Were never! Born! You never met Stefan, he never became king. Aurora doesn't exist.”

     Doesn’t exist. Doesn’t exist. Aurora... she... she doesn’t...

     “How do you like that?!” broke through — broke through a thick wall of laughter, screeching, hooting, ringing. Through the burning pain, the chilling mass of water she fell through — fell to the very bottom. He was laughing in her face. “Looks like you got exactly what you wanted!” he bellowed. “Have a good weekend! Get her!”

     She tried to charge forward, at him — the shackles only pulled her back.

     A familiar whistle behind her — she spun around just in time for the toothy trap flying at her to bite into the chain of her shackles, and they both fell apart.

     Now it's time...

     Another one was flying at her. The fairy snatched it and pulled with all her strength — a soldier tumbled from the high ceiling and fell prone to the ground. The burning pain was secondary. She brought the iron teeth to the shackles on her other wrist. Snap!

     Now it’s time to get out of here.

     A flap — and the fairy rose into the air, bypassing the guards chained to the ground. She was quivering with dizziness — but it did not matter, it did not matter! The fae could follow her, but they did not seem to quite understand what to do yet. All the better. Go! go! She beat her wings helplessly and mercilessly. Onward! She was heading right towards a locked door. Well. The only part of her not hurting yet was her shoulder, and that wasn’t fair, was it.

     Like a battering ram, Maleficent broke her way into the next chamber. Huge hall. Long distance. Lots of room for enemies. Not good.

     In seconds’ time, the Dark Fae were rushing after her. Not good at all.

     Down! she darted under a bridge, past the stairs, to the floor below. Further from the windows, but also further from the opponents. Right turn, left turn — she dodged the sound, the toothy chains and bright lanterns. They slammed into stone and exploded into scarlet powder — she barely managed to duck. Glance back — go — got to remove the shackles — glance back — go. She kept having to check behind, so she had no idea where she was flying. Just that she was getting lower and lower.

     The caravan behind tried to overtake her on the sides — she turned sharply to the side. Should she knock them down with something? Ah, she won't heal from that herself. She was barely flying. Everything exploded with gold and shone. Everything rocked. Everything hurt.

     Onward. Stop at nothing. Got to look for a way out. Right turn, right turn, got to find a—

     A scarlet flower exploded in front of her.

     She scudded back. Wrong turn! Quick, quick! She flapped her wings and took off.

     The fae remained below. The air around her rumbled. She was quivering. Columns, columns, crumbling stone. Trembling chandeliers. The rattling remains of the chains on her wrists. Slashing pain. The windows up higher, farther away, on the other side of the hall. Damn.

     On the bridge below her stood Lickspittle, Stefan, and several soldiers. She ran the risk of being shot. Did they have weapons? No time to find out. She sped up. Sped up a lot. The pursuers followed suit — whistling, shouting. She was rushing straight towards a wall. She picked up some more. Her tail turned into a crowd. A little more... The wall is so close... One, two— quick!

     She darted down and dashed in the opposite direction — behind her resounded a loud thud and the screams of those who did not slow down in time. Losers! But there’s no time to gloat. Quick, onward, for the windows! Against the current of fae flying at her. Straight ahead. Nearing the bridge with soldiers again. A short plea to the skies.

     She heard a whistle — to the side! back! she flapped her wing with all her might — the fae charging at her stumbled — but she lost altitude. The bridge was right beneath her. An arrow or a spear  — and it’s over for her. Damn. All right. No weapons. They should not have any weapons.

     She picked up some speed. Pull devil! A window ahead — nice and long. She was already flying towards it when…

     Her chain jerked back. She cried and tugged, her wings flailing. She succeeded, oddly enough — only the grip has not gone away. She peeked over, never losing speed.

     His former Royal Highness Stefan. Gripping her chain. And shrilling, swinging in the air.

     At least she wasn’t shot. Maleficent pressed on. For what it’s worth, she’s never tried defenestration before — and he will make a nice hole.

     And now there was a swarm of embittered reckless fae chasing her again. Only now, almost reaching the stained-glass window, she belatedly realized that they would easily fly right out after her. She almost plummeted in anger. Got to think fast. They are catching up. Her ears whistled.

     Look right, look left — how to hold them back? Look up — a huge magnificent chandelier, larger than life. That will do. She headed up.

     Stefan screamed and she swung her arm. He screamed louder. She would scream too if she could. He was still hanging on to her. She never liked this fucking game.

     Stretching out her dying hand, she grabbed the thick rope this lit rattletrap was hanging from. The chandelier swayed. Maybe it's a good thing that with a load she weighed more. The chandelier streaked away with a deafening screech, skittering across the balcony and knocking over a couple of people — and now, gaining momentum, was chasing her on their way out the stained glass window. She frantically pulled upward one last time — and curled her wings into a cocoon.

     It was deafening, all of it. The ringing and crackling all around her as she spun like a whirligig. The whistling and rattling of the chain in the air. The fresh heavy emptiness of the open air, the evening coolness. And the loud, shuddering boom behind her, the rumble of a blow.

     She spread her wings and rushed forward, not looking back, not looking back until the very end. But there were no more scarlet flowers of death, no more chattering of teeth and no more chains whistling — except for one, which was being constantly pulled, hurting her wretched, almost blackened hand. She did not want to look at it either. Or at him .

     She did not want anything, anything in the world.

     Beneath her was the hateful dirty yellow city, amazed screaming faces, their cries but a squeak to her ears. Or maybe it was her hearing. Her head was splitting. Even her wings ached — probably fragments stuck between the feathers. Taking pains, Maleficent glanced back before the castle was too far away to see: the crack in the window was huge — and behind it there was no gaping void, only a stuck chandelier.

     The city walls gave way to fields — black, gray and white, littered with snow. Or at least they must have been white — to her they looked beige, almost yellow. She was sick of the colour already. The woods where she had been captured. The cottage. No point in stopping by there again.

     To her left, the setting farewell sun glowed red and golden — the first of two dusks allotted to her. She flew on until she just could not fly anymore. She was rocking too hard — or maybe the world was. The brain fog was unbearable. She could, of course, get rid of ballast...

     There was a clearing ahead. Still human lands, not the Moors. But there was no choice. Maleficent could barely feel her body, could barely feel the wind, and did not know where it was taking them. Sight was getting black. Breathing, swallowing — impossible. Her hands — as good as dead.

     He did not fall. They both did. With a rumble and clang of broken chains, raising dust and dirt, they crashed into the ground, rolling through the mud some more, narrowly missing a fallen tree nearby.

     Can't stay down. Can't stay down. He will kick her.

     Arduously Maleficent got up on her elbows — everything was shaking — and directed her hand at Stefan who was getting to his feet. She hoped to lift him into the air and throw him away — but her hands hurt so much that no magic appeared. Heavens!

     She had no idea how she would fight him now.

     She did not want to. Just like that other time, he was towering over her defeated figure. Maybe this time around he really should just finish her off and be done with it.

     Although, judging by Stefan's stunned face, her glare and gesture alone were enough to pin him to the spot. He fell to his knees.

     Well. That will do too.

     “Just take everythin’ I have! I just wanted to escape the castle!” he bleated in a surprisingly high voice for his age. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of seeing such terror on this face. Now she just wanted to get rid of him and his mug — she thought it had been imprinted in her memory forever, but, in fact, she had almost forgotten it until now. A dark thick beard covering the cheeks, mouth and neck, deep wrinkles on the forehead and between the eyebrows, tanned skin. Narrowed eyes, always wary, always judgemental, even of this lookalike. “Just don’t eat me alive!”

     “We don't eat—” she began, but… had she… already told him something along those lines? Once?.. Yes... When they first met... “Heavens,” she couldn't help but sigh. “I am not going to slay you. As much as I’d love to.”

     In fact, the mere thought of food churned her stomach. But she needed a hideaway for the night. She should drive him away, and quick — unless, she suddenly thought, he would return to the castle and rat on her. What was she to do now, keep him around? For the last hours of her life?

     No, he said he’d wanted to run away from the castle... Her thoughts were all over the place, like waves breaking on the shore... She pressed her temples — and only felt how hot her fingertips were. Where is her magic? Why was everything barely healing?

     Stefan frowned — wrinkles, wrinkles again. And yet, to her surprise, he looked younger than the man who met his death at her feet one incredible night so many years ago. Maybe this Stefan has not spent a decade losing his mind... He blinked a couple of times. Got up.

     And sprinted away, as if stung.

     She watched him scoot, having neither the strength nor the desire to get him back. Oh please. You’d think it’s her dying wish to hang around with her worst enemy for some old times’ sake! He has done her nothing good in her life anyway! Only Aurora! And even Aurora was—!

     Aurora was gone.

     ...Aurora was gone.

     The wounds on her neck should have healed by now — then why was it so hard to breathe...

     Dazed, the fairy sank down by the fallen tree, not feeling herself. Everything was floating. She could faintly remember that somewhere in the folds of her dress there should be Mairead’s doll hiding, and she was afraid to get it. She was afraid to see it — but even more so that it would suddenly not be there...

     Mairead never existed. Aurora never existed. Her daughter. Her sun in the sky. No more of her laughter, no more of her heavenly eyes, no more of her soft voice, no more of the rustle of her dresses, no more…

     What has she done?...

     So many years ago it had already happened, it had almost happened — because of her, because she allowed her rage and resentment to overcome her mind, even her very heart, to unleash in green flames... To hurt those who did not deserve her wrath...

     And even now, so many years later, she let it happen again, again, forever now, forevermore — and again she had no one to blame but herself. She wanted to be whom she had once was, and oh did she — oh, she did become her. A crazy fairy who kills everything she cares about — again. She… her nose was burning… she learnt nothing… Nothing…

     What has she done?

     Why of course... If you live the same life, falling into the same trap, making the same mistakes, the Phoenix has no need for a new life. Everything repeats itself. And it can only end in death. Both hers and...

     The doll was there. Little, soft, well-loved, chewed on. Wrong colour. Something happened to her eyes, because everything was the wrong colour — only her hair remained the yellow shade it was. Its eyes were made of small sparkly beads — sunbeams fell on the ground. A little fair-haired girl with brilliant eyes... Tears gushed out and rolled down slowly, silently.

     They did not exist. They could not be found anywhere, except for the memories of one deplorable, one stupid cruel fairy — and this fairy did not exist either, and when in a day she disappears forever, there will be absolutely nothing left of Aurora. Only black, stinking, absolute emptiness...

     “Didn’t know ye witches can cry too.”

     Stefan awkwardly shuffled his foot — he stepped on a sunbeam.

     “I am a fairy, not a witch,” Maleficent uttered, straightening up. Her cheeks were tight. “And I am not—”

     “Well, it’s none of my business if you’re cryin’, or why you’re cryin’...” He cast a glance. “Why are you cryin’, by the way?”

     She had no will to talk. She loathed him. Even more than usual, she loathed him — and his voice, and his face, and the fact that he did not know her, and did not know himself. But she knew no one else here — there was no one to know.

     “I signed something I shouldn't have,” she grumbled, rummaging through the folds of her dress, and pulled out a contract. Stefan gasped — some funny sound it would be in any other circumstances.

     “A contract with Lickspittle? What For? You should never make deals with Lickspittle, never!” he shouted.

     “I figured.”

     “He always asks too much in return.”

     “Thank you, genius.”

     “And his exit clauses? sneaky!”

     What?

     “Exit clauses?”Maleficent blinked. Stefan kept rattling off — about wages under the new king, about distraught fae, about rumours of rebels from the Moors... “I’ve read everything that’s written on this wretched piece of paper, and there was not a word about exit clauses!” the fairy thundered. The heart was fluttering.

     “Well, you didn’t expect him to write it in red letters on top!” he chuckled. “He’ll make you sweat… Give it to me,” and then the document was snatched from her hands. “I work for him under a contract, and even I found a line in a secret place. Watch and learn.”

     And then, groaning and puffing, Stefan began to fold: in a triangle, in half, inside out — as though aiming to destroy the paper entirely. The seconds ticked by. Maleficent watched as something formed before her eyes. One, and two, and three, and a little more — a rectangle turning into a circle — a serpent crawling along its circumference, a serpent devouring its own tail. And all kinds of letters in the centre, the same as they were in the text of the contract, but thicker. Three words.

     ‘ TRUE LOVES KISS’ , it read.

     A fine line stretched along the edges, barely legible. ‘If not fully satisfied, a True Love’s Kiss will render this contract null and void’ .

     Someone above was laughing at her — probably Fate itself. Or maybe it was Lickspittle — they were all but twins now.

     She would laugh if she could breathe.

     A True Love’s Kiss. Making a Kiss of True Love the only way to break the curse — is there a better way to trample her in the mud? To spit in her face with her own mistake, to leave without a single chance? A True Love's Kiss... The one she could rely on never existed.

     A True Love’s Kiss. What a way to kill.

     “True Love’s Kiss,” she repeated, flat. 

     Stefan suddenly turned pale. “Over my dead body!”

     What is he talking ab—Ah...

     “Oh for goodness’ sake!” Maleficent growled. “What do you have to do with it?!”

     She let the thought run through her mind, go in one ear and out the other — because she could not imagine anything more hopeless. Stefan has never loved her even in that life, let alone this one. And there was no doubt about her own feelings.

     What had once seemed like true love was at best an infatuation, passionate and short. She had idealized it then and even after, when there was nothing left of it — after all, if all this had been a cruel deception she fell for, then the deception must have been good! And memory obligingly had wiped out anything that could bring even a shadow of doubt. Even when she’d hated him — and her hate outlasted any love she had had — she’d believed the deceit had come out of nowhere, which had only made it sting worse, worse than iron. And it had uprooted her heart so — bereavement even more dangerous than stolen wings.

     And so her loud love had not even left a whisper. Instead, for seventeen years, a snake curled into the hole where her heart had been. It flashed its fangs and generously shared its poison with anyone who had the misfortune to get too close to it. Like when Diaval stared at her with his beady eyes, or when Aurora called her her Faerie Godmother.

     The snake only crawled away at the sight of death. Surprisingly, death put out even her hatred. The only thing that made it out of the steam was pity. Years later, after countless flights on her returned wings, and embraces of her daughter, and a sharp tip of the beak and soft fingers on her feathers, that pity was replaced by near indifference.

     None of it was love, let alone true love.

     True love, if she ever learnt anything about it in her entire life, was by no means so abrupt, so fleeting. Rather, on the contrary — it was very... delicate. Careful, despite its power. Like a girl approaching the Thorn Wall who shattered the prison of her wings. Or a raven lurking in the branches, a giant dragon. Ever soft, despite its bluntness, and reproach, and disappointment, like someone's husky voice in her ear, objecting to her very notion that there is no such thing.

     She felt a stare. She cleared her throat.

     “I need to find…” she began, only to stop. Find who? True love? Aurora was no more. There was no one left who was... was... “I need to find Diaval.”

     “Diaval?”

     Wait, what? What did she say? “…Diaval?”

     Why did she… That is, of course, she remembered him, he… They…

     She would love to convince herself that she only said his name because he was the last person she remembered. He was the one who tried to convince her that she had already done enough and could not decide for Aurora when she had only a few days left. When, wan and fiery-eyed, he said, “Well, that might be how you feel,” — that love does not exist. He was talking about True Love, and now she has to think about it again, so it’s no wonder he came up.

     But of course it was not the case. She could only be so good at lying to herself. And if she wanted to get to something true, lies were off the table. He loved her. That, she knew for certain. He would not have hinted at that if he was not sure of that himself, he would not have tried to make the first move if enough time had not passed, and, unlike love, she never had to question his sincerity.

     And she... she...

     It must work. Either way, she has to find him.

     “Diaval,” she repeated, resolute. “I need to find Diaval.”

     But where is he? If Lickspittle’s cunning plan was true, it could only mean that they did not know each other. They never met. He could be... He...

     The next second she was running — and the next moment she was flying with all her might. The trees jumped, turned into a green carpet beneath her, the wind whipped her wings.

     He could be anywhere.

     The sparse woods of Perceforest gave way to a blue — turquoise, almost green — strip of the river, like a fallen hair ribbon, and then there were fields: yellow and green rectangles, sloping wooden fences, trodden paths. In the distance, black and menacing against the blazing sun, the fortress awaited her. A long time ago, Diaval said that he would spend his nights in the ruins of the castle — he had lived there until one dark cloudy night one shameless fairy had appropriated his humble dwelling and driven him away with magic. That night he had not dared to spend the night there — and the next morning the fierce lady guest had saved him from a club and a net. From a dog and a man.

     Maybe the iron made itself felt, maybe it was something else — the castle seemed unbearably far away. Golden fields of grain stretched beneath it on and on, one after another. She did not give up.

     Well, since Maleficent was never born, no one had stopped that proud featherhead from nesting in the stone abode, and she still had a chance of finding him there. Since she... since she... never...

     The realization hit her like a bullet in the side. Her wings spasmed. She sank lower and lower, to the high ears of corn. She never met him, which could mean that... which could only mean that she never saved him. There, in the field. From a club and a net. From a dog and a man.

     And he was beaten to death.

     Maleficent took ground like a stone dropped from a height, her heart pounding just as loudly. Diaval was dead.

     She had thought this could not get any worse. And Fate kicked her in the chest.

     Perhaps she was swaying, perhaps she was walking — ears of corn parted before her, whipped her cheeks, hampered her every step. Diaval is dead.

     Everything about that was so wrong, so pointless, so painful. She had shed as many tears for Aurora as she could; now she felt she had none left to cry — and it was infuriating, so infuriating: didn’t Diaval deserve to be mourned? Didn't he deserve to be... for her to grieve... him?... to grieve her raven. Her raven... It was such a strange phrase, so small. Loaded. Dear.

     He is dead.

     Her feet led her there on their own accord — but what was she to do there? Look for traces? After so many years?

     Diaval died. She was supposed to save him but never did — and he perished there, alone, never receiving help, perished from cruel hatred, driven to death by pure pain. And it is all her fault. The one whose life she has held in her hands for so many years never got to give it to her.

     Spreading her arms, she floated through the prickly golden cold sea like a boat or a broken raft, staggering and miraculously buoyant. What was keeping her afloat, she had no idea.

     After all, Diaval was not there, just like Aurora. Among other things, that meant that there was no hope left for her. She would die, just like Lickspittle wanted. Alone, just like she had wanted.

     Towering over her was a scarecrow — tall, dilapidated, bare and offensive. Nothing but a ridiculous hat eaten by time and God knows what else. No face, no body — just protruding arms and a pillar. The place, once cleared, was now overgrown, and the ears of corn besieged his shabby body like weeds — and so he stood, all by his lonesome.

     Even eyeless, the scarecrow seemed to be staring her down: either in scolding, or in sympathy. He had been here that day. Now there was not even a “here” left.

     She could as well lie down right here and hence watch the next two sunsets, see herself off on her last flight. But she did not feel like staying in this field. Ravens, she knew, often avoid places where one of their congeners deceased — now it made perfect sense to her. She wished to be as far away from here as possible.

     The fairy stood up to her height, barely rising above the maize, peering into the far-off distance. The Moors were drowning in emerald gloom. Strangely enough, she was now having an easier time deciding what to do for this pitiful two-day-odd journey to her death. More than anything, she longed to go home. She might find herself a dry, warm and secluded nook. Dark and quiet. And she shall wait. After all, this is how birds should die.

     Stefan was nowhere near, of course — he would have never kept up with her wings. She hoped he had not decided to follow her. The only one who understood her was a lonely lifeless scarecrow in the field. She glanced over to bid him good-bye. Took in the gray straw, the broken-down uncovered body.

     Aurora was gone — and so was Diaval. At the end of the day, that's what she deserves.

     Now she only had to wait until she follows suit.

     She did not want to fly, she lost her wings. Step by step, she trudged past thin spikes she could not quite grab — unreliable as fading gold — towards the emerald strip lost in the evening sky. She caught a wary glimpse of her hands and sadly observed that they did not look any better. Dark red, almost brown charred stripes across the wrists, and no sensation. No magic.

     Although the Moors did not recognize her, she recognized its coolness, its evening stillness. Surely everyone was now at the Faerie Mound or off the Big Rocks... But then again, they would have no one to gather there with now. There were no Fae here, that's for sure — those remained in the castle, barely alive, incapacitated, bewitched, enslaved. And the Queen of the Moors...

     But it did not matter. Maleficent was not planning on showing her face anyway.

     “Oi, you! Witch! Fairy!” suddenly rang out right behind her. Well, there go her plans. The fairy turned round, facing the man sprinting towards. Stefan clung to the trunk of a tree near her and hunched over, panting. “Ugh, I knew that ye beasts are fast, but this...”

     “You shouldn't have followed me,” she snapped. Stefan stared at her in amazement.

     “Where do you want me to go — back to Lickspittle? I won’t, on pain of death I won’t! I’m sick and tired of this thankless labour…” she stepped forward, “of bein’ everyone’s errand boy… Hey you, wait for me! Did I run here for nothin’? I need a rest. Whither are we goin’?”

     “I am going home. You may go whithersoever.”

     “You live here? Didn't you come from the island like the rest?”

     Maleficent remembered her brethren, their wild yellow eyes… They had been living in the Nest of Origin, then, just like in real life. When did they even come? What did Lickspittle do to them? And how long ago? After all... after all, there probably was no war with Ulstead. It did not even seem like Lickspittle had ever worked for Ingrith in this world. And Ulstead could not have had any affiliation with Perceforest either — there was no export of iron after the unification of the kingdoms... If there was no King Stefan, then there was no need for iron either... Or... She could not wrap her head around it all anymore.

     Well, who cares. None of it concerns her. What did concern her was where she was going to spend her last “day off”. Could somebody have occupied her old Rowan Tree? Her cave? It seemed unlikely, unless someone ventured to fly that high — on her memory, the only ones who did were she and Diaval. But they were both...

     “So you’re not goin’ to answer? Yeah, keep shakin’ your head... I don’t know about you, but I’m starvin’. And then we might as well get some kip. But first we got to eat…” Maleficent flung her arm and swung it around, as though to say that everything within his reach was at his disposal. As long as she does not have to look at him ever again, as long as he leaves her alone, to her poison, to her thoughts... She could already glimpse the slopes of familiar snow-bound hills, even if they were of the wrong colour, she could smell the mire and the heath. “We need to look for pears,” Stefan went on — she kept leaving, and his voice kept moving away. “I’ve heard they have good pears all year round, even in winter. I wouldn’t know, I've never been here. Only once, when I was a boy. But then some nasty giants chased me away, so—”

     The chatter suddenly broke into a scream and disturbing silence — and when Maleficent turned around, Stefan was nowhere to be found. She would be glad to never see him again, but it could have been the soldiers or the Fae — she had to go back and check. Everything was as usual, except for a huge black pit in the ground. Maleficent stood at its verge to pull the idiot out — and send him flying out into the fields for good measure — but did not see him down below.

     The next moment something heavy hit her from behind. And the hole turned out to be rather deep.

     Maleficent heard a loud booming sound — and fell. Cold wet ground. Dim light. Something grabbed her leg. Whoosh — Stefan's yelp — and another big whoosh. She stretched her arms forward to reach whatever was in front of her — but they wrung her hands, and everything became darkness.

     Seconds passed, one after another — even her ragged breathing grew even. She knew someone was behind her. Whoever has decided to catch her this time, they had better hurry.

     Movement. Push forward. She was pressed against the earthen wall along which she fell. Her arms were in a strong grip of long claws. And out of the blackness, right in her ear, she heard a voice.

     “Hold it right there.”

     She knew whose voice it was. It was the last person she expected to hear. But she would have recognized it anywhere. He... He was alive.

     She extended her hand to touch his face, her lips forming his name — and then Diaval's claws locked around her throat.

Chapter Text

     “Don’t move. Who are you and what do you need. Quick. While I’m still being nice.”

     He drew his claws away from her neck, but still holding her — so that she would not dodge. But can there be any reasoning with the head? She felt like she was suffocating again.

     “Now, now, there’s no need to be so frightened,” he cooed at once, even quieter, barely audible. “I asked a very simple question and expect a very simple answer. Of course, if you don't answer,” a short schw-w-wing! — and something flashed in the dark, “I will have to play by the rules, but you have a chance. I repeat: name, purpose.”

     “Diaval...?”

     Ts-s-sk!

      “Your name. Or is mine the only thing they teach ye there?” he murmured in her ear, his perpetually complaining tone. “How awful. I even feel bad for having to maim you.”

     Maleficent caught her breath. The last doubts were alleviated.

      “What was I thinking?” he growled, pressing. “They’re always enchanted.”

     “What’s the matter?” thundered outside, somewhere in the distance. Diaval peeked into the gloom over his shoulder. “Is it that hard to just off them? Do you have to wag your tongue with everyone...”

     Diaval turned his head back, squeezed her shoulders.

     “Say something smart,” he whispered. “You don't look enchanted, so come on, help me save your skin.”

     “If we don’t finish her, she will finish us!” came again.

     “She's here alone, without her cronies!” he shouted. “Unless—Hey, last chance,” he drew closer to her — Maleficent swore she could feel his feathers on her skin… He glanced behind. “Unless they sent her forth like cannon fodder!”

     He twitched a little, and she nearly made out his face in the darkness — she looked for his eyes and could not catch sight of them. He was alive... Alive! He was alive! He was here! Her... Her raven... If he had not latched on to her forearms with his inhuman claws, she would have pounced on him. She would strangle him for not finding her first. For making her believe, even for a second, that he truly…

     “How did you survive?” she blurted out. “Did you escape?”

     “Escape what?” came in response. He must be frowning now. Gaze wandering all over her face.

     “The farmers. On the field. With a net, and dogs. You... How did you—”

     “How do you know…” his hot breath doused her. Claws went right back to her neck. “Who told you? Did he tell ye that?! What—”

     A deafening crack ahead — they were both pulled forward—

     “You are taking forever!!!” burst over their heads. Balthazar released Diaval from his clumsy grip — he crashed to the ground with a hiss. Perched on the tree warrior’s shoulder, Robin was giving them a scathing look. “Balthazar, grab her before she runs away!”

     Balthazar was just about to clutch at her side.

     “She won’t run away,” Diaval voiced. Everyone looked at him. “She's not enchanted. You can see for yourself.”

     The next moment Robin was all up in her face — his elongated phiz, unusually gloomy and formidable. He peered into her eyes, not getting too close, flapping his wings.

     “Not yellow. Just a little,” he concluded. “But is that enough?”

     “She was talking,” Diaval tossed, rising to his feet, stepping into the shadows. “Talking nonsense, but at least articulate nonsense. What do I call you?”

     Belatedly the fairy gazed back. She was still bilious. She was still shaking. She still could not feel her hands. And now she could not breathe. As though a whole crowd was standing atop her — but she only saw Diaval’s black, inhuman face — and tried to understand why even now she could not see his eyes.

     “Maleficent.”

     “Bless you!” Diaval answered. “See? She talks. Can’t tell you what she means, though. And if she got on her feet too, that’d be even better.”

     She needed to see his eyes. The fairy stood up to her full height, spread her wings. A shiver ran through her entire body, but she suppressed it. 

     Robin, however, swayed in place, skirted her. “But what if Lickspittle invented a new poison?” he squeaked, peering into her eyes again. If Maleficent had not been afraid to move her hand, she would have flung him rather far off.

     “Hardly,” Diaval threw, twirling a short blade in his hands, lowering his head. His hair was hiding his face, and he appeared all black and somehow big. “Let's not overestimate our friend, these days he barely collects herbs for his blasted potions.”

     “So she… So we aren’t going to fight her? Or hide from her?”

     “If she was supposed to fight us, she’d have started by now. Look at her hands,” he motioned. “Shackles. They wouldn’t shackle an attacking fay, this is for prisoners. I believe she ran from the castle. Maybe even before the first dose. If that’s the case, then,” he stepped forward, into the light, right in front of her, “that’s quite commendable.”

     That’s when Maleficent saw his face.

     If Diaval had not sounded the way Diaval always sounded, she might not have recognized him.

     Because in a way, it was not him at all. Compared to the person standing before her, Diaval was a real human.

     Staring back at her was a pair of huge gaping inky holes, as bottomless as they were dark. His eyes had no whites.

     The bright, hard-looking tip of his nose looked even more like a beak than ever before. Under the eyes, on the temples, down the nose, along the cheekbones — framing the face — were short black glossy feathers. They stretched further down the chin to the Adam's apple and neck till they were hidden at the scruff by the collar of the jacket. The aforementioned jacket lost its sleeves — feathers were sticking out over his shoulders, coming down along his arms, longest and sharpest at the elbows. She would even presume he had wings for arms altogether — yet they ended in spindly black fingers with sharp nails — real bird claws. He looked as though dipped in tar up to the elbow.

     And yet, a painfully familiar black shirt was tied at his hips, and there was that long scar on his torso right beneath the vest, even under the feathers.

     Some kind of mixture of the iniquitously alien and the familiar. A blow below the belt.

     “What, never seen a raven before?” Diaval suddenly growled. Maleficent gave a start. He was staring right back — two deep pitch-black wells. “Ain’t ye trained to hunt me?” he squinted.

     “…You truly don’t remember me, do you?” the fairy wilted.

     “Sorry. Seen too many fae to know by sight. But why would they tell ye my whole deal...” he bent down right to her face. “As if it makes it easier to catch me… Oh well,” he straightened up. “Let’s suppose you are not a spy but a renegade. I let you go, then, let’s hope we don’t meet again — and if we do, you owe me. Buh-bye. Good luck going out into the world. Balthazar!” he spun around then. “I have updates from Perceforest and Ulstead; gather everyone, let them be in the Meeting Glade. We’ll discuss details for tomorrow.”

     He marched onward.

     She had to bring him back. She had to bring the real Diaval back.

     “Diaval!”

     “Ah, and, Balthazar? For future reference — no touchy. Personal space, all right? How do you want me to threaten intruders if I can be snatched by a tree any second?”

     “Diaval!”

     “Robin, make sure everyone’s ready and remembers what to do. Clear?”

     “Affirmative!”

     “Thank you—”

     “Diaval!”

     “What is it?!” barked the raven, swinging around. She rarely heard him yell, let alone at her, but now she could make out a peculiar hoarseness, annoyance in his voice. Scowling, feathers ruffled, he waited for her question — and Maleficent found herself not very sure what to say.

     She looked about at them all: the changed Diaval, the huge silent Balthazar, the small unusually stern Robin, their incredulous faces. She needed a plan.

     “I shall not leave. I came here for a reason,” she replied. Diaval raised his eyebrows and jutted his chin — she continued, “I can...” but glanced at her hands, burnt and trembling, and broke off. Damn. “You can help me and then I will help you.”

     “What do you mean, ‘help you’?” Robin squeaked.

     “I can fight beside you as soon as I recuperate. You will have real magic on your side.” She raised her head high. She had no reason to be modest about her powers. At the end of the day, it was all she had left.

     “Since when are Fae so helpful?” Diaval grunted sullenly, even though the tilt of his head betrayed the fact that he was looking at her hands. “Just cause Dicklittle hasn't charmed you doesn't mean we'll trust every stranger we meet.”

     His words hurt more than they should have. ‘Stranger’! That blasted head of his— How can he not— Why does she feel so bad—

     This was not the real Diaval. She needed to get him— back—

     “All right,” she uttered, looking into Diaval's eyes, taking a step forward. “I know you don't remember me. But we... we know each other and... and— Listen— There was a crowd at the feast, and Moorfolk, and even humans, and I was all but harassed with demands to turn some ankle-biter into a pig, and everyone kept shouting from all sides, and I ruined the fete, and then... And then Stefan fell into this hole,” she breathed.

     Nobody answered her.

     Slowly, his huge, even more round eyes fixed on her, Diaval tilted his head towards Robin.

     “Did she bump her head? On her way down?”

     Damn! What was she hoping?... Her ears went ringing. Her throat went dry.

     There were three concerned looks on her. Diaval glanced back to Balthazar, then to Robin, then to her — with a faint smile on his lips — and then back to Robin.

     “No,” the latter said right away.

     “Yes,” Diaval hissed — and turned to her with his former smile, his hands steepling. “You know what, perhaps I was a little too hasty with my 'buh-bye’… Wouldn’t be right to leave you when you need… help. Right?” he peered at her — she could only gape back. He nodded either to her or to himself. “Then we shall take you with us—” Robin protested, and he brushed him off with his hand. “We shall take you with us, get you treated, take a look at your head, and then... then we shall see. Maybe you'll be useful in the Resistance.”

     Maleficent had never been so acutely aware of just how much Diaval’s eyes usually betray him — now, as they were so black that it was impossible to even be sure where he was looking, his face was almost impossible to read. Was he assessing her? Or playing along, only to forsake again? Did he believe she was not under Lickspittle’s hex? Was she truly seeing weariness and sympathy in his gaze, or was it but a shadow of someone she once knew? Someone who—

     “All right. I can't send Robin with you, he's busy, isn't he, Robin?” Diaval spoke up. The other briskly nodded and fleeted. “Balthazar is summoning everybody to a meeting. You’ll come with me, then — soon as we arrive, they’ll patch you up and give you something to eat... Maybe she's delirious from hunger,” he muttered to Balthazar, who hummed something sceptical. “I’ll probably send you to pixies, they’ll tell you what's what. If you bear their chatter.”

     With that he set out, towards the opening clearing and the line of trees behind it, lost in the overtaking darkness. But Maleficent still noticed the details: his familiar leather jacket, devoid, by the looks of it, not only of its sleeves but most of the hem as well. Sticking from underneath, almost sweeping the ground, was a diamond-shaped tip of a black tail. She could have sworn she saw bird feet. Incredible…

     She lacked the strength to muse on what had happened to him. She ached to ask him something, anything, but her throat was so dry she could barely swallow, let alone talk. At some point, he suddenly stopped and told her to walk ahead of him instead — she had neither strength nor desire to think that over either — she only registered how much upset her.

     But she was slowly perking up. She was breathing more freely, and the pain subsided a little — at worst, Maleficent just got used to it. Maybe her hands did come to life a tiny bit, maybe it was just wishful thinking. She no longer trusted her eyesight. But perhaps in a couple of hours she will even be able to conjure.

     Some time passed, and snow-capped hills gave way to familiar winding rocky paths and murmuring water. In the reigning darkness, tiny creatures were crawling out here and there, barely noticeable — cautiously, timidly, they set their eyes on her.

     “Be not afraid!” Diaval shouted at the top of his lungs without slowing down his pace. “We have a guest. She is not enchanted! Probably! Ye have better things to do than gawp at us, don't ye?” he lilted enthusiastically. The gawping continued, though. Before anyone could give voice, Diaval moved on, half-turned, spreading his arms. “Well then, welcome to the Moors — your historical home, your last refuge, blah-blah-blah. Swamps and bogs, you’re going to love it,” he waved his hand, turning away. “Now I will hand you over to our holy trinity — I’d like to know where they’re now—wo-o-oh.”

     The “holy trinity” proved to be surprisingly sure to appear — she heard rather than saw the three pixies — three! — fly up to them. For the first time in her life, Maleficent was genuinely glad to see them. Especially Flittle.

     “We heard the news!” she said.

     “Course you did,” Diaval muttered.

     “The water faeries told us, did you really bring—Oh, poor thing, you look terrible!” Thistlewit squeaked.

     “Don't say that, silly, you’ll upset her!” Knotgrass scolded her. “Darling, you look… Oh, just let us help you! Your hands are blacker than tar!”

     “You think that sounded better?”

     “Sh-h-h-h!” her companion broke in. “Ladies, everyone here is deadly tired and some are touched in the head, and yer chatter’s not helping. Just take her to the infirmary and do something useful. If she speaks, remember everything she said. I'll come later, after the meeting. And then—”

     He was cut short by a loud thump! — a tree guard wading sternly across the water towards them. But Balthazar was walking far ahead of them, which meant... Leaf stopped next to Diaval and gave him a hard look that made him stop. Before Maleficent could even comprehend that her old friend, the one who had died in the torture in the Ulstead chapel, was standing before her, Adella, one of the faeries, buzzed ahead of him.

     “Diaval!” she cried. “Threat of attack! Very soon!”

     Raven shook his head. “A-ah, no, Leaf, buddy, we just got from there. We've already handled that. It’s just… a hostage…” he turned to her. “Or whatever you can call this… It’s a funny story, really, but there’s no time to explain, we must get together for—”

     “No!” she cried. “Not her. There are soldiers! Soldiers are moving towards the border. About a dozen. Armed! Ten minutes from the border!”

     “The hell?!” Diaval broke out. His tone jumped sky-high. “Rubbish, this can’t be, they weren’t planning any outing, I didn’t hear a thing about it yesterday!” he bellowed.

     “Well, maybe she brought them along?” Robin squeaked out of the blue, flying up to her face again.

     “They never attack without my knowing in advance, this is—!”

     “Her eyes are still yellow, and her accomplices—” 

     “—unheard of! Since when do they just venture unplan—”

     “They might be pursuing me,” Maleficent said heavily. In a flash all eyes were on her. She did not want it to come to this. She was going to hide, leave everyone alone — and now because of her they had to... Had to what? What are they going to do? Her hands were burning. She could not even help.

     “You?” Diaval screwed up his eyes. The feathers on his arms stood up. “Oh really?” he snorted. “He sent a dozen soldiers to look for a single fay? Are you special or what?” He circled her. The scowl grew darker still. She did not like his look — hopelessly black, unreadable, distrustful. Diaval would never look like that. She did not know how to answer this Diaval. How to look back. “My god, blink or something, will you. Might as well be dead. I'm starting to suspect you myself...”

     “Diaval, they're close!” Adella called from behind him.

     “I’m glad!” he roared back. Winced, guiltily, at once. Heaved a sigh. “Where are they now?”

     Adella glanced at Leaf. He rattled and rustled. Maleficent got the answer, even before Diaval did — he needed an interpreter. “Southwest, about five minutes for a wolf,” she replied. Leaf hummed again. “Should we come along?”

     “Save yer strength for tomorrow,” the raven twitched his shoulders. He held out his palm before someone could dissuade him. “Warn everyone, make sure everyone’s safe, I'm running out of time. Same as usual, everyone knows what's what, quick!” His voice grew trumpeting. “Quick, quick!” he blared, straightening up, motioning. “Hurry up, hurry up! And you,” he pointed at her, his darkness digging into her again, “you go along with them and hope that you are worth all this hassle,” he spat. Then turned away and darted in the direction whence they’d just come.

     Maleficent froze in place, watching his step turn into a run, unable to follow him. Now, half-dead, devoid of magic, she was of no use — and yet... to abandon him? Was he really to go against a dozen soldiers? By himself? Why did everyone just accept it? Was no one going to—

     “Come on, come on,” Knotgrass muttered next to her — and tugged her lightly along by the arm. Or maybe not lightly — she did not feel a thing. She was but shaking all over from the realization that he was leaving, he was leaving alone—!

     “Get off me!” she yelled — the pixie recoiled. All the better. She had to move fast before he runs aw—

     But when she turned around, Diaval was no longer there. Far ahead, in the distance, a black wolf disappeared in the trees.

     A flap of wings — Maleficent rushed after. Close to the ground, nearly touching the trees — right, left, sharp left, forward. Got to keep him in sight. Got to stay out of his sight. Got to stay away from the soldiers. Got to not smash into anything. Got to—

     And then — before she could blink — the wolf vanished. Into thin air.

     What on Earth?!

     The fairy swayed, looking around — no trace. Maybe he is already far ahead? She rushed forward. Right, left. Minute, another minute. Voices somewhere out there, getting closer and closer, the whistle of the wind — no one around. Noise creeping, the sound of iron against the ground. No time to waste. The glade getting nearer, trees thinning out...

     The soldiers were moving slowly but noisily. The fairy landed too far off, at the edge of the clearing, among the trees. She could not see his face or theirs — only long spears in the hands of several of them, swords and bows. Nearly everyone was armed with something.

     Her gaze darted between them and the trees around — he has to be somewhere... But there was no one — not a raven, not even a wolf. Only a moment later, something tiny flashed by. Something. Then nothing. And there it was again. A bat, and nothing more. Where is he? Was he going to attack unnoticed?

     The soldiers continued on their way. Now she could hear something howling next to one of the soldiers. She craned her neck — but it was a dog. It was smelling about, trampling on the snow at the owner’s feet, then came to a halt, tilted its head, whined...

     Its cry was drowned out by a roar of a bear.

     He appeared out of nowhere — right in the middle of the clearing. A huge black bear where the bat just was.

     The roar intensified. Diaval stood up on his hind legs. Maleficent remembered seeing it once before in Ulstead. Except that time she’d been high in the sky, and he’d seemed like a tiny dot — but now...

     The soldiers hanged back.

     The bear stepped forward — his tread slow, his growl low, his face to the soldiers as they timidly backed away to where they came from. Someone even spoke, raising their hands — she did not make out the words. The dog roared, but was kicked away. It seemed that Diaval was just going to scare them off without using force. He succeeded — the men stood close, holding hands, and the bear began to rise on its hind legs...

     And then one of the humans cried and launched a spear.

     And the bear jumped forward.

     The weapon almost hit him — he landed on all fours right in front of the hunter.

     And then turned into a wolf.

     The warrior backed away, trying to get up — but Diaval had none of it, pouncing on his legs with a deafening roar. He helplessly flailed his hands on the ground.

     “It's him!” came from the other side — whence the others ran in fear. The phrase alone seemed to give the victim a second wind: he started scooping snow with his hands and tossing it at the enemy’s muzzle, trying to knock him down. He dodged, rumbled and... And the soldier felt a stone.

     Diaval staggered with a cry. The man leaped and ran to a tree.

     Damn, damn, damn, she has to do something...

     “Get him! Don't let him shift!” clamoured the soldiers. But the wolf got up on his paws and rushed to the prey as he climbed the tree with a yelp. Diaval remained standing at the roots.

     Maleficent crept closer. Perhaps she could...

     But the predator already turned around and rushed in the opposite direction — to the run-away soldiers who clutched their weapons.

     He pounced on one of them, snarling and baring his teeth — a couple of others jumped atop him — they rolled in the snow: hands and paws, screams and cries, swords thrown at hazard — until black smoke rose around them. Several soldiers, those that were at the very bottom, remained on the ground — one stood up as if stung.

     “What is he? What is he now?” he shouted, disarmed.

     She already knew. She already saw Diaval behind his back.

     A man.

     Beaten and as if burnt, Diaval prepared to fight again. As though in a dream, Maleficent watched how they grappled until his allies got up — how Diaval first fought back with his claws, forcing him to retreat — how a soldier shouted that very soon he’d run out of energy to transform. How the shapeshifter, as if quivering at the words, swung him in the stomach with all his might, bounced back to the ground, grabbed one of the left swords — and hurled it away with a pained yelp. How the warrior laughed. How several other soldiers got up.

     How man became a horse and broke into furious gallop, knocking down everyone who got up in the process. How someone in a helmet slashed him either in the side or in the back — he neighed in distress and kicked his hind hooves, sending humans tumbling. How the dog ran away. How the horse hobbled from a pile of fallen bodies in the other direction — to the tree into which he’d driven one of the soldiers — and then suddenly swayed and collapsed.

     A man.

     A man on the ground, a man directly above him, in a tree. The former remained lying with his back to her, as if covered with something black that was not smoke — rather, something tangible, like fur... or feathers.

     Head down, bare battered back. He did not get up. Feathers, feathers — on the back, on the shoulders. Everything in Maleficent froze. She had to intervene, she had to, but she could barely move. One, two. Three. Come on! The soldier climbed down from the tree. Circled Diaval from the side. Come on! She crept closer unnoticed — they’d see her if they were looking. Damn it, she doubted she could strike him with magic. Damn it, damn it… She aimed towards the clearing, but felt only a slight trembling of the earth. She had to try. She had to wait... Come on! Diaval!

     The defeated soldiers were coming to their senses, reluctantly rising to their feet. The descended warrior carefully backed towards his shield and his spear — the same one that he’d thrown at the very beginning.

     Come on!

     She had to shift him... Shift him into something... Into a bear, please, into a bear... She even said in a whisper, “Into a bear,” like she used to.

     Wafts of black smoke. The man vanished into thin air. Did it work? But the bear never appeared. In fact, nobody appeared at all. A second passed, and then another. The combatant turned clutched a spear with an anxious “Where is he?!” — and did not notice a huge spider on his shoulder.

     The soldier turned around, drew his spear — and then found himself piggybacking a man.

     Black fabric around the neck. Victory cry. The soldier gurgled and stumbled. Diaval hopped off — but continued to pull. He spun — making the panting warrior face the others — shielding himself.

     The soldiers moved forward, encircling — Diaval retreated with his victim whose face was rapidly turning blue. He swayed in his arms and finally collapsed — but not before elbowing the shapeshifter in the chest.

     They both fell down — but, unlike the warrior, Diaval immediately got up with a shirt in his hands and a baleful glance.

     The troopers did not have time to come around.

     A weasel running towards them. A horse thrusting one onto the ground. A bear pressing him down. One down, and another one. Chainmail nailing to the ground. Deafening gritting — claws tearing through metal.

     One down, and another one. The next moment Diaval fell too — Diaval the man. He pounded the ground with his fists as he shifted and twitched— which meant— he was not going to, was not going to shift!

     “Into a bear.”

      And the gold turned him into a bear. Diaval roared.

     Enemies charged from behind — he brushed them away with his paw, like toys — with a snarl, with ease. Maleficent raised her arms — and the ground broke beneath the fallen fighters, the dirt heavy and enchaining. Heavens! Finally! Three on the ground, two directly under the roaring bear. 

     A battle cry pierced the air — an undefeated warrior rushed with a spear aimed straight at his furry shoulder. He evanesced in the brume — and keeled over with a heart-rending howl, clutching his leg, dropping his targe and spear. Writhing on the ground, rolling on his side. 

     A snake crawled out from under the shield.

     “There he is!” one of them shouted from the ground. “Aim!”

     Maleficent could barely see him crawl against the dark dirt. What she did see was an arrow being hastily aimed from the ground by a fallen soldier. He pulled the string.

     A snake turned into a wolf. Why— Why did he—

     The arrow flew with a whistle. The wolf wailed and tumbled.

     Maleficent twitched as if she was the one shot.

     But the arrow pierced the tree behind — the wolf lay on his side with a ripped wound rapidly reddening. He moved his paws — and black smoke rippled across the ground, as vague as the scream it covered.

     A man.

     A man. A man in a pool of blood.

     Diaval was shuddering. Shoulders, arms — ruby and shaking. Feathers poking through the skin on the back, through the red. Diaval did not budge. Brume swirled around him, but nothing happened. A man, still a man — but more like a bird, so many feathers. They did not disappear, even the magic dust did noting — he did not change. They lunged at him — he backed away and dodged, but not for long. They overtook him, pressed on his wounded side...

     Away!

      Green flames. Green flames threw them aside. She threw them aside. The fighters flew off, hitting the trees, crashing the ground.

     Maleficent dashed forward.

     Everything turned green. A bright line of fire cut Diaval off from the rest. It rose higher and higher, licking the air. Around Diaval, pliant vines broke out of the ground — they wrapped him in an embrace.

     Maleficent raised her hand, snapped her fingers — and thorns grew all around the soldiers. Another hand up — and half a dozen shields took to the air. Bam! — they nailed their masters to the ground.

     Save for the crackle of the emerald fire and the stifled panting behind her, there was silence. The soldiers lay motionless — she could not even see their gray faces or torn armour. Just a pile of escutcheons with Lickspittle’s face on them, just as mangled.

     Maleficent rushed back.

     The stems disappeared — what Diaval needed now was not protection but help. Whey-faced, he lay supine, surrounded by black blood and stained lost feathers, pressing the wound on his side. Cautiously, she removed his hand — he shuddered.

     “Don’t touch me!”

     “Silence!”

     She placed her hand on a long red gash, not too deep but terrible-looking, and began to patch it up. For a second Diaval kept jibbing and cowering, but he soon yielded and froze under her hand, save for the trembling — either from pain, or from anger, or from the cold.

     Maleficent must have been shaking herself. She knew she would not last long. The world was blurry again.

     He had been lying like this years ago, wounded by the soldiers in the castle during the battle on the day of the curse — except that arrow had not grazed him, it had pierced him. She had been removing it longer than she could imagine and had healed the wound worse than she could have if she herself had not been dying of exhaustion and pain. Just like that time, all she wanted was to turn him into a bird and draw him close so that nothing could threaten him anymore.

     “D— you— D-did you do this?” he coughed, eyes darting around. Whatever he meant, she nodded. “Get ya hands off me. I—I’ll give them a good—” he jerked forward, fur already appearing on his arms, wolf fangs bare... With a roar, he flopped to his front paws...

     “Easy now!” Maleficent snapped her fingers. Diaval shifted right back, only to look at the fairy with wild, astonished eyes. “Shall I stun them?” He blinked. “Shall I stun them?” Maleficent echoed, nodding towards the soldiers. The wall of fire was fading away — they did not move an inch. “To make sure they cannot go back?”

     Diaval must have been still coming to his senses — he was staring but as though not seeing her. In a lapse of a long second, he gulped. “Yes.”

     Maleficent rose to her feet, allowing Diaval some solitude, and, filled with zeal but not much pleasure, proceeded to knock soldiers senseless with magic. Now, that truly helped her feel like the evil and ruthless Queen of the Moors again. Lickspittle had done her good indeed.

     Nausea was at it again, and she kept having to pause — and therefore had no idea how much time had passed by the time she finished. It must have been a while: there was a rustle in the trees — Moorfolk was stepping out the shadows — more precisely, tall Guards and some pixies hiding on their mossy arms and shoulders, hanging off their green horns. Diaval was already on his feet and even put on his shirt — as if nothing had happened, with the exception of bloodied trembling hands — he licked and wiped them vigorously on his trousers.

     “Tie them down, get them to the lower level, keep them there,” he rattled, motioning to somebody. “Leave a little water, a little food, and don’t gloat too much.”

     Maleficent waved her hand — half a dozen dormant bodies took to the air in a cloud of blue fairy dust and gently drifted after her towards Diaval and the guards.

     “That's it for tonight! Get back to your duties! Nobody approaches them, is that clear? We can always bathe them in mud later,” the raven sneered. “Robin, if it’s not too much trouble, warn the earth faeries and moles.”

     The pixie nodded and immediately jumped off Balthazar’s shoulder. “They… will they float like that?” he voiced.

     “Would you rather carry them yourself?” Maleficent snorted. “The magic will wear off once you get to the place.”

     Unless she gets sick first, of course.

     “Ah, and send some of your own there, all right?” Diaval continued. “If wallerbogs agree, that would be just perfect. It’s not like they’ll be able to help us in any other way. Thank you…”

     Diaval watched the departing crowd — and, left alone, drooped even more.

     “Are you all right?” Maleficent called out to him. 

     Without raising his head, he raised and rocked a fist. “Couldn’t be better. And you... you... What was that?”

     “What ‘that’?”

     “You... you just...” and then he suddenly bared his teeth. “First of all, who gave you permission?! Me, like this! I ain’t your rag... doll... and not a servant, to up and shift me like this whenever you feel like it. I can do it myself, thank you very much.”

     Heavens. Who knew she would miss this so badly.

     “Stop complaining. I saved your life.”

     “Didn't save a damn thing,” he muttered, dusting off his trousers. “And even if… I saved your life two hours ago. We're even at best.”

     He shot her an inquisitive look — as if expecting her to challenge his words. But she was just staring into his eyes. He was so ridiculously unlike and so ridiculously like the real Diaval.

     “I'll pretend that 'Thank you very much' was sincere,” she smiled at last, stepping forth — and stopping herself just in time. She was too used to him walking behind her — but here things were different.

     “Thank you, thank you,” the raven breathed, catching up. “Where do you get this magic from? Lickspittle… ahem,” he suddenly trailed off. “Was he testing his old potions on you? Thought he’s busy with other things these days. His mental stuff.”

     She had no idea what he was talking about.

     “I have always been so good at it. Many fae can control the elements. And shapeshifting is not that hard.”

     “You say that as if I should know what fae can do,” Diaval muttered. “Those that Lickspittle catches are either already dead or so demented they can’t even think of their own free will, let alone transform. Ye…” he clicked his tongue, “…I’m sorry that this happened to ye, but to be honest — this wouldn’t have happened had ye come earlier. Instead, ye only decided to intervene and stick yer noses out of yer cursed island when it was already too late — no wonder ye got captured!” Diaval grimaced.

     Maleficent recalled the half-dead faces of the fae that had grabbed her, their synchronized, all but learned movements, and grew horrified trying to imagine what had to be done to achieve such an effect. She could have asked Diaval, but for some reason she did not wish to know the answer.

     “Still, I’m glad someone managed to escape,” he muttered meanwhile, finally fixing his shirt. “Although… you could still be a spy.”

     Maleficent rolled her eyes. “I just helped you against the soldiers.”

     “A very good spy.”

     “I've never been caught by Lickspittle!” the fairy hissed. Diaval stared at her — so did courteous conscience. She could almost feel the burning on her wrists. “That is, he never tested any potions on me. And I've never served anyone, let alone wicked fetid runts.”

     Diaval gave a vague grunt — he was walking a little ahead, and she wished she could catch his facial expressions. He shuffled his feet. Ahead was a familiar clearing, the spot where she had first found herself here.

     “What's really interesting is how come you can shapeshift,” Maleficent aired. The question had been lit up in her mind since she could think straight — around the third or fourth stunned warrior. “Because you—”

     “You truly have never been Lickspittle’s prisoner?” he turned around suddenly. Arms crossed, raised eyebrow. Maleficent shook her head. “And you don't know what his deal is?” Maleficent tilted her head — she was not sure. What was his deal? Magically-binding leonine contracts? Weapons of mass destruction? Everything at once? Diaval regarded her. “Yeah, right. Doesn't sound suspicious at all. And your eyes are yellow not from foxglove either…” he turned back away.

     “I am not lying! You have to believe me.”

     “I'll decide for myself whether I have to.”

     “I repeat, I’m not going to report—”

     “Very well!” he snarled over his shoulder. “Doesn’t do you any credit yet. Since you're here and you're oh so powerful, do some good. The next two days will determine our fate, we need all the help we can get.”

     They arrived at the spot they first met. Leaf was still standing there, as if awaiting them — or any other lucky ones they might capture just like they captured her and—

     Oh.

     Maleficent looked down. Damn it.

     But then again, he did say “all the help”...

     “…Will a human do?” she gave voice. Diaval tilted his head like a bird. “You caught a human with me.”

     “A human?” he frowned. “We had a human...?” Maleficent nodded. Diaval tilted his head even more. Licked his lips. “Leaf?!”

     The guard nodded. Immediately a muffled, stifled cry rang out from the darkness — Diaval took a small step forward and peered. 

     “Oh.”

     “E-ee-ee-eey!!!” Stefan bayed, his voice bouncing off the high walls. “Let me out at once!”

     “Da-a-amn, I do have to believe you!” the raven glanced over his shoulder, flashing her his signature crooked grin — one that tugged at her heartstrings, as creepy as it was. “I may make my dinner sweet.”

     “No! That’s not what I— He's not for dinner!”

     “Why not?”

     “Ye don't eat humans!” Stefan yelled. “She told me that!”

     “Well maybe she lied!” Diaval yelled back. “Maybe she was speaking for herself!”

     “You won't eat him,” Maleficent hissed. 

     Diaval slowly turned his glare to her.

     “How about you quit telling me what to do?” and just as slowly he drew the dagger from his belt. “We can always toss you right next to him, you know.” He twirled the blade in his hand. Black and smooth, it reflected the moonlight. “Better keep that in mind.”

     His stride swift, he darted with the weapon at the ready — and in the next instant attacked the foliage hiding the captive. Squatted down. Raised the blade.

     “Unheard of.” One rope fell away. “You take her, as a prisoner that is.” And the second one. “And two hours later she’s already bossing you around.” And the third. The prisoner got up. “Like I’m her servant or something,” Diaval spat on the ground. “Get out of my sight,” he hissed at Stefan, drawing back the dagger. “I don’t like you.”

     “Yeah? And you look like—!”

     The knife stopped — so did Stefan.

     “Anyone else wants to give me advice on how to look or behave?” shouted the shapeshifter. “Leaf, any suggestions?” But Leaf, being smarter than all of them, said nothing. “Thank you. Well. I hope you both keep out of my sight. Better look for the pixies trio, let them bring you up to date, give you a briefing. As for you, Leaf — since you no longer have a captive, then you can join the meeting. Hurry up. We’ve already lost a lot of time.”

     Diaval turned away and got going as though he had not narrowly avoided death an hour ago. Slowly and majestically, the tree giant followed him.

     Maleficent soared off the ground.

     “We were told to keep out of their sight!” Stefan called after her.

     “And I will.”

     “…Wait for me! Wait!” he went huffing. Maleficent was no longer listening.

Chapter Text

     “All right everyone, prick up your ears.”

     Maleficent pricked up her ears, although she was not the one asked to.

     There was many a creature at the Meeting Glade: big-eared mudgeons from across the pond, grumbling wallerbogs, gray stone faeries — even tiny river faeries in their purple robes. Big guardian trees hemmed in the place all along the peat bogs and streams, their presence both a blessing and a curse for the fairy. They hid her from view, but she, in turn, had to rely on hearing alone.

     “I'm sure introductions are redundant. We all know what the last few months have been all about,” Diaval said. He was sitting cross-legged in a sharing circle. The twilight was gloomy, save for the rare torches in the paws of some of those present and the lights of pixies, faeries and nymphs scurrying around the raven like flies. In the distance, the Rowan Tree’s magic illuminated the snowbound Faerie Mound. “All in all, I must say we did quite well. Many human soldiers have gone combat-ineffective, thanks to you lot. Including tonight. You may have seen that fine procession of floating men. Hah! They are stationed in the hollow, guarded by earth faeries and some of the wallerbogs.” He gestured at those who had come, their heads clumsily bowed. “Besides, I suppose… I suppose Lickspittle would like to hound down those who flied to coop. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, we’ll talk about that later. I'm sure many of you have questions, but you'll have to be patient. Now for the main event. Like I said, we did our best to piss off Lickspittle enough. Which is why I’m sure he’s going to lead tomorrow’s hunt himself, just like he’s always threatened to do.”

      Those present burst into all sorts of exclamations: surprise, anticipation, fear.

     “I bet that’s because of us…” muttered Stefan — he had run hell for leather after her all the way to the meeting point, past the hills and the glen, past the tree split in two. Now they were recumbent, resting on it (he — from shortness of breath, she — from unbearable nausea) and trying to comprehend what was being said at the meeting.

     “That shouldn’t scare us. We've been waiting for this for a while. Everyone remembers why?”

     “If the cock leaves his roost...” someone spoke — Maleficent recognized Mr. Chanterelle’s voice, “he will be vulnerable!”

     “Exactly,” Diaval nodded. “And we will take advantage of that. May I?” he called one of the fay — she obediently sat down on the ground at his hands, and so did her friends — their shining figures brought some outlines into view. Perhaps they had a map or something else — Maleficent did not make it out. “If their patrol route stays the same — and it must, since his soldiers haven't returned from the incursion and given us away — then he and his procession will be passing East Castle around midnight. It's the one with the gargoyles. Do we all remember where it is?”

     “But it’s in Perceforest!” shouted some pixies.

     “I know. All the better. We might as well fight on their territory for a change,” the raven replied. Had Maleficent been there, in the clearing, she would have argued that it was safer on the Moors, as here even the earth was on your side, and every sprout obeyed you. But not a soul dared to voice her ideas in the meadow — or perhaps no one considered them, which was queer. And there was certain heaviness to Diaval’s voice. They must have fought on the Moorlands’ territory before — and not all moorfolk could summon the earth and greenery. Ravens certainly could not. “Right, then,” he concluded meanwhile. “We will be concealed waiting for his caravan right there, along the main wall — the windows are large, the glass has long been gone. We will see them, but they won’t see us. I will be at the highest point. Once they reach the place, I’ll give the signal. And then — then we attack.”

      “And we’ll wipe the floor with Lickspittle and his minions!” picked up Robin, who flew to the centre, bizarrely loud for his small body. His cry infected the rest, in hoots and claps so deafening that the sound alone was emetic. It reverberated across the clearing, echoing off the icy water and the hills. Diaval, as if dissatisfied, stood up and motioned everyone to calm down.

     “Thank you, Robin,” he said loudly, ironic mockery seeping through. The crowd chuckled in unison and subsided. Diaval remained standing.

      “And what then?” came a voice.

     “What then…” Diaval glanced at everyone. She could not discern his expression, only the shadow and iridescent highlights on his cheeks and neck from the floating sparkling fairies. “Then we sneak into the castle, proclaim Lickspittle’s death…” Sigh. “I don't want to croak,” he dropped pensively.

      “All you do is croak!”

     A new roar of laughter swept through the crowd.

     “Very funny,” Diaval grumbled mildly. “We sneak into the castle, proclaim Lickspittle’s death, probably tussle with a hundred or more dissenting soldiers. They are unpredictable, we’ll have to think on the spot. My observations tell me that many might even join us if they realise we have the better hand — there are many discontented in their ranks. Still, make sure to have protection against poisons on you. Hope everyone has one by now,” he declared, staring down at everyone. It seemed to bring a satisfactory result. “Well, then. We fight the soldiers. We find what makes the Dark Fae behave the way they do, destroy it to hell...”

     “And drain this dwarf’s wine supply!” cried Mr. Chanterelle. Even Maleficent did not expect that from him.

     Diaval tilted his head to the side. “If you just can’t help yourself. But first we have to win,” he reasoned seriously. A few steps forward — now he was standing exactly in the centre, and she got a look at his determined, sombre face, squared shoulders. “And to make sure of that ye need to do everything absolutely right tomorrow, keep that in mind. Ye have the whole evening and half of tomorrow to gather strength and prepare. Robin should’ve reminded ye by now.” He spread his hands. “That sums it up! So far, we’d better not get our hopes up,” he said heavily — and glanced about. “That being said…” he drawled… and grinned. “We will beat their asses.”

      This time, the buzzing was beyond quelling — Diaval did not even try. He heaved a sigh (she saw it even from her hiding spot), lifted his head and smiled harder, more genuinely this time.

     “Spread the word to everyone who is not here for whatever reason!” he trumpeted. “Everyone must be alert, protected, and geared up — whoever is not stays here! We move out as soon as Lickspittle leaves the palace!”

      Then his voice drowned in the clamour — he was asked questions, someone mumbled loudly among themselves — the sound grew into a wall separating the scene in the clearing from Maleficent and Stefan.

     “This is some serious stuff...” he drawled, eyeing the fair folk. Maleficent pressed on her temples — it only brought pain to both her temples and her burnt hands.

     “Tell me about it,” she drawled, barely taming the murky, chilling fear in her soul. “How am I supposed to get him to kiss me in two days?”

     Not even two! This short tail of an evening, tomorrow — and a few hours until dawn. So little, so little time — for a True Love’s Kiss? For what had previously taken twenty-three years? And she refused back then, she— she stands no chance, he— he is different—

     “I meant the rebellion,” the man grunted, clicking his tongue. “I knew somethin’ was up on the Moors! I got to say these folks have some balls! You know, I’m fed up with this order just the same! Havin’ to lift weights and kowtow to the nobles for barely any money all the time—!”

      Maleficent glared at him. Even the throbbing in her head stopped for a second.

     “Serves you right,” she gritted her teeth.

     “Ay! What for?!”

     What for? Huh. Must be good not to know anything about yourself.

     “For everything,” she spat. She did not have time for quarrels. She did not have time for anything at all. Just a few minutes ago, a thought lingered inside her, a crazy, warm, belly-tickling thought — ‘he already fell in love with me once — he will do it again, then’ — and now it seemed to be leaving her like a sickening poison: caustic, hollow, hopeless. She is doomed.

     Because it was not Diaval. Or rather, of course it was him. He moved the same way, spoke the same way, she could bet he had the same mind. Except for one detail — this Diaval did not know Maleficent. And that, as it turned out, changed him a whole lot.

     Heavens, what is she supposed to do… She could wait for the end of the meeting and catch him after — but then what? She could only repeat what she said the first time — and he will not believe it once again. She needed a plan. She needed to think, but her head was so empty and sick, as if her thoughts were shreds of glass, and soon as the fairy moved, they spilled and scratched her to blood. It hurt to think, but time was passing by, it was racing...

     Something whistled right before her nose — Maleficent twitched, expecting the worst — and came face to face with three pixies.

     “There you are!” cheered Thistlewit.

     “We have completely lost you!”

     “We were just about to help you, and then you just—!”

     “Quiet!” Maleficent snarled. They were, as always, surprisingly loud for their diminutive physique — putting them all at risk of being found.

     “—then you just flew away!” They did not quiet down in the slightest. Mr. Chanterelle glanced back at the noise and shot them a black look. She brazenly returned the favour.

      “And… you… should come with us, too!”

     “Me?!” Stefan snorted. “No way in hell! I won’t go—”

     Mr. Chanterelle was hopping towards Diaval.

     “Of course you will!” Knotgrass huffed. “We need to make sure you're stable! The poison has a bad effect on everyone, not just fair folk! And you, dear—”

     “Ye don't need to heal me!” Stefan put in.

     Now there was no doubt that Diaval heard them. He tilted his head to the side. Damnation!

     “Now, as for… everything else…” he drew out, slowly taking his eyes off her.

      “Shut up and go with them,” the fairy growled to Stefan.

     “You're coming with us too!” Flittle squeaked. “If there’s anyone in need of urgent help, it’s you, sweetheart! We won’t leave without—”

     “Fine.”

     There was no point in resisting any longer. She heard everything she could, for better or for worse. But she needed a plan, and for that, she needed a sound mind. And energy, she needed energy. Both required urgent assistance. Not to mention she was growing more bilious by the minute.

     So reluctantly, she got to her feet and let the faeries lead Stefan and her away from the tree and further into the woods, trying to guess where the infirmary should be to take her mind off the pain and looking around the area, secretly fearing it had changed in some inconceivable huge way.

     But the Moors were the same old, same old — she would even say, too old. Not the way they were in the last few years — rather, the way they were when she was queen long ago. Perhaps the winter evening had its effect: the heaths seemed buried in blue darkness, swaddled for safety. While on the island, she had often reminisced about these lands, thinking that before, when she had not known anyone and spent days alone or almost alone, everything used to be much calmer and better. She hardly felt any calm now, though — only her pounding heart and unbearable nausea. She had trudged through these snowdrifts hundreds of times before, but now it was knocking all wind out of her.

     Finally they came to huge trees that were bound together and forming a thick weave of branches and roots, level by level. Almost taking the place as Aurora's palace built by her, and very similar to it, except much smaller — only two or three storeys. They stepped to one of the domes, into this thick dark tent. There was no one inside. Having flown inside and seated them on something soft, the fairies proceeded to some miracles: first they grew to human height, just like in the days of yore when they had been watching their “niece”. Flittle ran outside while Knotgrass struck something — and soon a small fire appeared in the centre of the room. Thistlewit, on the other hand, was fumbling in the chests and bags, making all sorts of rattle — were they bottles or something else, Maleficent could not tell — she could not tell anything at all. Everything was floating and doubling.

     Flittle returned with a mighty bucket. She heated it over the fire — and then started pouring the contents from one vessel to another, each one smaller than the last, adding something every time. And then they gave her water, and more water, and some more, which was good, because albeit it was warm and disgusting in taste, her throat was dry, so she downed goblet after goblet — and then it was bad, so bad, because she was sick, so violently sick...

      They gave her a basin every time, wiped her face and gave her more water, and pressed on her throat to make her retch, and said something, and stroked her back, but she still felt rotten, even when the water pouring out of her was as clear as the water she drank.

     She envied Stefan, who, at a distance from her, would only sputter and cough every once in a while. Apart from that, she felt nothing. When, ages later, everything seemed finally over, she leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

      “Don't fall sleep!” Knotgrass shouted at once.

     “Fine,” she croaked but kept her eyes shut.

     “More water?” Thistlewit peeped. She shook her head. “Can I get you something to eat?” she asked cautiously. Maleficent shook her head again. She felt as though one glance at food would resume the torture.

     “Flittle will help your hands now, but then you still have to drink one more thing,” Knotgrass said sternly. She just nodded. “After that, it’s still better not to conjure, at least until tomorrow… Oh, you have so much glass in your wings as well! Oh, something needs to be done about that too.”

     Flittle kneeled down next to her. “Give me your hands, lovie.”

      She silently acquiesced. From the corner of her eye, Maleficent watched Flittle slowly work her magic. Gold dust gathered and scattered beneath her small palms — at first, the fairy fearfully decided that nothing had changed, and her eyesight was still cursed, but no, magic was just magic, and the rest was almost back to normal. For one thing, Flittle's dress has become blue as ever, and so were the butterflies that lingered even in the dead of winter, flittering round her head and the tip of her little cap.

     How easy it was to forget that Flittle had died more than a year ago, when she was sitting like this, fussing over her blackened fingers, warming her and saying something in a hushed tone. It was as though she was just a girl again, seriously ill for the first time ever, and the three pixies persuaded Robin to let them watch over her. 

     Something must have given her away because Flittle asked if she was hurting her. Maleficent shook her head. Even when Thistlewit carefully approached her and said that she wanted to get everything sharp from her feathers, she did not flinch.

     And so they spent some time: Thistlewit was cleaning her wings, Flittle was doing magic to her hands and throat, Knotgrass was scurrying back and forth in front of Stefan, because he, unlike her, did not refuse food. Eventually she was left alone: Flittle was keeping the light in the centre of the room, awkwardly picking at the firebrands, Thistlewit put back the bottles and jars. Maleficent looked around, trying to figure out if the colours were right again or if it was wishful thinking, trying to make out the pixies’ soft whispers among themselves.

     “Now we must take them to sleep.” “But we can't leave them here, can we?” “Why, of course we can. There are empty beds just for these occasions.” “I mean, surely Diaval will want to ask them questions...” “Did he say he would?” “I don't remember.” “Oh, me neither!” “Still, we haven’t given them tea yet, we need to give them tea. Thistlewit, get the leaves, please. Yes, up there.” “And then what? Can we put them to sleep after that?” “We shall see.” “Knotgrass, there's nothing here!” “What do you mean 'nothing'? They must be there!” “Well, they aren’t!” “Let me see!” “Oh, do you think I’m lying? Or that I’d—” “Hm. Forsooth, there’s nothing... Well, where did they go, then?” “I don’t know! Don't look at me!” “Don't quarrel, please! I bet it was Diaval who took them. He's done it before.” “Humph! Perfect. And what do we do now?” “Well, we have to wait for his return anyway...” “Absolutely not! Not on my watch! If that boy thinks he can allow himself liberties by simply living nearby, then so can we! I don't care that he is the mover and shaker over here. There’s no moving and shaking when our medicines are concerned!” “Are you going to his room?!” “And I dare him to try to scold us for it!” “Well, go then, just be quick!” “No, we’re all going!” “Why?” “Because I said so! And we’ll take some blankets, too, that’ll teach him a lesson. Look at these poor little souls! Aweel, that's it, I've made up my mind.”

      And then they were lifted from their seats, and, grabbing a couple of cups, the pixies led them through an archway she never registered before, up the stairs of branches (“Watch your step!”) and into a dark room.

     It was round, small, cluttered. There was something standing along the walls, and in the gloom Maleficent could only discern the sharp tips of dozens of twigs stacked together in the corner. It was a nest, a huge nest, bigger than a bird needed. It was covered by something — twisted and crumpled in its pit were some kind of blankets or quilts. The soft tassels were bathed in moonlight — the trunk and branches on one of the walls parted to form a rather large window — or rather, an oval hole, now half-curtained with thick cloth. Maleficent could only see the outlines and a thin streak of the outside world between the edge of the drape and the frame.

      “Have a seat, honey,” Knotgrass pointed to the nest. “And you... Ah, you have already,” she nodded to Stefan, who hid with a pear in the corner, as though he was never there. “Ugh, what a mess!”

      “Eek! We are going to look for them… here?” Thistlewit set aside the bowls she had brought — Maleficent only wondered why they had brought them.

      “He left us no choice,” declared the other.

     And so the pixies commenced their slow silent search for... something. Perhaps they knew what those blasted leaves were kept in. Except where that something lies was apparently not in their scope — they scurried back and forth, puffing, helping themselves with magical balls of light, too small and weak to make a difference. Maleficent was about to brighten the light, but opted instead to open the curtain — she had not seen the sky in a while and did not even know what o’clock it was. Her sense of time had long been broken.

      She tugged at the thick cloth hiding the inky sky. In summertime it would only get this dark in the dead of night, but judging by the moon and stars, it was now late evening, a little past eleven. The mantle of snow on the protruding branches and neighbouring trees was making the sky glow. It was old snow, fallen early in the morning or even yesterday — now the skies were clear. Rather unusual for this place. Maybe because it is still November. This time in December it would be snowing, and snowing hard, in big fluffy flakes...

      “Hey, what happened? Did you see that? I don't know, it got kind of dark outside. I'll go see what’s going on... Oh! Pff-ha-hah! The torches on the wall got snowed in... No, no, no, let’s keep it dark. Wow. It’s so starry tonight… And the snow… Heaven, what a beauty…”

     “Shut the doors, Diaval!”

      The moonlight did not help the pixies in the slightest — they only asked to quit freezing them. She no longer felt like looking outside anyway. Instead, athwart the faeries’ protests, she raised a small ball of light to the ceiling — it spilled onto the uneven surface of the floor, onto various trinkets in the recesses of the walls. Stones, shells, twigs, crystals, folded bandages and dressing, bowls — empty and half-full. She could not say she was surprised. Diaval had wrecked the same havoc in her own cave on the rocky mountain slopes. And in the room that Aurora gave her for the week, too — although he had been provided with his own. Right. Darkness was better.

      He’d said something about the darkness that night, had he not? Was that before the lights went out, or after?

     It did get colder — and for the first time this endless racing day, Maleficent noticed the deplorable state of her appearance. The hem of the dress was hopelessly torn, and even the warm trousers underneath were not intact, to say nothing of the bodice. She was not vestured for the weather to begin with — she dressed for a soirée — and now, with but one half of her two sleeves left, she belatedly realized she was cold, even after a whole barrel of warm water. A change of attire would be a good call, but Maleficent stopped herself — after all, she had to save her strength for the time being, not waste it on trifles while still lethargic. She snuffed out the light above their heads — the search was hopeless anyway.

     She settled back into the nest, palped the tangle of blankets. They varied a little: one soft and thick, the other stiffer, prickly but weighty — in the semi-darkness she could only tell that there was some kind of pattern on it. She untangled them and wrapped herself in the soft one. The scent of feathers lingered on it — dusty, musky. She could wrap it a second time if she wanted to, that big it was. The other one was not so small either, as though made for a man — but why? Diaval never liked sleeping in a human body...

     “My, the beds they have here! I swear they take up half a room. But I guess humans need to put all these limbs somewhere.” He pulled off the covers and pulled out a large pillow from underneath. “Ugh! Feathers. Shame on them. Can’t they just shear their sheep more... Here. You can put it behind you back.”

      Why sleep as a man, then? Why huddle up in blankets in an enormous nest when you can fall asleep in your own body — since he can transform... Oh, and by the way, how come he can transform?

     What could give him this gift if not her? If he shifted himself, then he had no master — maybe he learned it on the Moors? But how did he get here? Had he somehow escaped the attack on the field and hidden here? But why learn magic? He could have simply—

      “This is hopeless!” Thistlewit exclaimed past the veil of her thoughts, wiping her forehead. “We’re never going to find them!”

      Perchance he mastered shapeshifting to fight Lickspittle, to protect the Moors he lived on. Who knows how many years this manikin has been ruining and oppressing all these lands. And still, the question remained: how did Diaval manage to escape?

     Maybe the pixies rescued him? Must be why they tolerate each other all these years...

     “Are we to wait till this weirdo comes back?” Stefan growled from his corner. “Just to drink some more magic poison?”

     “Oo-oh…” Diaval exhaled into his fist. “And humans drink this for water, can you imagine? And they throw bread crumbs, sprinkle it with spices... Even heather ale tastes better.”

      “Must be why you drained a whole goblet.”

     “I needed some liquid courage.”

     “To do what?” she laughed.

     “I'm not certain yet.”

      She shook her head. No use responding to Stefan’s worthless complaints. No use reminiscing. There are more pressing matters.

     “I wish to know…” Maleficent said — the pixies glanced at her. She squared her shoulders. “How did Diaval get out of the net?”

     Thistlewit frowned. Knotgrass tilted her head. “What net?”

     “A farmer caught him in a net in a field in Perceforest. Near the Moors,” Maleficent prompted. The pixies’ faces remained unmoved. “I assume it was you who saved him? A long time ago,” the fairy added insistently, and when even that failed, “Over twenty years ago.”

     “Twenty?” Flittle asked, hesitating.

     “Twenty-three. Twenty-three years ago, in autumn,” the fairy punctuated.

      “I, for one, did not save anyone twenty-three years ago!” snorted Knotgrass, adjusting her cap. “I doubt twenty-three years ago anyone was worried about farmers, of all the things to be worried about!”

      “Twenty-three years ago everyone was worried that Lickspittle would eat them alive,” Stefan rumbled — she had to listen to him. “All their livelihoods, I mean. He just got on the throne after Henry and went on terrorizin’ everyone and everythin’ in Perceforest. The Moors must have had it even worse — he was goin’ to use his poisonous things on the fair folk. There were his henchmen walkin’ around dressed as regular peasants...”

      “Oh, don't even mention it!” Thistlewit whimpered. “It was terrible!”

      Even Flittle winced. She was pinching non-existent pellets off her dress.

     “But he must have escaped from the snares somehow!” Maleficent exclaimed, burning with frustration. “Has he never told you?”

     Knotgrass pursed her lips. “Honey, we have no idea what happened to that scoundrel twenty years ago. Let alone earlier than that! He showed up on the Moors about six years ago, no more than seven, and we had never seen him prior to that.”

      “Oh,” she blurted out.

     Knotgrass measured all present with her eye and gave a sigh. “Fancy that, girls! It’s been but seven years — and now we’re digging through his junk! How terrible!” she snorted loudly, and turned away from Flittle who looked rather pensive. She proceeded to rearrange several bowls which could hardly contain the leaves. “Twenty years! I didn't even know crows live that long!”

     It was getting weirder and weirder. She was under the impression that Diaval have been living on the Moors for ages! He escaped twenty-three years ago, but, according to the pixies, he only settled on the Moors about seven years ago — what did he do for another sixteen? And how did he manage to escape the farmer back then... She struggled to come up with a question that would get her to the bottom of this. Nothing around was helping: only darkness, raven feathers shining in the twilight, a large blanket...

     “I take it you didn’t teach him to shapeshift either,” she asked listlessly.

     “Oh, no, he could do that already — although much worse than now,” Thistlewit replied. Bored with the quest, she was seated under the arch leading to the stairs, leaning back against the opening. “He was all over the place back then... If we ever did save him, it was when he first appeared — he looked almost... almost like you do now! He was sick all the time, delirious... That's why we got so good at it and know what to do now,” she smiled.

      That smile did not comfort Maleficent. No smile would — because a very bitter, very bad inkling was creeping into her soul like a poisonous snake.

     She was afraid to voice it, to think it.

     But even her weakened mind could not find another explanation. He fell into a trap twenty-three years ago, re-appeared only years later, poisoned and filled with dark magic — and hid on the Moors where he started a resistance against Lickspittle.

     After all, it was the first thing he asked when he met her tonight, wasn’t it.

     So this is it, then. This is it.

     Neither magic nor luck saved Diaval from the net. Instead, he fell for the henchmen of Lickspittle who had already foredoomed his fate for years to come. And then what? He broke free from the castle — a few years ago. And went into hiding on the Moorlands.

     Heavens.

     How sickening was the mere thought that Diaval had been subjected to this — and what for? Did Lickspittle know who Diaval was in the real world? Was it part of his plan? They wouldn’t catch him for no reason, wouldn’t keep him imprisoned for years, stuffing him with all kinds of poisons, until he stopped looking like himself, until he lost his essence... It was worse than... worse than... She glanced at Stefan’s sullen face lurking in corner. Her back hurt. It was worse than death.

      She clutched at the blanket on her shoulders. She let this happen! And now she had to fix everything, put it back in place — but she had so little time, so little—!

     Soft touch of a palm on her bare forearm. Flittle.

     “You know, lovie… You’d better—”

     “What are we doing here, ladies?”

     They all gave a start.

     Diaval spooked away all the butterflies around Flittle's head.

     “Nothing!” she squeaked.

     “Then why don't you go somewhere else and do nothing?” he sneer. He seemed to be dusting off his clothes, as usual — squinting, Maleficent noticed the dissipating black smoke at his feet.

      “I agree,” came to her right — Stefan sprung up from his place and rushed away, stumbling over Thistlewit in the process. Diaval watched him leave, then promptly waved his hand around everyone and pointed in his wake, as to invite the rest to follow the example. Thistlewit, with a quick “I'll watch him!” walked away, shifting back. 

     Diaval looked around. “Are you rummaging through my things?!?”

     Flittle winced. Knotgrass only raised her chin. “We had to because you didn’t put back the leaves!”

     “What leaves?”

     “For tea! You took them for yourself, and now we cannot give it to our patient!” the pixie said. Diaval eyed Maleficent up and down, head to toe — his gaze was as if he did not quite understand why she was here. “And in general, you must put things back to their place when you take them!”

     “And I took them?” he turned back.

     “Yes!”

     “Is that so? Are you sure about that?” He hunched to be level with Knotgrass who was a full head shorter than him. She leaned away. “You seem to have snooped and nosed into everything here — and stand empty-handed. But I took them still?”

      “Yes.”

     “Are you making accusations against me?” said the raven ingratiatingly. She wavered, but nodded. Diaval stood like that for a second, but then a curved grin split his face, and with a snort he stood up to his full height and disappeared into the darkness. “Never delve in my nest again, would ye?” rang stern from a nook somewhere in the room. “This is unacceptable. Who gave ye permission?”

      “Well, no one gave you permission to nick common property from the infirmary! Good thing the poor girl is better! What if it was an emergency, and they are hiding in your... bird... burrow!” Knotgrass rejoindered.

     “Nest,” Diaval muttered, sticking his head out. He regarded Maleficent again, as though to make his own judgement of whether she was a poor girl or not. “That's just the point, the nest is mine. Nobody let ye in here. A simple rule, as for me; it is easy to follow, since ye work and live at my house.”

      “And you live on our lands!”

     Diaval looked at Knotgrass, at Flittle, and then back at Maleficent — was he reproaching her, or seeking support, or sharing a laugh, she did not understand. He shook his head with a profound “this is insufferable” written all over his face — and began his cache-digging.

     Something crackled, clanged. Maleficent sent a beam of light in his direction (“Don’t!”), and from those unbelievable depths Diaval unearthed a small box. Opened it, checked it, closed it. Walked to the exit.

     “Come on,” he breathed. Nobody moved. “What now? Wasn’t someone eager to treat all the poor victims? Or am I not one?”

      Flittle gasped, Knotgrass turned red as her own hair. “Sorry, dear, we didn’t think of it at all!” she said. “You must have had a hard time. Who was it this time?”

     Flittle helped Maleficent to her feet (“Take the blanket with you, lovie”) and shifted to her true size. Knotgrass followed suit, and together they fleeted the room, and Diaval, sighing, gathered up the ware they left behind and left. Carefully, cautiously, Maleficent picked up one short black feather from the floor. Might come in handy. As she descended, the fairy examined his back, arms, legs. He stood on two legs like a man, and yet he looked more like a bird turned into a man — or rather, turning. As though she was shifting him from a bird into a man but stopped halfway. There was more bird in him than human. Still, he has never turned into a bird yet...

     She pondered if it had something to do with him sleeping in this form instead of turning back. And in the light of recent insights, each one of her guesses was worse than the last.

     They returned to the infirmary room — neither Thistlewit nor Stefan were there, but the cauldron was removed from the fire and set aside, with steam swirling over it. Now, able to tuck the wings without getting hurt and all warmed up between them and the blanket, she found herself fairly happy with a prospect of a hot strong beverage. Then she would certainly be able to cast spells as well as ever. And to have actual conversations.

      She crouched down on the moss and wool cushions she had occupied before.

     “I only need tea,” Diaval tossed, setting down the bowls. “And ointment. For the face.”

     Oh, she has completely forgotten about that!

     “I can help!” she exclaimed, pulling off the covers. The wound on a cheek was nothing for Dark Fae's magic, it will only take her a few seconds to—

     “No need,” Diaval held his palm out.

     “It will be faster with magic, you know,” Flittle remarked.

      “I do. Get the ointment, please. Thank you.”

     He took a small jar from the pixie and (very clumsily) scraped some of the ointment with a claw and smeared it over his cheek and nose, minding the feathers. Knotgrass was still preparing the tincture — he peeped at her working and moved away, to squat down in front of Maleficent.

     “Now, what do we have here…” he drawled, giving her an attentive look. “Your name is Maleficent, isn’t it? My memory served me right, then. Forgive me for that joke earlier, it wasn't funny. So, Maleficent, I have two news for you — a bad one and a very good one. Which one would you like to hear first?”

      She tried to read the face before her — tilted slightly to the side, eyes always inquisitive. “The bad one.”

     He nodded.

     “The bad one. For your blasted sake I had to take on about a dozen armed, stinking, brazen humans and a dog. And now I'm tired and wounded,” he curled his lip. “On the possible worst day to be tired and wounded, mind you, because I will need all the strength I have to fight tomorrow,” he added, peeking somewhere outside where the moor folk was retiring for the night. “In other words, you picked a really bad day for your little breakout. Could have chosen yesterday or tomorrow.”

      Maleficent assessed the damage. His feathers were as smooth as before, and even the cut on his cheek, glistening with ointment, did not make him look angry. Whatever the very good news was, it had to outweigh a wounded side and a blow to the face. “And the good one?” she strained.

     “The good one,” he nodded, the corners of his lips twitching. “Even though I had to take on about a dozen armed, stinking, brazen humans and a dog ... By defeating some of Dicklittle’s soldiers, we angered him even more — the chances of him personally going on patrol tomorrow are much higher,” he said. And he flopped down on the ground, cross-legged, slapping his knees where the feathers began. “So, in a way, it's good that you broke out today. A good day to do that.”

      She smiled — for the first time in hell knows how long. “I destroyed half the castle as well.”

     “You what?!” he exclaimed so comically, so high-pitched, that his real counterpart would have been put to shame. She grinned wider.

     “Well, maybe half the castle,” she tossed nonchalantly. “A large stained-glass rose window, several columns. Whatever those columns were holding must have collapsed since then as well. And the chandelier. I imagine it was curtains for the chandelier, too.”

     The raven's eyebrows crept higher and higher, and towards the end his feathered shoulders were shaking a little in soundless laughter. He covered his nose with his hand. “Any casualties?”

      “I'm afraid several fae have had a concussion. I'm not proud of it, but they were asking for it.”

     He actually laughed now — with little verve but with some surprise. His eyebrows arched, he looked back at the pixies who had been standing behind them all along, stopping their business out of interest.

     “Damn it!” he snorted at them. “I leave that leprechaun un-spied on for half a day — and, of course, the castle gets destroyed!” Knotgrass just shook her head in dismay and proceeded to tap a spoon against something in the small saucer. From her machinations, that something crumbled into black sand. “Flittle,” Diaval sobered up. She just froze with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Do me a favour. If I don't wake up myself, can you wake me up at night? Three o'clock, three ten?”

      “Are you going to the castle?” Knotgrass scowled as she poured the powder into one of the bowls.

     “What am I left to do?” he threw up his hands. Several feathers on the shoulders stood on end. “He must have steam coming out of his ears out there, since part of the palace is ruined and some of the fae are injured. Not to mention a dozen soldiers who never came back. And the dog! I have to make sure that I'm not mistaken in my predictions, that he hasn't changed his mind. Good?”

     Flittle thawed out with a sigh. “Diaval, it's pointless.”

     “It might help,” Diaval pressed.

     “You always say that, and he always turns out to be asleep. He doesn't wake up at night — certainly not to discuss his plans, you know that yourself. You will fly there tomorrow morning anyway.”

     “Yes I will!”

     “Go tomorrow morning, then,” Knotgrass panted, taking a cup in each hand. “Don't overwork yourself. You’ve just said you're tired.”

     “We’ll see. Wake me up anyway, Flittle.”

     She silently nodded. 

     Knotgrass approached them with two drinks — Diaval reached for the nearest one. “It’s not for you,” the pixie snapped at him, “it’s for her. It has coal in it.”

     The raven grimaced of disgust, squinting at her goblet. “Good luck.”

     They each took a sip. He drank more, but she hesitated — it was indeed as disgusting as it was pleasantly hot. An odd mixture of tastes, viburnum and coal. Even honey was of little use. And lemon balm, although soothing, was never tasty. But enough with that. She got over herself. Better do it at a gulp. Grasping the goblet in both hands, she drained most of it. What a yuck.

      She tried to catch his eye the way others try to catch will-o’-the-wisp. The lighting in the infirmary was much better than the dark winter thickets — she hardly saw anything new, and yet every time her eyes fell on Diaval, she felt as though she saw him for the first time and marvelled all over again. And yet, and yet, he looked like himself, like her raven, the one remained in her memory, even though she had not seen him for a whole year. The very idea of it… Now that she only had but two days left, a year felt like an eternity. Avoiding someone for a twelvemonth... Has it been a long time for him?

      She had to get him back. She had to get herself back.

     Something had been brewing in her as she had been lifting unconscious soldiers into the air — or perhaps when she had seen a man covered in feathers falling backwards to the ground in puffs of black smoke swirling against his own desire.

     “I can help even more,” she said, setting down her drink. “I can help you personally.”

     “Me? How?” He took another sip. “Sure, we all have figured that you are… very strong and powerful and so on. But I'm not going to credulously use you as a weapon.” He scratched his neck just below his ear. Maleficent sighed. She had no gift of the gab — she figured, however, that she could not do without it now.

     “I mean to say, you showcased your bravery tonight, and I can imagine how exhausting ceaseless battling and war must be… But you definitely don’t know how to use your own powers.”

      “…What did you just say!?”

     “Only the truth. I saw you on the battlefield. You shifted, but you did it with difficulty — the larger the animal, the more often the transformations, the worse. That is not how it’s done.”

     “Thanks you very much!” the bird seethed. “I’ll let you know that—!”

     “Magic should not hurt you if it's yours,” Maleficent lowered her voice. She wanted to reach out to him so badly.

     “It is mine in every way that matters,” Diaval bristled. Behind them, the pixies shifted nervously from foot to foot. He set his cup aside before he spilt any more. “What are trying to say?”

     “You need your own magic. Not rooted in someone's poison or experiments,” the fairy spoke, bending down. Diaval swayed a little, his tense scowl weakened somewhat, his eyebrows rose — and in his eyes she read wounded, frightened amazement. She went on, pressing harder to eliminate any doubts — she saw right through him. “You cannot defy Lickspittle if your magic has his mark all over it.”

      Diaval stared at her. She imagined, she imagined it clear as day — the way his eyes would run over her face, trying to understand. Instead, he just shook his head and pursed his lips. “And what are you getting at?”

     “I know how to turn one creature into another.”

     “That makes two of us.”

     “No. You can do it, but I know how to do it.”

     He grinned derisively. “Why, do you mean to mentor me?”

      “No,” Maleficent fought hard not to sigh. The words passing her lips were correct, but it felt wrong to say them. Not now, not to him. A long time ago, and to the real Diaval — that’s when they were supposed to be said. The thought stuck in her throat like a stone. She was tongue-tied again. “I mean to gift you the ability to shapeshift. Your own magic,” she assured softly, calming her heart. “Then it won’t abide by anything but your fancy. You will be able to change from raven to human and back again in the blink of an eye, and it won’t—”

     Diaval jerked his knee. “Why would I want to be a human? Or accept your help, for that matter?” he exclaimed, more amazed than angry. Now his feathers are definitely standing on end. “Why should I let you do magic on me?”

     She did not hold back. “I have already told you! Because we know each other! We’ve helped each other hundreds of times, I’ve shifted you thousands of times! And I must... we must...”

      The grimace of desperate resistance suddenly broke, crumbled — and a moment later assembled again, even stronger — he turned his torso—

     “Ye lot!” he barked to the pixies, pointing at them. “Ye told me she was fine!” He pointed at her and turned back. “They told me you were fine!”

      “I am...”

     “Obviously not!” he shouted, gathering up, about to rise.

     “I wish to help, Diaval!”

     “Then go and get ready with everyone else!” he sprung onto his talons. Now, with ruffled long feathers, with huge inky eyes, with black hands and wounds all over his body, he looked uncanny, creepy, monstrous. “You’ve heard our plan — don't pretend you haven’t — so you know where you need to be. Go ahead.”

      “I know, but if you just—”

     “This is an order,” he croaked. “You may be more capable, and more powerful, and more talented than all of us, but I’m very much at the helm of myself, thank you. If everyone feels refreshed enough already to rebuke me and gird, then you have nothing to do in a place for the sick. So scoot,” he waved his hand away, “all of you.”

     “Diaval…” Flittle shook her head.

     “I'll be upstairs,” he shot only. “No one bother me until the time comes. Flittle,” he looked at her. She nodded, remembering his request. Twitching his shoulders, he picked up his cup from the floor and strode towards the steps. “Leave me alone.”

     And soon he was gone. They heard the curtain close, separating the stairs from his territory. Knotgrass glowered, but shook her head. “I put lemon balm next to motherwort honey!!” she shouted with her hand to her mouth. There was no answer. “Let's go, Flittle. And you, dear — you will need to find Birchalin, he is a big tree sentry...”

      “Go, Knotgrass, I’ll take her,” Flittle said — and nodded to Maleficent. Knotgrass bent an eyebrow but obeyed, turned back into a pixie, all tiny and shiny, and fluttered away. 

     Flittle and Maleficent followed suit a little later, once the fairy was done with her disgusting tincture, bitter and burning the tongue. The fairy glanced back as they made their way, trying to find Diaval's window somewhere above, but it was curtained and hidden in darkness, just like before. Belatedly, she realized she was still carrying his blanket. Curses. She shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts. Everything is so confusing... Hidden in her dress, the four-fold sheet of the contract was unpleasantly prickling her chest — it seemed that it would soon go through her skin and pierce her heart with its paper edge. What was she supposed to do now? Was it even worth trying? The thought suddenly seemed so strange, so childishly ridiculous — indeed, to force Diaval to give her the True Love’s Kiss? To fall in love with her... in one day? He would not even let her help him! Was it not better to just give up? She didn’t even know him, no matter how correct her guesses were, and—  

      “Lovie,” there was that touch again. Flittle placed her soft hand to her arm. Her face was clouded. “Listen here, are you… Was that true?” she halted. Maleficent raised an eyebrow. “You said you’ve met him before… Is that true?”

     Clenching her jaw, the fey nodded. “Yes.”

     “And him being caught in the farmer’s net long ago? Is that true as well?” the fairy asked. Maleficent could only nod. Flittle hugged herself. “Because… The word travels… He didn’t share much about himself, but—Oh, silly me!” she winced — and in a blink of an eye she turned into a tiny pixie and landed right on Maleficent's shoulder at the very ear. “He didn’t share much about himself, and we could not even tell who he was at first. We didn’t know whether he was a bird or a man: he stands like a man, breathes like a man, but you saw his feathers... And his eyes... That is to say, he wouldn’t tell us anything, and the Moors had all kinds of rumours... That he was captured by Lickspittle, that he was subjected to everything that Lickspittle later directed at us... And then you said that he was caught in the net just a little after Lickspittle became king... I just thought — just thought that it might be true,” she exclaimed. “If he truly was held captive by Lickspittle for so long, that would explain why he never told us! He must have been afraid that he would be suspected of spying — you know, just like you are now... Oh, that would really explain everything!” the fairy gasped. “And why he can shift too! Maybe he is a human who has fallen under the influence of his poison?”

     “He is not a human,” Maleficent shook her head. “He is a raven.”

     “Raven? Yes, a raven…” Flittle sighed, surprisingly relieved. “He says that all the time. We thought he was joking like that, but no — he even gets offended if we accidentally call him a crow.”

     “Because he’s not a crow,” the fairy strained bitterly, kicking the dirty snow under her feet. “He's a raven. He looks like a raven. He looks like a raven in every form. He turns into a raven, damn it!”

     “He does?” Flittle squeaked in her ear, and Maleficent slowed her pace...

     No, he has not turned into a raven even once today since they met. Even when it would be more convenient during the battle, when a bird would fly to the clearing faster than any bat, and would get any warrior on the tree... But this did not happen.

     She had asked herself that question before, but now she could imagine the answer. She thought she could not hate Lickspittle any more — but time after time fate proved her wrong.

     “He cannot turn into a raven, then,” she concluded heavily.

     If anything, it meant he was even more in need of her help than she had imagined.

     “May be so, may be so… Look…” Flittle whispered. “If all this is true, if you know each other and he simply forgot something, if you can help, then you need to convince him! You need to talk to him! He won’t say no, he is kind, really. If you truly can help... Then I can try to help you.”

      “...I'm listening.”

     “He asked me to wake him up later, remember?”

     “At three ten.”

     “Go to him instead of me. You can even go earlier — I'm sure for all his grumbling he won't sleep tonight. Tomorrow is too big a day,” she shook her head, “for all of us.”

     Maleficent gazed at this little lady, at her heart-shaped face, at the flowers on her shoulders, blooming even in the middle of a cruel winter.

     “Thank you.”

     “Oh, no need to thank me! In fact, you know... After the war there is always peace... Anything can happen. You seem very lovely. He’s not too bad either, even if his eyes are a little scary…” she muttered. The fairy raised her eyebrows. “I’m not saying anything, of course. But who knows? Love is an unexpected thing.”

     Maleficent was torn between laughing and crying.

     “Yes,” she only said. “Love would be quite helpful right now.”

     “Aweel, great!” the pixie clapped her hands. “Then you just have to wait a bit — I do think it’s a little early yet, we just left. We all have things to do. Tomorrow is a big day,” she bowed her head. “And you have tasks yourself — I’ll take you to Birchalin and the others, they’ll tell you the nuts and bolts. It’ll be nice to have Balthazar with you as well — he’s already seen you, he can vouch for you in case someone does not like your presence...”

     “I know where to find them,” Maleficent assured. After all, Diaval was not the only one whom she had known before. “Don't worry about me. You can go join Thistlewit and Knotgrass.”

     Flittle frowned in alarm, but Maleficent raised her chin encouragingly — and she gave up.

     “Oh, wait!” she said at the end. “Your dress!” and the faerie circled her, leaving a thin strip of golden magic — and a repaired gown. The velvet on the shoulders was now intact, and the decorative feathers on the waist, long and brown, almost black, were all spick and span. Maleficent tucked Diaval's feather stolen from the nest alongside them. She will need it once she convinces him. “Much better. Just the thing for secret moonlit trysts... Oh! The blanket!” she stared. “I didn’t even notice it!”

     “I'll return it,” Maleficent replied, wrapping herself up.

     “Well, here’s your second excuse if he doesn’t like the first one!” Flittle's laughter rang like bells on her dress. “See you soon, lovie!”

     She waved her hand cheerfully and flew off into the distance like a firefly. With burning eyes, Maleficent watched her light recede into the darkness. Life was slowly dragging the sharp end of the hour hand right against her heart. Even if — when! when! — even when she returns to the real world, even when she restores everything that she allowed to get lost — even then, there will always be those who will not be with her, whom she will miss.

     It was a burning feeling, poisonous like foxglove — missing somebody.

Chapter Text

     Of all the creatures that lived on the Moors, the tree guards had always been Maleficent's favourite — because they were silent. Birchalin uttered two words at best in all the hours she spent in his company, in a tree off the Big Stones and Crystal Falls, watching the others go to sleep. He suggested that she kips down too — those were his couple of words. She tried but must have failed: her eyes were shut, and her mind was weak, yet not for a minute did she feel as though she was truly asleep. She was just hiding in her wings, tucked beneath the blanket, and slowly, slowly thinking.

     But soon enough the stars lined up just the right way: the tide has come. Folding the blanket in four, throwing it over her arm and letting it hang like a shield, Maleficent set forth towards the infirmary. Her step was swift, although some part of her was actually dreading what would happen once she reaches the place.

     Their last conversation — their last true conversation, an eternity ago, in December — had not ended well, no matter how well it had started.

     When it came to Diaval — the real Diaval — Maleficent knew how to talk. Which was surprising, really. He was always a blabbermouth, she was reserved. For the first couple of years after they met, she could not stand his company, or rather, his eternal attempts to strike up a conversation. He, in turn, paid no heed to her cold detachment from the whole wide world. Her first winter without wings, before Stefan was crowned, was spent in the ruins of the same castle where she had hid at first — and the stupid bird kept spoiling the already tiring hours with his squawking. He did not seem to understand that she did not speak his stupid language of clicks, whistles and croaks — and did not care about his human words either.

     But winter always gives way to spring: like snow, over time the crust of ice that bound her throat melted. She learned to say things other than orders, to turn her head to him when he was undoubtedly addressing her, albeit with senseless croaking. At the end of the day, she’d rather have him announcing his presence than sneaking up behind her.

     Now, as she carefully stepped into the infirmary, dark and chilly from hours without fire, it was dawning on her just how hard it must be — trying to talk to someone who doesn’t want to talk to you. Or can’t. Or doesn't know what to talk about.

     In those years, had she ever felt a pang of shame — when he would finally give up and lose heart, silently perch on a branch high above her head so as not to be an eyesore — she would tell herself that the reason they don’t talk was that they were not obliged to. You’d think that King Stefan exchanges pleasantries with his servants, his former fellows. Besides, they were very different, different in a way she did not like. She did not favour all this touchy-feeliness, this subjection to emotion. Nor did she appreciate his importunity, his swelled head, his almost sentimentality. It was a constant annoyance, especially lately, when they would see each other — back when they were still seeing each other.

      “Well, how are you?”

      “…Not bad”.

      “Just ‘not bad’? Why not ‘good’?”

      “Diaval.”

      “All right, all right. How… um… How are things with the Fae going? Are you lot coming here soon?”

      “Yes.”

     But she did appreciate diligence. Perseverance. Zeal. Sense of responsibility. All the things he also had aplenty — so much that he simply got her, unbeknownst to himself, to respect him.

     It took a while to realize that one is inextricably linked to the other, that one is the other. He is importunate because he wants to get to the bottom of things. He is a kibitzer at every man’s game because he truly wants to help. He is perseverant precisely because he is severely, chronically optimistic — otherwise he simply would not have the grit or patience. He is attentive, farsighted and hardworking precisely because he loves to please, loves to be useful — or needed — and he works hard and eagerly only when he sees a point to it. He thinks a lot, he just thinks with his heart. And that is why, same as she is not ashamed of either her power or intellect, he wears it, his heart, on his sleeve.

     What if she faces someone else once she goes up the stairs and opens the curtain? Someone so different that no experience, no memory of him will help her?

     And even if he stayed the same — she was a stranger to him. He was not one to confide in those he did not know well... Which was a strange thought. She always thought him incredibly sociable — but her opinion proved to be but a manifestation of her experience. Who knew he was doing her a favour with his chatter. He was sociable — with her. And, as it turned out between protracted depressing meetings and excruciating Perceforest balls ending with the two of them easing off on the balcony, they only had each other.

     Even now, it was true. Even more so now.

     She pulled aside the fabric that separated his room from the rest of the world.

     It was obvious that the raven was not sleeping — the bed was empty. Instead, the fairy barely made out his crouching figure by the window, her side to her — only his face was turned towards her, even before she entered.

     His expression remained a mystery.

     “I see Flittle has changed a lot over the evening.”

     “She was occupied, so she asked me to relieve her and come wake you up,” Maleficent breathed in one go, because she had been mulling over the phrase in her head for the last hour.

     “Some busy bees they are, can’t ask them for a thing...” he grunted, lowering his arm — the feathers at his elbow merged with the darkness. “Well, as you can see, I'm awake. Thank you. You may go now.”

     “I also wanted to return the blanket.”

     That got his attention. “Why do you have it? …Ah, it doesn't matter. Just put it over there,” he pointed to the bed — completely untouched. She knew it! “Yes. Thank you.” She left the folded bedspread closer to the wall and stood nearby, feeling the growing restlessness with her every feather. “Anything else?” Diaval sighed.

     “Flittle also wanted me to tell you that she advises you not to fly to the castle — she deems it useless. Knotgrass and Thistlewit concur with her. And so do I,” she added, hell knows why.

     “Ah, well, if even you do…” he shook his head solemnly. “Then ye caring and stubborn lot will be pleased to know that I’ve just come back thence.”

     He has gone to the palace? While they were hoping that he would sleep at least for show? This bloody... this bloody creature! She scoffed, “Was it worth it?”

     “Sure was,” he got his chin up, but without much boasting — rather, covering up some hurt. Cautiously she looked outside, although, of course, the castle was not in sight. Nor was anything else: the forest was buried in the night, as in tar.

     “Something happened? Or will happen?” 

     He met the question with furrowed brows. He held a heavy moment of silence, as if deciding whether to tell her something. She tried to keep her wings from betraying her. “Perhaps. Chances are, tomorrow before tussling soldiers and Lickspittle we’ll be raided by your cronies, too.”

     She winced despite herself. This is all because of her... Lickspittle must have figured out where she was, now that a whole squad of soldiers had gone missing in the woods. And if she returned to the Moors and found Diaval, then his plan is in jeopardy. Of course he’s not having it. Well, and she won’t have another battle in her ‘honour’. At least not without her.

     “That’s no trouble. I will fight them.” She straightened up.

     Even if ‘they’ are her own kind.

     Diaval slightly rose in place — even the darkness did not conceal his puzzlement. But it melted away. “…There’s no need. We don't fight the Dark Fae — we wait them out,” he grunted — and apparently noticed her reaction. “Look, I'm not in the mood to describe what your horned friends do when they attack the Moors. Did you like how their powder did to you? If not, then just take my word for it: you don't want to tackle them. It’s easier to sit out the attack in a secluded place, covered from head to toe, so as not to be affected,” he waved his hand. Her resolve did not waver, but the topic seemed to be closed. He only added in a beat, “I'll brief everybody at the meeting tomorrow morning. And as for you, soon as you wake up, go to Mr. Chanterelle. Or remind me to take you.” He narrowed his eyes. “By the way. How are you feeling?”

     She cheered up: for a moment there it felt as though she was about to be shown the door — then she would have to invent an even sillier pretext to stay or just put all her cards on the table, which she was not ready for yet.

     Except had she any time for preparation? And just what exactly were they, her cards? She could barely comprehend the task before her. Indeed, since there was no chance of him remembering her, she was left to... to do what? Seduce him? Charm him? Make him fall in love with her? She could think of nothing more hopeless, nothing more difficult. What does that even entail? She did not know how to be charming, or seductive, or sweet.

     Of course, presumably, Diaval must have somehow fallen in love with her whilst she was never charming, or sweet, and certainly not seductive... But that was a different Diaval. How does one win this Diaval, then?

     She did not have much time to find that out either.

     “Much better,” she said, adopting the friendliest tone of voice she could muster. “Thank you.”

     “That's good,” he replied, and it echoed so strongly in her that she felt uneasy.

      “I’ve been meaning to ask you: how are things with the resettlement going? Are ye coming anytime soon?”

      “I don't know.”

      “Hm. I tried to pry something out of Shrike when she was here, back in late summer, but she wouldn't talk to me. And she left quite soon, too. She hasn’t come for a while now — has something happened? Did she with Percival have a squabble? How are they?”

      “That is none of my business.”

      “Well—”

      “I don't want to talk about anyone behind their back.”

      “Oh really? Then I guess we could talk about how you are?”

      “I’m good.”

      “…Well, that’s good. That you’re good.”

      “Yeah.”

     “Feeling good enough to fight tomorrow, then?” the raven brought her out of the fog. “The big battle, I mean.”

     “Absolutely,” she snapped. She had to touch a subject that will be important to him, something she can use to gain his favour. She only had one single idea. Damn it. How stupid it all sounded.

     “Because, you know, if not, you’d better stay lay low in hideout. There’s not much time left for training now...”

     She reached for her idea. Her first card. “What about transformation? Have you not changed your mind yet—?”

     “A-ah, ha-ha!” Diaval laughed mirthlessly. “I should have known that’s what you wanted all along... No! I have not changed my mind. I don't want to be human.”

     “Not human! Not just human. Anyone. You’ll be able to turn into anyone, just like now, except that—”

     “What’s the difference then, if I’m able to do it now too? I already can turn into anyone!”

     “Except for yourself.”

     He flinched. Her heart sank.

     “What are you talking about?”

     “You can't turn back into a raven, can you? You’ve never turned into a raven in all the time I’ve been here.”

     “…Doesn't mean I can't. That’s nonsense.”

     Second card. “Yes, nonsense. You can. You're in your raven form right now.”

     It had struck her a little while back, when she was trying to sleep and twirling his fallen feather in her hand. She remembered his face, and how almost all of his hair on his head and arms were feathers, and how he had hardly changed below the waist, remained a bird. She hated, hated the thought. But it could be the turning point.

     “What a brilliant observation,” muttered the raven, hiding away into the shadows. Moonlight trickled down his folded feathers as he lowered his arms.

     “I'm sorry.”

     “Yeah, I can see that, with all your pestering...”

     “That's why I want to help.” She stepped closer to the window. He could reach out to her with his hand if he wanted to — or she to him.

     “Because you feel sorry for me? Don't bother, I can fend for myself.”

     “Not because I feel sorry for you!”

     “Well, you have no reason at all, then! You think I'll just go and trust you? We've known each other for a few hours, and now you want to help me? Why would you?”

     She was about to rejoinder that they’d known each other for far longer — because it was breaking, begging out her lips — but last time these words had strangled their conversation, so she bit her tongue. Even if his objections were a bullet in the side. Even if they were a reminder, hotter than deadly fire, that only one of the two of them was tormented by what once had been.

     The spring stayed for a while — for sixteen years — with each new day getting, per laws of nature, warmer and warmer. Just as the sun rises earlier every morning and lingers longer every night, so something between the two of them grew stronger, past the simple matters of debt or duty. And just as the ground warms up and blooms under the sun, something between them bloomed. Be that as it may, for all that got torn between them, for more than sixteen years he had been her closest ally — her only ally. She had not known — the thought had given her such a fright later, on the island, after — she had not known anyone in her whole life for as long as she had known him.

     And then Aurora, their Beastie. He brought her into her life — he dragged her into her life. She would never have known Aurora if not for him. She would have never started to come see her, trudging past marshes, snowdrifts and inattentive eyes, had he not been doing it first. She would never have let Beastie into the heart of the Moors. She would have never let this sun so close that her own frozen heart thawed altogether, dripping tears of repentance. He made a family out of them.

     Aurora was a true sun: entering their lives, she turned a war into a truce, a witch into a winged heroine, and the spring between her and her closest friend into summer.

     She gripped the window frame, because her hand was tempted to flutter up to him.

     “Listen,” the voice said, softer and even closer now, which was never helping. “I helped you with your hands for helping me with the soldiers tonight — we are quits now, and—”

     “Is it so impossible to imagine helping for helping’s sake?” she cried — and her hand reached for the wound on his face, and he froze.

     She froze too — the gold poured out, spilled beneath her palm, trickled down his cheek. His skin was soft, same as it ever was. She wanted to run over the little feathers on his cheekbones, under his eyes — would they feel the same? — but decided against it. When she pulled back, careful and thrilled, there was no trace of the wound — he tilted his head away.

     “Thank you…” His gaze only grew more suspicious. Baffled, he ran his talons over the healed place — black clawed rough hands, those must be different to the touch.

     The summer was so beautiful, so warm, so hot at times, that now, in the dead of winter, it felt as though it had never happened. But it had, it had! She was so grateful to him for his loyalty, even when his low rank was just a word, even when she got her wings back, even when she did not say anything out loud. She dared not say a word about it — but they would talk about anything else, to their heart's content. Even rare summer rains: nightmares that would lift her out of bed, imprison her in their sticky embraces, her unreasonable attacks of anxiety, the never leaving doubts — surrendered to that warmth. As before, she relied on him — but no longer because she could not do otherwise, but because she preferred it that way. He was the only one allowed near her wings — after all, he had been her wings for so long. And his hands were so soft on her feathers.

     Autumn broke with a downpour, with a flood, with a drowning — and washed everything away.

     “I want to help because it's the right thing to do,” she sighed. Now, at the open window, she could truly feel the late November evening outside. The chill was creeping up on her. “Haven't you ever done anything because it's the right thing to do? You were earnestly going to stand alone against a dozen warriors just so that no one else would get hurt. You've been protecting them for years, isn't that because it's the right thing to do?”

     “You came to bug me with things you know nothing about?”

     Her attempts were going nowhere. The cards she put out, he trumped and took away. And her ‘charms’ — both feigned and real — has almost dried up. Just like that time. At the worst possible time.

     “I came to give you the blanket. And to rouse you for your trip to the palace. It's not my fault you’re no longer flying there and aren’t even asleep... Why aren’t you sleep?” she asked as an afterthought. 

     Quick wave of the hand. “Doesn't matter. You can keep it, you need it more,” he nodded towards the blanket she had left. She did not need to be told twice — she moved away to the nest to get it. “You look different,” he remarked after her. “Something’s changed... Ah, it’s the dress. And something with the face,” he added when she turned around. “Looks neater now.”

     “Well, thank you very much,” she grunted — and won his first more or less warm smile of the whole evening. Oh, is that it? She only had to grumble! Well, she still had all the chances of conquering him, then — if the way to success was through being a grouch. “As you might guess, I wasn’t up for preening when I was fleeing the castle.”

     Diaval chuckled and crossed his arms. “Yes, I figured. I suspect your escape has something to do with a giant hole in the rose window of the main hall?”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” chimed the fairy. He shook his head, more admiringly than disapprovingly.

     “But how come the Fae didn’t just fly out after you?”

     “They couldn't, the chandelier was stuck in the window.”

     “You— Whoa… Wow!” the raven smiled; she found that his smile was tight and lopsided — just the way it should be. She grasped at it like at a straw: everything that reminded her that the Diaval in front of her was a different Diaval was a burthen. “Now that’s what I call ‘damage’! Fabulous. Although, I must say, if… when we win tomorrow, we will have to close that hole… So you’re not helping the cause too much, are you! You'd better eat well and bounce back and strike hard tomorrow to redeem yourself.” He smirked. Darted his head to the side, — “There’s some rowan over there, if you’d like. Have you eaten today?”

     “Thank you, I'm not hungry.”

     “That’s what you think. It’s the effect of the poison, you don't feel hunger. Doesn’t mean you should starve. Come on, come on.” She produced a pair of red clusters from a basket hidden under the rag he pointed to. They were berries from the Rowan Tree, her childhood home. She hoped to feel at least some connection with them, but to no avail — even the Tree of Life has forgot her. “Well? Are there any rowan trees on your blasted island? That would explain why your people were so slow with coming here, they don’t even know about rowan trees!”

     The fairy stared at him — because his posture, his question, his tone of voice, that damn concern, even here, even now, it jabbed a memory into her, the one she has been merely cherry-picking from, the one she kept skirting. But that's where it all started, wasn’t it? He’d asked her…

      “Do ye even have normal trees on that island? Like the ones at home? Are there any grapes… I’m asking because I want to know . What if you haven’t eaten grapes there for a whole year?”

      “Very funny… We do. But there are other fruits just as good, fruits that don’t even grow here. There is a part of the island where it never snows — some very bizarre fruit there.”

      “…Well, I hope they won’t miss it too much when they settle here. How is that going on? Is it soon?”

      “No.”

     That night they had been sitting opposite each other: she was on a wooden padded hall bench facing the balcony door, with a pillow handed to her on her knees; he was on a Dante chair, ankle on the knee — just like he was now, in the window opening of this cluttered gloomy room above the infirmary. The lights had been low — all they had were torches outside on the balcony and moonlight. And between them was a low table with dinner and a goblet of wine he had drained ‘for courage’ — and while she was stubbornly refusing food, he was stubbornly prying answers out of her.

     “Well, and how did you escape the castle?” she strained, driving away thoughts, breaking off a stalk in two. “I doubt you could afford a loud exit with broken stained glass windows. What was it, then? The gutter? A backdoor? Or…” she offered her new card, one of the clusters, “…did you transform and break away right under his nose?”

     He accepted the berries, but, unlike her, took his time trying them. Bluffer.

     “Transform? I could hardly think straight. It was even worse for me than it was for you today — I barely remember what happened. And I didn't... I couldn't control this back then.” He waved his hand over himself. He glanced at her — at the berries in his hand — back at her: a pair of black deep wells. She wondered if it was scary for others to look at him. It didn't even cross her mind. At this rate, she will begin to deem him handsome, even like this. He sighed ruefully, “I don’t want to spoil your impression of me—”

     “You don’t say?”

     “—but there was little heroic about my escape. Lickspittle kept me near his laboratory. There was a fire — mind you, it was his own fault. Luckily, his vials were more important than my life — I slipped away when the enclosures burned down. And then I had to scramble down the castle walls like some kind of cockroach.”

     She smiled. Not on purpose, of course — there was nothing funny. But Diaval had once lamented the fact that he had to crawl his way to the Ulstead court along a smooth, steep curtain wall — they had mistaken him for a man and he had not been allowed through the main gate with the fair folk for a planned massacre. Of course, he had no business mopping and mowing — it had saved his life. But he was unnerved by how many things indicated that he had become a real human. He became a man when she drowned, when she died...

     He was a man all the time that she spent away — she had not turned Diaval into a raven since she tried to do it whilst rapidly heading towards the sea... He had been a man ever since then.

     He must hate her for it now. She had bereaved him of his wings, of his own nature — at first slowly, chipping it off one year at a time, bit by bit — and then in one go. “Why would I want to be a human?” asked Diaval, this Diaval — because the real Diaval was only ever a man for her sake.

     Although autumn had come so suddenly and loudly, Maleficent did not notice it till the bitter end: neither the coldness of her dismissals, nor the abyss growing wider each time he tried to check on her and she preferred not to complain. By their last meeting, in December, she was almost frozen and covered with frost, like those sharp protruding spikes outside the Nest where the orphaned Dark Fae stood for hours trying not to look into the dark fast waters for too long.

     Her smile turned into a venomous snake.

     “Yeah, the rowan’s a bit bitter,” Diaval looked at her. “You’d think, it’s the Tree of Life, right? And yet they’re bitter. Maybe it’s some kind of wise joke... A very strange place, these Moors,” he tossed half the bunch into his mouth in one fell swoop.

     “How did you end up here? On the Moors?”

     “I crawled here,” he swallowed. “Balthazar found me and brought me here.”

     “And the Moors just took you in?”

     “I was very charming,” he smirked. He tossed the remaining rowan into his mouth, muttered with his mouth full, “No, in fact, I was such a terrible sight that they probably took pity on me, nothing charming. Which is a shame,” he gulped. “I’ll let you know that I’d look rather dashing if I looked the way I really should.”

     “I have no doubt, you’d be a real Pretty Bird,” she blurted out so heartsore that her own soppiness made her sick.

     “Quit lickspittling!” Diaval narrowed his eyes in amusement. And even when he look straight at her, and she could not take her eyes off at all — when it seemed that something was about to happen — he only blinked and stood up. Snatched her last card. “Rowan. I want more rowan. You?”

     She just shook her head, not turning around. A wave of suffocating feeling came over her again, and even when the sorceress turned her gaze to the pitch-black sky hung over the white earth, looking for a peace of mind, it only delivered a nasty wallop — a continuation of that broken memory, when it had been just as cold and just as dark, and when something had almost happened.

     “Why ‘no’? Weren’t you— Hey, what happened? Did you see that? I don't know, it got kind of dark outside. I'll go look,” he leaped up and walked to the balcony, opening the glass doors with a roar. “Ah!” - came thence a little later. Diaval laughed. “It’s the torches on the wall. All this snow put them out…”

     “I can light them back on,” she called out from her spot.

      “No, no, let’s keep it dark,” he froze there, at the balustrade, his head up. His form was long and dark against the inky blue sky. “Wow. So many stars... And the snow...” he drawled, exposing his face to the falling flakes, and letting the frosty wind into the bower. For a minute he stood silent, only to then mutter almost dreamily, “Isn’t this beautiful...”

      They had just put out the fire in the fireplace — now all its work was going down to waste.

      “Close the doors, Diaval!”

     “So how did you go from a rescue puppy to the leader of an uprising?” she spoke up. He rustled behind her, and then there was a sharp soft rustle — he was on the nest, trying to sit in a way not to crush his tail.

     “You think I know?” he chuckled. “I didn't mean to do it. By some miracle I have mastered some talking and not fainting or shifting with every sneeze before that scumbag fixed his lab and went back to his old ways, so we had some advantage. Except the moorfolk weren’t very good with repelling the charges of the soldiers — I could help so I did. Maybe because it was the right thing to do, too.” He repeated her words. “I wanted to help and I was good at it — I guess it was appreciated. I don't know. No one put a crown on my head, it’s just that at some point everyone got into the habit of sending me on missions, and I got into the habit of going…”

     Maleficent smirked. If asked to describe her place among the Dark Fae, she would say something along those lines. He seemed to read her thoughts.

     “But then, about two years ago, ye all came. The Dark Fae. Which was bad, because he made ye his new power.”

     “Are they under the influence of some kind of potion?” the fairy pursed her lips.

     “Like you don't know. Yes. Potion, or powder — whichever way it suits him each time,” he began to tear off the berries one at a time, looking away. “He’d tested his damned foxglove on me, and on the fair folk too — only in a different way, I don’t know how, I wasn’t here to see it back then. But in order to get the Fae on his side, he added tomb bloom,” he gritted his teeth, and Maleficent realized with sorrow and anger that history was repeating itself.

     “But tomb bloom is lethal,” she objected.

     “So I’ve been told. A whole charge of tomb blooms, perhaps. But he mixed a bit of it with a bunch of other ingredients — foxglove too, I bet. In the end, he got a mixture that kills not their entire being, but their will, their feelings.”

     “And got himself an army of mindless soldiers.”

     “Exactly. He also armed them with foxglove powder to hit the victims during the attack. After that, they can give you any order, spit out their... their “Listen to me!”, And you’re no better than a puppet on strings,” he snapped. Maleficent winced: this must have been what happened this morning, when she was seized from the ruined time-forgotten forester hut and handed over to Lickspittle! Surely he had done the same with Diaval for years, when he had no way to escape... And it was all her fault! She drove everyone into a vile, dangerous trap, into a snake pit! And now... “Maleficent,” she twitched at the sound of her name from the raven's mouth. Tense and pale, he crouched like a tainted gargoyle on the roof of a castle. “Once again. Remind me to take you to Mr Chanterelle. Otherwise, neither of us will make it to victory.”

     He should not be saying all this! He should not have gone through fire and water, not even knowing why, not knowing who’s to blame for his years of degradation and torture! Should not be taking her to someone tomorrow — before a battle, and then before another battle! This should not have happened — this should not be happening... There must be a way out...

     There was. There was one way out. And she had no cards left to cover her intentions.

     “Now, what’s with the long face?” Diaval drawled deliberately nonchalant, finishing his berries. She stood over him in fruitless search for words. “It's not that bad. We’ll pull through. We will meet the next night with Lickspittle’s big head in our fist and open barrels in his basement.”

     “No,” she spoke.

     “No?”

     “There is... there is another solution.”

     “Really?”

     “You’re not going to believe me...”

     She would not tell by his eyes, but he seemed to be eyeing her over from head to toe. “I can already imagine,” he droned, lips tight. “But I shall try.”

     She felt ill at ease standing over him. She did not know where to put her wings — how to calm them down — and so she sank down beside him. “I know how to stop it all,” she said in one breath. “How to save us all from this.”

     “‘From this’?”

     “From war, from suffering, from the villain on the throne. Even from your pain. We can put an end to all this. And we'll be happy again,” she croaked — and broke off. “At least as happy as we were...”

     “I don't understand a damn bit. What do you want to—”

     “Yes, yes,” she cut him short, nerving herself. It's time. She looked straight at him. “Well. We need to kiss.”

     As expected, he was silent for a moment. Then a smile slowly blossomed on his lips, one that took her breath away, and she smiled back as she could not believe her—

     He chuckled. And then he fell back in a fit of laughter.

     “You actually had me for a second there!”

     Maleficent froze in place, under the tub of water he doused her with. “I am serious!”

     “Oh I know that you’re serious!” he bleated. “It doesn't make me feel any better!”

     “I know it sounds strange, but—”

     “Well, at least I won’t have to say it myself!” He sat back up. Her face, whatever it expressed — surprise, embarrassment, mortification, or icy horror that seized her in snares — sobered him a little, slashed his forehead with a dark line of eyebrows. “How can a kiss possibly save everyone?”

     “Because, as I said, we know each other in real life— Shut up,” she hissed in despair before he opened his mouth. “We know each other in real life. We will share a True Love’s Kiss, and it will return us to the real world, where the war is over—”

     “True Love’s Kiss?”

     “Yes.”

     “My god, I get that you’re a fairy, but to this extent?” He jumped up from his seat, running his hand through his hair. “I thought we’re both too old to rely on fairy tales. Or do ye live for centuries? Whatever, whatever,” he waved it off, not mockery but actual irritation in his tone of voice. At the window, with his back to her, he flapped his arms like wings. “No more weird ideas my way, please. I need to think straight. I haven’t slept a wink.”

     She could only look at his tall form sinking into the darkness, the bitterness under her tongue telling her that nothing was working. He doesn't even understand her, he can’t see her at all. Even under the blanket she grew treacherously cold.

      Cold.

     “Close the doors, now,” the order was repeated. “I will not stay here to treat your feverish body if you catch a cold.”

      He left the balcony.

      “I wouldn’t dream of it, mistress,” he sighed, bolting the doors shut. Snow was melting on his hair — he shook himself off a little and stepped forward — tried to, anyway. “Ah! So dark. Where are you? I can't see you at all.”

      “I'm on the bench,” she rolled her eyes. “You gave me the pillow, remember?”

     “Oh. Right,” he chuckled and moved towards her, to the back of the room. She could hardly distinguish him in the darkness herself — and then suddenly his outstretched hand crashed first into her wing, then into the back of the bench higher. “There you are,” he breathed as she dodged his guide hand to avoid falling prey to his attempt to sit next to her. He flopped down into the seat she had vacated, kicking his feet to the floor, placing his arm on the back of the bench.

     Was there any point in insisting? She couldn't win his heart with persuasion. She couldn't... She had no idea what to do next. Judging by his stance, he could drive her away at any second — then she would lose even more time.

     But then again, so what if she would? She does not seem to have any reason to hope — and if so, what does it matter if she loses now, or tomorrow, or with her last dawn.

     But she could not leave him, not just for her selfish reasons. Even though it was Diaval who could not care less about her, who was only entertaining her out of pity, who was losing the remnants of patience — it was Diaval. She wanted to see him happy. He looked blue. And, judging by his words, she could delve into her memory and remember exactly how this shade of blue feels. She could not leave him, if only for his own sake. So she quietly asked, “Then why aren't you sleeping now?”

     His shoulders relaxed a little, and a chuckle reached her. “I have guests in my room.”

     “That's just an excuse. You could have gone to bed as soon as you got back from the castle. You could have let me go saying you'd fly away and go back to bed as soon as I left the room. But instead, you've been sitting here in the dark for half an hour. If not more.”

     Diaval sent a stern glance in her direction, but she was not afraid of him. Feathers betrayed him — it was he who was afraid of her. As much as she wished that wasn’t the case, she could only withstand his evaluating gaze, there was nothing else she could do. The thought left an unpleasant bitter taste in its wake.

     “Listen, this is... It’s an odd thing to discuss,” he grimaced. Maleficent bowed her head, urging him to try nonetheless. He made a very familiar move of as though dusting off his hands. “To put it simply, I was thinking—”

     “Nasty habit.”

     “Hey, why don’t you shut it?” he muttered — and huffed even more when she laughed. “Very funny. Just because I mocked you doesn't mean... Ugh, whatever... You were at the meeting, weren’t? You were eavesdropping — don't deny it, I saw you with that man, ye were eavesdropping. We were discussing our tactics for tomorrow's fight. And then somebody asked... Somebody said, ‘And what then’? What then?”

     “But you did answer him.”

     “Yes, I did — I answered the question he wanted to ask, which is what we will do act after the capture of the king. What we are going to do in the castle, with the Fae... All of that will take a day or two, no more. But there is still... a whole life after that.”

     “Hm.”

     “Exactly, ‘hm’! Hm-m-m-m? Who knows what will be after!” the raven threw up his hands. He proceeded to measure the tiny space with steps, his hands behind his back the way that made him look even more like a bird. “I used to just hope to make it to that moment, I couldn’t afford to wish ahead. I would just look at the sky and think that one day we shall look at this same sky but it will be a completely different world. But now it all has changed. Now tomorrow’s breathing down my neck.” He stopped with a bitter smile. “Now’s the good time to think about it, I know.”

     Tomorrow was breathing down her neck, too, like a rabid dog. The fairy gathered her thoughts. “Then start with yourself,” she suggested. “What about you? Will you remain… whatever your title is now?”

     “I have no title. I'm a shapeshifter who beats bad guys and performs a bunch of other duties as a reward.” He folded his arms. “And no, I'm not going to stay in power — I can't imagine anything worse. I don't know what ‘about me’. Maybe I’ll go look for something in this life. Maybe I’ll be munching on acorns and sunbathing every day twice a day.”

     “Sunbathing?! You’ll burn to death on the first day.”

     “Why is that?”

     “In twenty minutes,” she smirked mockingly — nostalgically. But of course it did not make sense to him. “What will you go looking for? …I can’t know for you,” the fairy frowned, looking at his shrugging shoulders. Who knows if she still has cards? She fished out one of them — gave an ingratiating smile. “How about True Love?”

     “Again?” he whined — but realized she was joking. Probably joking. He turned away, lost in thought. “True Love... A little ambitious, don't you think? Nah, True Love... It’d be great, of course, but it's unlikely.”

     “Why?”

     “Well, there’s plenty of reasons, so I can start with the funniest and dumbest one, which is that I'm too old for that stuff.”

     This was not what she expected to hear at all , so she simply blurted, “You’re twenty-eight!”

     “Twenty eight?!”

     “It’s not anywhere near too old, it’s not even—”

     “ I didn't know I’m twenty-eight, how do you know I'm twenty-eight?”

     “—half of a man’s life!”

     “Well, that might be a half of a man’s life! But I'll tell you, twenty-eight years is a whole century for ravens, it's far too much! Imagine a hundred year old codger in my place! ‘I shall find her! My fair maiden!’” croaked the raven sombrely. Tittered. “You think that’s normal?”

     “Well, if he does find her,” she smiled. Diaval rolled his eyes, pushing himself away from the opening.

     “Are ye Fae all like that, or am I just lucky to meet you specifically?”

     Her smile fell.

     “You have no idea,” she breathed. If only the real Diaval knew how lovey-dovey she’s getting here, he would not believe his ears... Why would he. Like hell would she say anything like that to him for real. Although he’d probably love her to... She wrapped her arms around herself. The raven came back, sat down next to her, handed her some of the berries. She turned them over in her hands, remembering how many times she had accepted treats from him before. “I just meant to say that growing old is not that important,” she said slowly. “You can find your True Love later in life, maybe even… Maybe even fall in love much later on.”

     They had known each other for over twenty years — twenty-three years, almost twenty-three years — before Diaval made the first move. When had it started — for him? How long had he been in love with her? Will she ever know now?

     They had known each other for over twenty years — she herself was barely over twenty years when she rescued a bird from a net. Diaval once joked that she would soon finally reach the point at which she had known him longer than she had not. He himself had crossed that threshold ages ago. That point had arrived, last year, just a couple of weeks after their fight. It was a terrible day. Probably because it was, among other things, her birthday.

     She had other plans for that day.

     “I was talking about the same thing,” said the raven meanwhile, “you misunderstood me. I’m not saying that age itself is a problem, although that doesn't help either,” he stared at his long bird claws in fascination. “I’m saying that... I don’t know about you, but I need time to fall in love. Probably. I’d need to be sure. It takes time that I don't have anymore.”

     She sniffed. ‘Funny, because neither do I,’ she thought, and it was so funny that she bobbed her head, afraid that she was about to sway back and forth like some sick bird on a perch... Her heart was crashing down.

     “Are you all right?” She flinched at the sound of his voice. She wasn’t frightened by his face, she wasn’t — but how terrible it was to see a stranger, with different eyes and face, without a single memory of her, but to hear words so familiar! Words she never had an answer to.

     “Just a dizzy spell,” she uttered, and did not even lie. 

     Diaval jumped up, clattering his teeth like a beak, “See, if I wasn’t robbed of all my supplies, I would offer you tea in no time! Now you have to wait. Stay here.”

     In the next second, he disappeared without a trace — he flew down the steps with a roar and began to ring and rumble downstairs. Being left behind in a dark, quiet room like her cave on the island, was even more dreary, especially with the glow coming from below — wrapping herself in the blanket, Maleficent sat down on one of the steps to watch him. For a couple of minutes, Diaval worked in silence: he lit the fire of the hearth, just as Flittle had done earlier, collected some snow from the outside, melted it and heated the water.

     “What about the fair folk?” she asked impatiently. “Who will govern them without you?”

     “Motherwort honey, motherwort honey… Goddamn it… Well, we have a certain team that I delegate tasks to when I’m not around. The tree guards, Robin... They say these lands have never had rulers, so once the peace is restored, I'm sure they'll manage. Not to mention,” he clocked his tongue without raising his head, “if you were listening carefully, you might’ve heard that we are going to free and heal the Dark Fae. Whom, by the way, were eager to come hither, to their last true home. I say, they come and rule over their lovely last true home, then.”

     Maleficent gave a wry sneer. “Oh, but you shouldn’t rely on them so easily. They may change their mind or resettle at a snail’s pace.”

     “...There you are!” he smelled the lemon balm. “And why’s that?”

     “We can be short-tempered when under pressure, but rather indecisive when not.”

     She came to the conclusion not too long ago, but time after time she was proven right — whether it was her kinsmen’s behaviour or her own — and she was running out of patience.

     “Fun. Well, sorry, I had no way to know what a pain in the neck ye apparently are,” he spread his hands, raising his eyes to her. “You are the first fairy I’m speaking to. By the way...” he handed her a cup — a greenish fragrant beverage swayed inside, shimmering with the dim fire of the candle that Diaval had lit. “Since I have the opportunity… How did ye do all that on the island? Government, management, other -ments... Let's go upstairs.”

     They got back to the room — Diaval did not bring the candle, but, on the contrary, extinguished both it and the fire, and the former gloomy enveloping darkness reigned in his lair. The tea was good — there must have been something else besides the lemon balm.

     “There used to... Ahem. There used to be a council of elders from each clan. Several men and women each from Forest, Jungle, Tundra and Desert Fae. They would resolve issues among themselves.”

     “Not bad.”

     “But that was a long time ago, this tradition has since ceased,” the fairy took the edge of the nest, lowered her wings. The raven sank awkwardly to the floor, crossing his legs. “As it became clear that the war would drag on, and that it’s not experience that matters any more but ingenuity and moxie, elders gave way to leaders: one for wartime, one for peacetime.”

     “Sounds nice! We can heal everyone, find these leaders of yours, give them a good shake and tell them that their turf has grown, just like they wanted, and that I'm retiring. And everyone is happy,” he spread his arms. Averted his gaze. “Honestly, anything, so long as it’s not all the power on the shoulders of one, it’s unbearable. This can’t go on.”

     “…Why?”

     “Because it’s a madhouse of a job, that’s why,” he grimaced. “It can break anyone — especially those who don’t know how to do it, or don’t want to. And just in general. You can’t do things like this alone,” he breathed, looking out the window. His face was barely visible in the darkness. He clicked his tongue. “No thing is worth doing alone.”

     “That’s funny,” she echoed. Again, not what she expected to hear. But then she remembered his silhouette at the window. He was sitting just the way she had been sitting for over a year in her dark grotto that never quite became her home: over the heads of dozens, with a view of a rock with an image, its eyes, its wings, its fire making her nauseous.

     And he clicked his tongue just the way he had back then.

     Dejected, she took another sip.

      “So-o-o, how's the wine?”

     “Well, it didn’t make me half as tipsy as it did you, I’ll tell you that much.” He burst out laughing at her words. “Are you feeling brave enough now? For whatever you needed it for.”

     “Probably,” he sighed. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness: now she could make out the outlines of his face, his head — he leaned back. “I'm feeling much better, that’s true,” he added — and then suddenly chuckled, rolling his head, staring at the balcony again. “I haven't had an evening this nice in a long while. It usually gets a little lonely by night. Can’t fly, can’t talk to anyone… No, I mean,” he broke off immediately, “there’s moorfolk and, of course, there’s Aurora… And I can talk to them, I guess… but it’s not the same — and we can't just sit together without saying anything, and it's not... Well... Aw, whatever,” he clicked his tongue — she allowed herself to laugh at him — he pressed his cheek against the back of the bench to look at her. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I missed you.”

     She returned his warm gaze in what she hoped was the same way — not dropping a faint smile and letting the pleasant warmth spread over her shoulders and chest like sweet, fragrant honey. She sat like that for several seconds in deathly silence, watching his smile, until it slowly faded, until the blackness of his eyes did the usual travelling all over her face, until he blinked a few times and turned away — and then she suddenly had a feeling as though she was supposed to say something instead.

     “What's funny?” Diaval snorted. She toyed with the bowl in her hands.

     “That is exactly what we have come to. I mean the Dark Fae,” she clarified hesitantly, taking a sip. Where should she start? And should she?... She saw less and less sense in trying to convince him of her honesty, her sanity — especially since she herself began to doubt them. But the speech poured out on its own, just like that. “We… have a legend. About the Phoenix. It is said that the Dark Fae began with her and then evolved over centuries. And there must be... there must be the last of her descendants, the one who carries her blood and will be rightfully considered the ruler. She will have to bring... peace and freedom to her kind.”

     Out of caution, she opted to put it that way. Were she to mention that she is the Phoenix, he would never believe her, since he did not believe everything else. Besides, she wasn't the Phoenix anymore, was she? Death now had as much power over her as it had over everyone else — now, perhaps, even more power.

     “So, what, are ye looking for her now? Or is she to be born among ye? Or did ye already...”

     “No, we— In fact…” she hesitated. She was always bad at lying. “I was leading to the fact that when she appears, she will take her place among the Dark Fae, become their chief,” she sipped more, hot and bitter. “Will rule over them, look for solutions to their problems, lead them into the future…”

     It sounded hopeless out loud, to be honest.

     “What, on her own?”

     “Well, I’ve no twins!” she huffed.

     Just like a bird, Diaval tilted his head to the side — the fact that she could not make out his physiognomy in the twilight was unnerving. She hid her nervous embarrassment behind the cup. She was halfway done.

     “…And this Phoenix, is…is she a real phoenix? Is it a bird? Or a fairy?” He sounded like he was smiling. “Or… or does she shift shapes? Like me?”

     “In a way. She shifts, yes — once in a lifetime.”

     “Hah. So it’s a real phoenix? Like the ones that die and get resurrected and die and get resurrected and—” She nodded. “That’s grand…” he drawled, now smiling for sure. But suddenly — “Hold on, wait-wait-wait-wait-wait! That’s not grand at all! Are you telling me that the Phoenix must rule the Fae not only alone, but also for all eternity? But that’s torture!”

     She blinked. “…Is it? Why…”

     “Listen,” he squirmed in place, “I've only been doing this for the last seven years, with a bunch of assistants who most of the time just tolerate me, and even this way I'm already sick of it. But to be responsible for an entire nation that writes legends about you — alone? For ages? To manage literally everything—”

     “Well, not exactly everything—”

     “—what, without even anyone's advice? Or support? This is unfair. This is cruel.”

     “Is it?”

     “Of course it is! Besides, it is fraught with consequences for everyone,” he snapped. “It may be tempting to leave all the hard work in sacred hands, to leave the last word to someone, but it deprives others of a voice. I bet the Dark Fae, no matter how united, don’t see eye to eye on many a thing,” he smiled humourlessly. With distaste Maleficent recalled the argument, almost escalating into a fight, that had erupted on the day she first found herself on the island — and almost every day since. Endless squabbles about which Fae might be worse off on the Moors, the ones she had to find out in a roundabout way, because no one dared to speak out to her face... “And... it's just hard! How can you make one person bear all the responsibility — bear all the blame, ultimately, for any mistakes that are bound to happen someday?” exclaimed the raven. He bristled, “Even if the Phoenix was eager to be their ruler—!”

     “She was not eager to be their ruler,” she dropped dully. Diaval froze, frowning.

     “…Even more so. That’s even worse.”

     His head drooped, he drew up his legs, his eyes seemingly still fixed on her.

     “Is it?” the fairy squeezed out, touched by his gloomy, almost pitiful tone — and realized that she was repeating the same thing for the third time. “I believed that the best rulers are people who do not want to rule,” she stated then reluctantly.

     “Sure. And the best bakers are people who have never liked the stove.”

     “It’s not the same thing,” the fairy hissed, sipping the cooling drink. The colder, the bitterer. “You'd think you wanted to rule over the Moors.”

     “You'd think I'm any good at ruling over the Moors!” he fired back. “Of course, I do some things well — but that’s exactly it, I do some things well. And there are many things to do.” He sighed. “Everyone is good at some things. There’s folks who can look far ahead and make true predictions. Then there’s folks who can take this spatial forecast and say: then we shall do this, this and this, in this much time. That’s already two people,” the raven chuckled. His hand dangled from his raised knee, and he moved it, accompanying his tense speech like a conducting baton. “Except staring at their long-terms plans is all they’re good for. You need someone to make a quick, decisive choice in case of things that you just can’t anticipate. We’re at three now! What's next? Doesn't someone need to check whether these solutions are suitable for others or not? If all this smart talk concurs with the desires and feelings of everyone else? Shouldn’t there be someone who won’t just say that something needs to be done, and that’s it, but will captivate others with the idea, and support them, and cheer them up, if necessary, and—”

     “Just say ‘Diaval’, why so many words.”

     “—and who’ll— Ha-ha-ha-ha!” He burst into his boisterous, disgusting guffaw that hurt her ear as much as it warmed her heart. “Why not silly old Diaval? I would look very good, sitting, say, on the Big Stones. I would look down at everyone and yell, ‘You! And you too! You can do it! And you can do it! I believe in you, goddamn it!!!’ ” he bleated — and broke into another roar of laugh that she almost joined in — but quickly sobered up. Cleared his throat. “To put it simply, if the Phoenix…” he slightly raised himself, “…whoever she is…” and suddenly patted her knee — and sat back down, leaving her amazed and disarmed, secret-less, “if she should take over these lands, then she'd better have some retinue and, well,” he chuckled, “not screw it up.”

     And just like that her wavering calm, like the water's edge before the rain, broke and left her too — she clutched at her cup, hoping it would not overflow. With the booming sound of a sinking body, the cold expectation of something imminent and terrible returned to her.

     “Well, consider it screwed up, then,” she said slowly.

     “Why?”

     Because even if — she suddenly thought — even if by some miracle she comes back... then what will she come back to? To the one it will probably be too late to make it up with? To the people she never learned to rule over, never managed to understand, never lead to a happy future?

     To life that...

     “Because I thought the opposite. But I guess I was wrong…” she breathed — and her breath stumbled, turned into a chuckle, and another one, and into short, wicked, helpless laughter… “Which should have ceased to surprise me a long time ago,” she strained.

     ...that she was sick of.

     “Wow! Harsh,” the raven grimaced. “Why do you say that?”

     A smile stretched on her lips like a snake — and, like a snake, it spewed poison. “Well, you say everyone is good at something. I say I'm good at wreaking havoc around me and not even noticing it until it's too late, and then running in the opposite direction and doing the same thing, only to end up in the same place.”

     Fingers dug into the bowl. She wanted to spill it all to hell. No peace. She did not deserve peace.

     “Sounds awfully melancholic,” Diaval answered cautiously.

     “Perhaps. But that's exactly what I’ve been doing. For over a year now.” She grinned. “Or over forty years — depends on how you look at it.”

     “You know, these are two very different ways to look at it...”

     “No, not at all. That's the whole point,” she muttered. “A year, or seven, or sixteen, or forty — it doesn't matter. Everything remains the same. You can try, you can believe you have changed… Hell, you can even die and be born again – surely you can’t go any further! surely it should change something, change everything? But it doesn’t, nothing changes. Or, to be more precise, everything does change. But not me.”

     Unable to hold that disgusting burden, that cup, any longer, she conjured a tiny flame in her palm to see where to put it away. A glint of Diaval's face floated past like gold: huge eyes, pursed lips. Feathers fluffed up in alert, shadow from them on the cheek. She froze in place, standing on his left side, her palm down.

     “I had one… friend,” she swallowed. “A friend who strove for transformation, and change, and evolving… All those legends about the Phoenix. He was a leader — the one I was talking about, the peacetime leader — and he believed that I’d become a good Phoenix. At least that's what he wanted…” her breath hitched. Again, for the hundredth time, as though from the ocean’s depths she saw long dark braids, a black mark on a forehead, a scar above the eyebrow. Green eyes. Green turned to yellow, to gold, but no resurrection magic could help him. The colors died away. “Maybe it's a good thing that he's gone,” Maleficent pronounced. “He can't see how we’ve abandoned all he told us, told me. Otherwise, he’d know that I am no Phoenix. I do not rise from any ashes.”

     She knew who she was. An evil snake that devours itself and crawls in circles until the beginning and end are lost, until everything becomes the same, unchanged.

     Diaval clicked his tongue with such weariness that she almost felt bad for him. “Now, now,” he said softly. “Don't think like that.”

     “Of course.”

     “Let’s hope for the best.”

     She whirled around, glaring him down. “Don’t you understand that this is the worst thing you can do? Hope? Hope for what: that this time everything will work out? That this time, oh this time, are you doing it right? That now that the lesson has been learned, you won’t make the same mistake — you will go the other way!”

     Heavy exhalation. The blanket slipped off her wings, peeled off like snake skin — autumn ran its cold hand over her shoulders and back.

     “I longed for peace as a child, I dreamed about it day and night,” she said. “I risked the safety of an entire realm in the name of unity, in the name of love — and it cost me everything I ever had. My dignity, my freedom. It cost me my heart.”

     It took her so long to forgive herself for this mistake, for her naivety, her inexperience — her age, after all. But now, when it turned out that years do not change her, she hated this girl more than ever — the one who had started it all. The one who did not notice the intrigues being built right under her nose, the lies pouring right into her ears. The one who chose not to see the storm, not to hear the roar of the whirlpool swirling right around her.

     “That was a mistake, then?” The Guardian chuckled. “Then war must be the answer. I figured, if you can’t find peace of mind by shaking hands and tying ropes, I'd better rip it back out with my bare hands.”

     At last she turned — his wary face just at her subdued light. She read his eyes, the curl of his mouth: he guessed how this story ended — these days she was finding it obvious, too. But back then it seemed...

     “It seemed great back then,” she whispered. “More than correct. For some time.”

     She could still remember the triumph of fire rushing from her entire body like she was a star, its hot, burning, murderous embrace. Maybe that was her first rebirth — the fairy from the Moors was gone, the Mistress of Evil was born.

     “And then I ruined someone else’s life.”

     And, as always, she destroyed everything around her. She became blind to both reason and feeling, numb to all the happiness she could experience... or share... to the last remnants of her heart she had miraculously preserved — until it was too late.

     “And I paid for that, too,” the fairy said. She would see them in her nightmares: a girl frozen forevermore, a bird lying in blood, a man falling to the ground, a burning palace, pillars of smoke... 

     Diaval frowned, more and more confused and as if regretful. “I wish I knew what you're talking about,” he said quietly, almost apologetically. 

     She chuckled as she looked at him. “Yes. Me too.”

     “How did it all end?”

     “I got back some of what was stolen from me. Gave away what I had no right to appropriate. Pulled those who were close to me even closer.”

     “But that’s good, isn't it?” he bowed his head. Maleficent just shook hers.

     “It made me take them for granted.”

      His arm slid off the back, dangled at the elbow. “So… you’re leaving tomorrow morning, right?”

      “Yes.”

      “When are you coming back next time?”

      “I don't know. I really don’t,” she snapped as he rolled his eyes. “I can't tell you in advance.”

      “Oh come on! Your birthday is in two weeks!” He looked at her, read the confusion on her face. “What? You could celebrate here.”

      “Since when do I celebrate my birthdays?”

      “You can start this year. Now, as I was saying,” he again threw his hand between them, at her wing, “we could celebrate.”

      “Who’s ‘we’?”

      “Um, the two of us?...” He shook his head. “Of course, unless you want someone else to come too. Sorry I didn't clarify earlier.”

      She could swear he blushed — even in the dark, she saw it. “And how do you propose we celebrate?” she grinned, straightening up to get closer.

     “Well, there’s lots of things we could do, lots of places we could be, or… Although I bet you’re done doing things and being places these days,” he broke away, “so we might as well kick it here at home. We could just spend time together, prowling the Moors—” he started cackling even before he could finish the thought — she slapped his dangling arm. “I couldn't help myself!” he doubled over in a fit. Finally laughter made its way past her lips as well — he had made the same proposal to her a long time ago — although, of course, not that long ago — at Aurora's wedding. That time his idea had failed with a crash — Maleficent had threatened to set the royal cat on him if he did not shut up, and then had flown off to the island the next morning. No, really, how long ago was that? It was back in spring, and now his hair smelled of snow. It’s been so long... She forgot the last time she did not brush off his questions. “So what do you think?”

     It was funny, really. After all, she was so grateful at first: to her — for not turning away even having learnt the whole truth about her Faerie Godmother, for somehow having enough love to forgive. And to him — for staying. She never thought she would have it all, so how did she start taking it for granted?

     She vowed to protect what she got — except life is known to get in the way of her plans and promises. And whilst Diaval was, at least at the time, satisfied and did not ask anything of her, Aurora, on the other hand, did the only thing she could — she grew up. And fell in love. And wished for a family. Wished to make her own choices, to live her own truth. This “truth” seemed to Maleficent so superficial and dangerous that she could not allow it — she stood like a block in a river, breaking the flow until the waters rose so high they overcame her, dragged her down, carried her to the bottom like a bullet to the side.

     Even at her best, she proved to be a sower of chaos. With the hands she was given to work magic, to soothe, to heal, she held tight, so tight that what she was trying to hold onto shattered. Into smithereens, into blood.

     And everything became blood. A field of blood, like precious stones — plucked, desecrated. Each flower — an innocent life. Each flower — up in the sky, exploding, devouring, bottomless ruby holes. A flower — she who had taken care of her and then her daughter. A flower — he who silently guarded her lands. A flower — a friend who never got to become a friend. Flowers — dozens of those whom she had promised him to protect, those who left behind many others, just as lost. Flowers, scarlet like blood — trickling down faces, leaving no corpses — no funerals, no wakes, nothing but empty fields, nothing but frozen peaks gathering the lamenting, nothing but children without parents, parents without children, torn lovers, torn families.

     She could not talk about any of this, not a single word, to anyone: neither to the one who was sitting before her waiting, nor to the one who, with the same expectation, would try to get through to her month after month, meeting after meeting. Not about the smell of gunpowder in the air, not about how painful it was to die. Even if it was the right thing to do. Even if she never regretted it. It was very painful.

     And she was born again — to serve out to the ones who’d given her this chance. 

     It seems none of this happened. It felt as though she was back in her cave on the Island, surrounded by the living and the dead — or maybe in the corridors of the castle where her daughter had perished through her fault — or in the ruins of the castle, the refuge of her wingless naive love — or in the deep rising water, saying goodbye to life. Is there any difference? Nothing has changed. There was always this cold, destructive darkness around her — because it was coming from her.

     She sank down onto the covered thorny branches. The flame in her palm flickered. She did not remember what she was talking about or where she stopped, what Diaval wanted to hear.

     “Maybe I was born for chaos,” she stated blankly, to herself. “Maybe that's who I'm meant to be. And I shall never know serenity, never know peace.”

     “Now, it sounds too sad.”

     Perhaps. But that was the truth. After all, he was just as plagued, wasn't he? He could not imagine his life once the war ends because it would never truly end — not in his head. Perhaps the long-awaited day of victory will come, except it will soon turn into the day after the day of victory, and the day after that, and a month, and a year, and two. And one fine day he will realize that he... That nothing changed for him. That he still feels the same, as though unaware that it could be any other way. As though... As though the war is over, but they forgot to tell you.

      “Maybe... Maybe it's not a bad idea.”

      “Of course it’s not!” the raven perked up. “So are you coming back? You could even stay for these two weeks, for that matter: Mairead is still so tiny — surely you don't want to miss all the things she’ll do for the first time, and—”

      “Hang on, I only said the idea was good!” She stopped him before he could give her a headache. “That doesn’t mean I actually can come, let alone stay over!”

      “Why wouldn’t you be able to?” he pursed his lips. She felt his gaze. “What’s stopping you?”

      “Nothing is stopping me—”

      “Then who's stopping you? Are they restricting you in any way?”

      “No—”

      “I sure hope they don’t! They wouldn't have the right to!” he hissed. He turned his body to her, his eyes peering. “But then what's the problem?”

      “I govern them, Diaval,” she sighed, mirroring his movement, “I can’t just drop everything to dally somewhere off for my own pleasure. They can't do without me now.”

      “You think we can?”

      “I can’t just fly away somewhere for the whole…”

      “To the Moors, not ‘somewhere’! This is your home!” His face became suddenly stern — just for a split second, before something ran across it like lightning. He lifted his chin. “...Unless, of course, that has changed,” he dropped his voice.

     “…How long have ye been at war with humans?” he asked. “No. How long have you been at war with humans?”

     The words barely reached her. She was carried away by the noise, by the current — it rushed towards her, this depressing memory — she knew where it would lead her. She was carried away by the current and rocked like a boat — it had already happened many times, and that never led to anything good either. She needed to calm down. Calm down.

     Her pulse beat against her temples like the ticking hands of a clock. Time, time, time.

     Need to calm down.

     How long has she been...?

     “The war has been going on for as long as I can remember,” she echoed.

     Even when it was hushed over, it reigned in the air. Her parents died at its hands, she became a Guardian of the Moors as soon as she could — how old was she? Fifteen? Fourteen? At twenty, she was already beating kings. That was twenty years ago, even more.

     Time, time. Twenty years, even more. And then another year — apart, without seeing each other. As though she was washed away by the current.

     “Well? That confirms my idea,” he nodded bleakly. She forced herself to turn — his face floated out of the fog like a lifeboat. “Anyone would have gone crazy. No wonder you think you were born for chaos, if that’s all you’ve ever known. Then, of course, it’s unsettling when its hum subsides.” He shrugged. Could she answer? She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped her. His words formed into sentences, took root, dropped anchor in the raging sea of her shaking attention. Was he right? And what if he was? What will that mean? “Were you ‘born’ for chaos or for war, you would not regret it so much, you would enjoy it. Something tells me you're not quite enjoying it.”

     He tried to smile — the tight crooked smile she always liked, the one that calmed storms. She has seen it a thousand times. Heaven knows why she was so moved this time.

     Because she had not seen it in so long, that's why. She missed his smile, it occurred to her — not just now, but back then too, in dark caves... Unable to move a muscle like an idol, she only blinked slowly in gratitude.

     “War... War brings fear and death. I do not think that a bird who dares to set herself on fire to live is made for war.”

     She stared at him. Could not take her eyes off. But he looked exactly the same, the way he did a second ago — not like he had just hit her over the head with his words, with that one thought. The way he put it… it even stopped sounding like a curse. She curled her lips, either in a smile or in a grimace, blinking away her shyness, her burning, heart-rending gratitude — the rising salty water.

     Diaval leaned forward a little — leaned against the edge of the nest, at her knees, rested his head on his crossed arms, looked from under his brows. “See, the problem is that I don’t quite understand what you are talking about… so forgive me my question: how long have you been the Phoenix?”

     “Since last spring,” she uttered. 

     He did not like her answer — his face turned rueful.

     “I should have known. That's when the Dark Fae came hither, isn’t it? And your friend, that’s when he...” She nodded. “So you were made the Phoenix right after his death, the death of your friend? …I see.” He sighed. His shoulders hunched — the feathers shone blue. “Well, if you care for a piece of advice from a stranger, I can tell you this. I think — and I’m saying this in good faith — I think you should tell them, those fae of yours, to kindly get off your tail. Since they didn't give you time for grief and made you the Phoenix with no life of her own and the burden of eternal responsibility, I think you have every right to say, ‘I won't be doing this alone...’ ,” he bent one finger, “ ‘...and I won’t be doing this forever’ ,” he folded another one and faintly smiled. She didn't smile. “ ‘I want life. I deserve time for myself in peace in quiet’ . And for what it’s worth, what were we chirping about fifteen minutes ago? About this True Love that we must find? Well, there you go. Say that. Love... After all, I guess love is the closest thing to peace we can hope for these days, isn't it?” he smiled sadly. “Then say just that. Say, I want love and I want time.”

     She exhaled — in one hitch. And had no more air. She could not even breathe in. I want love and I want time. I want love and time. Love and time. Love and… time… she had no… had no…

      ...words. She had no words.

     “Don’t you play games with me now, Diaval,” she replied an eternity later.

     “I'm not playing any games,” he threw, dropped his hand on the seat. Now it was resting between them, palm down, two black holes instead of eyes gazing at her sideways from a small bird skull. It used to be her ring, at some point it migrated to him. The last thing she wanted to do was quarrel with him — especially over his own unfounded surmises.

     “You know nothing has changed,” Maleficent sighed. She reached for his hand — just then he felt the need to take it away, run it through his hair. “Don’t present one argument to hide another!” the fairy bristled, struggling with agitation approaching like a cloud, with the desire to grab his hand anyway.

      “I’m just saying that everyone here is waiting for you the same as there—”

      “You're just hiding your own thoughts behind those words!” she cried at last.

      “What am I supposed to say, then?” He suddenly leaned forward, leaning on his hands, right in front of her. “‘Stay with me’? ‘Stay with me, please’? Would that work on you?”

      Her breath escaped her. The heat that had risen to her face froze. His words turned her to stone, like a spell. All she could do was heave a sigh because... because...

      Because the tone of his voice would stop anyone. Let alone her.

      She only knew the gleam of his eyes in the darkness surrounding them — wide, big and dark eyes... His dazed face, so close that she could smell the snow and fir trees, almost feel his warm breath...

     “…Would that work?” he repeated in awe. She carefully did what she was going to do before her thoughts atrophied — covered his hand with hers. He exhaled and turned over his palm, his fingers lacing with hers. “Then stay, stay with me. Please. Don’t fly away.”

     Love and time. Love and time. No love, no time. She had nothing. She has nothing left. Nothing left.

      She squeezed his hand. They leaned so close together she could no longer see his face — she only felt his breath on her cheek. On her lips. He took a breath.

     Nothing left.

     No. No…

      “No!”

     She gasped. She gasped.

      “What have you done... What have you done...”

      “Forgive me!”

      “What have you done...”

      “Please! Maleficent!... Please, I swear I didn't—”

      “What have you done...”

     What has she done?

     The room swayed before her eyes, and she caught a voice not far from her — a request to lie down. She sank down. She sank down.

      “Maleficent!”

      “What have you done…”

     She rested her head on the soft.

     His face was in front of her, floating — he was behind her — she blinked — she wanted to scream — she screamed — she blinked — she let him close — she didn't let him close — his face was in front of her, floating — she blinked — it became clearer.

     She took a deep breath — she was not sinking, she was not burning alive. She was just lying in bed. She breathed out and breathed in again. And a few more times.

     “Hey, are you crying?” he whispered. “What happened?”

     “Everything’s fine.”

     “I can see it’s not.”

     “It will pass.”

     “But you’re crying.”

     “I will stop.”

     The face floated away — she felt warmer — it appeared again. He tucked the blanket under her folded arms — she hugged herself, clutching, but it did not help — she was still trembling. She needs to catch my breath. She counted to five: one, two, three, four, five, seconds dripping, flowing away from her. No time. No love. She will never come back home. She did not stay.

     “Is there anything I can do?” came near her — she could swear she had heard it from him dozens of times. She almost cried harder. The man in front of her was her last hope, her lifeboat, but she would give everything in the world to have the real Diaval next to her. He would not ask anything, he would not need her words, he would just... just...

     “Talk to me,” she rasped.

     “About what?” he moved up. Her throat constricted — she could not say, ‘anything’. Her gaze wandered over him, hoping to catch at least something, to pacify her trembling.

     “What have you done to your clothes?” she mustered.

     “To what? Ah.” He glanced down at his vest. “Well, I chopped it up a bit,” he continued in a whisper. “It used to be longer, but with a tail it’s quite uncomfortable. But it’s not like I botched it, it didn’t look that good before either. It’s actually… it’s actually snatched off a scarecrow, so…” he clicked his tongue. “Can you imagine? A raven wearing the clothes of an effigy built to intimidate him. What a life, right?... Sorry, you’ve got—” in the darkness his hand reached out to her face — he tried to gently push back a strand of hair that had come loose from the headpiece with a claw, but to no avail. He abandoned the attempt — she wished he did not. “But now I have no choice but to wear it, it’s freezing cold. Besides, I need to have my blade on me,” he shrugged. She did not answer, and he took it out. The stone blade gleamed in the darkness. “I had it made for me. I was going to nick something off the warriors we’d come across, but it burned my bloody hand. Just like yours. I was told it comes with having magic.” He sighed. “So they helped me out. It’s made of stones off the pool. Buzzed my ears off talking about how special these stones are, what luck and power they bring...” he drawled softly, putting the blade back. For a second he was silent. Then he put his head next to her — he remained sitting with his legs bent, but now she was looking him straight in the eye. “Can I ask you something?” he said low. “Why are you crying? Did I upset you?”

     She shook her head.

     “You won't understand,” she whispered.

     “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

     She inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled.

     “I’ve said before that... I’m wrong all the time. I... I've been away from home for over a year,” she managed. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

     It had crept up on her unnoticed. It had shot at her suddenly. Something had slipped, something went out of sight, out of control — she was flying, and the next second she was taken down.

     Everything became so distant, so distant. She was as though behind a glass wall — under water — where everything was floating, where sounds were but a hum, barely discernible. They would talk to her — Borra, Shrike, Ini, Udo, little ones — she heard everything and understood nothing, the words would not make sense. If she strained her head to decipher them, it would burst.

     And thus went days, and weeks, and months: she’d finish the work she was meant to finish yesterday and remember the work that was meant to be done today, she’d help one and see two deprived, she’d take one step forward and two back. She stayed to win their trust but rejoiced whenever she was left out, left alone — and crawled back to her gloomy grotto.

     “But it was terrible, I was so miserable there.”

     Sometimes the cave seemed huge, even bottomless, like a mouth of a monster, like unfathomable depths of water — she felt tiny, she’d wrap her wings tight until they squeezed her like a cocoon — she’d fall asleep praying she wakes up a butterfly. Sometimes the cave was so narrow it was crushing her down — she stumbled over corners, barely put one foot in front of the other, could not move her wings without being pressed against the vaults. She wagged her tail, panting, like a goldfish snatched out of water to fulfil someone's wish.

     In the mornings the days seemed so long, so unbearably heavy — by noon she already believed that they were over: if she did not manage to get something done, she will start tomorrow. And so the wasted day would limp along — she’d creep out, she’d stare at food hoping it eats itself, she’d fly as if her life depended on it, peer into the face and braids of the ghost that floated by — with no words to her, with nothing but reproach. The day would limp along — until by evening it would suddenly compress into a point and implode. She would break under burning anguish — a wild beast ripping open her stomach, grabbing her by the legs and knocking her down. He’d shout, shout at her about how useless she is, how she does not keep any of her promises, how she drags herself through life as though to mock all the dead. He’d remind her of another failed day, failed week, failed month, until he lost count — then days and weeks turned into ‘time’, how much time has it been?

     He’d tell her that there is no point to her misery, no holiness, and that no one will thank her for it, no one will pity or forgive her. What’s the use of her burning eyes, in her heavy thoughts, what’s the use of her always thinking about what to do if she does nothing? Who cares if they are all in the same boat, if she envies both those rowing and those fallen overboard? What good do her words do? She’d promised him, he’d cry, she did not keep her promise. She was promised too, she’d cry back — it was a promise to herself.

     He’d grab her by the legs and knock her down — she’d stay there. Would not leave her bed for days. The sooner she’d give up on even trying, the calmer she’d become — until the feeling of shame would punch her in the stomach again. And she’d see herself from the outside: sprawling, thrown ashore — and she’d loathe her immobility. She’d see herself from the inside: her heavy limbs, her throbbing head, her numb thoughts running in circles, her mind stuck in her body. She’d see herself from the inside: the Phoenix, the bird on fire — she stank of burning, she fell apart, she smoked in pillars, and the smoke clogged in the cracks, slithered inside — her eyes burned, her throat seized, her lungs closed.

     She was afraid of burning down — she would stay away from the evening fires. She was afraid of drowning — she would call back those standing on the peaks outside, peering into the water, and try not to follow their gaze. She was afraid to live and afraid to die. She would have given everything to do nothing, but that was all she could think about — what to do.

     It was as if a mountain was growing beneath her hands, steeper every day, and the higher she climbed it, the higher it seemed. She has clambered so high she lost sight of everyone down on the ground — shouting out to her, asking her to come down — but she was doing what she had to do. She was climbing for a reason, after all. She has already forgotten what it was, the reason, but she knew it existed. She was afraid that once she made it to the top she would not see anything there, or go blind and forget how to see.

     Sometimes she’d descend — jump down to the ground where they were waiting for her. She’d tell them — tell him — that the view from the cliff was good. That someday she will make it — especially if you don’t disturb her, if you don’t beckon her down. Then she will wave her hand at him from the top if she gets there — if she can see him from there.

     And then he asked her to stay. Nearly knocked her off. So she never came down again.

     She’d thought it could not get any worse — turned out it could. She hadn't been able to cry for months before that — she wept all night after she left him. And then two weeks later, on her birthday. And then each time this mountain would crumble, and for one terrifying second she would remember with crystal clearness what exactly was happening — that she is lying absolutely alone. That these thoughts are hers, and the shame is hers, and the force that pushes it deeper — is hers. That she is the animal driven into the trap, and she is the trap, and she is the hunter, and there is no one around. Nobody at all. And that she is only here because she chose to be. She’d thought she had not been given a choice when she should have been — but she had been. She’d just chosen wrong.

     For a second, she would be acutely aware of where her head begins and her feet end, and how dense the air is, and how specks of dust settle on her wings, and how time passes, separating her from everyone else, leaving her alone.

     How time passes — and she remains the same.

     In that petrifying second she’d ask herself why she was alone. And that petrifying second would fly by to give way to heat — she was alone, because it was her business, not his. She is alone because she deserves it. She is alone because she is not supposed to have a problem — she only feels down just because she cannot handle her job, her life. She is not supposed to feel like this — and if she could do better, she would not.

     And again, again, she’d fall asleep, hours later, without moving, plugging her head until morning when everything must start all over, when from a handful of ashes she must become something more. She was afraid of burning down — in her sleep she was drowning, and no one dived after her, no one pulled her to land. She’d wake up in convulsions, her body insensate and disconnected, and lie without opening her eyes. She knew she would not see anyone when she opened them. Nobody here knows her, nobody here cares about her. Nobody's here.

     “And I couldn’t tell anyone, not even...” she heaved, “not even those who...”

     Who would give her all the love and time in the world if she asked.

     And it was this feeling, this merciless feeling, the same one as right now, the same one that chained her to the nest, that spilled water from her eyes — an unbearable feeling she could not put a name to for so long, but now she could. She missed him. She missed him so much it broke her heart.

     She missed his eyes darting all over her face, trying to meet her gaze. His husky voice and lilting, singing intonation, the way he pronounced some words, his ridiculous Irish accent. His smile. The way he dusted himself off every time he became a man. The way he called her ‘mistress’, almost always, and only sometimes by her name. All the times in those twenty-odd years when he would just silently sit next to her — or not silently. The way he hugged her tight after they had their first flight together when she got her wings back — so tight she suddenly knew for certain that no one in the world was happier for her. She missed everything she could remember about him. Everything that now lived forever in her head. Because that is the only place where he will live now.

     She looked up.

     “...even the ones I love,” she breathed.

     She missed what was and what would never be. All the love they had and all the time they did not have.

     She turned her gaze back. Has she finally said it out loud? She loves him. She has yearned for him all along, all this time. What does it matter. He will never know now. No love. No time.

     “I must have known it myself. But you put it better,” she frowned at Diaval’s gloomy, pained face. She did not mean to upset him, she never did, she just... “What's the point of living forever if all I do is regret everything in my life?” she whispered.

     His face softened — a beautiful, beautiful face, even now.

     “...Well, I think you're on the right track,” he fixed the blanket even though it was fine as is. “You are the Phoenix, you help others, you live doing great things for everyone.”

     “I have done too many wrong things.”

     He clicked his tongue — the way he always did when he had to say something encouraging. “Then you can only do better from here. That is, you are already doing it. Isn’t that the best part of being the Phoenix? The change, the overcoming. You can always start again,” he gave a watery smile. He spoke sincerely, though not the truth, so she remained silent. Removed her cheek from the pillow and stared up. She wondered how she was to force herself to get up now. And where she should go. “It's getting late. There's no point in your leaving, you can sleep here.” He got to his feet, dusted himself off, shuffled toward the exit. “I'll be in the infirmary, downstairs. Call if you need anything... But, keep in mind, I'll be up early. I’ll have to leave in the morning.”

     Darkness consumed him. She almost asked him to stay.

Chapter Text

     The night was dreamless — the early morning met Maleficent with a dark blue, heavy sky, coolness and a gentle wind. She was stirred up by some rustle downstairs. The fairy sprinted up and made the bed, driven by a gelid sense of haste, mixed, however, with complete indifference.

     Her whole body ached as it slowly awakening, but the only feeling that mattered was a surge of magic which had been so lacking yesterday. She felt warmer, and the headache completely receded. A little warm-up, and she will completely come to her senses — except that her appearance certainly left much to be desired. Digging through other people's things was unbecoming, but since he had the habit himself... Between the abandoned bowls the pixies had overturned last night she spotted a mirror. Frustrated, disgustedly, she regarded her reflection: her eyes were puffy and smeared, the paint on her lips faded from food and drink, her face was sallow, haggard, tired, even more fearsome than usual. Besides, her hair got out of the headband, and everything looked extremely sloppy. With one snap she got rid of smudges under her eyes, returned her lips to a bloody colour. Gently, with her hands, she pulled off the headdress, freeing the tangled tresses, with another snap she brought them into an acceptable state. But she had to hurry — whatever Diaval was doing downstairs, he might be done soon.

     The fairy peered outside — into the twilight slowly dissipating like ink in water, into the brilliant moon. The last full day of her life. Well, then.

     Diaval was indeed downstairs, as was, in fact, Stefan — if the latter was surprised to see her come from the upper room, he did not let it show. He was busy silently eating his gray porridge — Diaval's face was hidden behind a plate from which he sipped his portion as if from a cup. As soon as he saw her descending, his eyebrows went up.

     “I swear you look different every time I see you,” he frowned. She smoothed back her hair. It was no ploy, really, but... Never mind. She was no longer after conquering anyone — whether the real Diaval liked her hair down or not. “Well, as beautiful as it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to put it all back up soon. That’s the whole point, really,” he smiled. “But we’ll get to that later.”

     He pointed first to the plate, then to the cauldron over low fire. Breakfast turned out to be porridge with no side dish — she scorned the sad remains of raw fish she saw on the table (and definitely sensed with her nose). She did not remind Diaval of their plans, but apparently there was no need — for, done with his dish, he got busy with putting on something behind their backs. Maleficent stared down at her plate — rather that than make eye contact with Stefan. The mere fact of his existence still pissed her off.

     Finally the raven re-appeared, his head now obscured by a thick dark chaperone unadorned with anything, not even a tassel. It stretched down, covering the shoulders like a pelerine, and fastened at the neck. A cape was hiding his back and arms, except for his hands, but those, too, were covered by gloves. As he walked past, she glimpsed something large on his back, tied around his neck, like another hood thrown back, but he quickly turned around and she never got a closer look.

     “Mr. Chanterelle,” she reminded him then.

     “Mr. Chanterelle,” he chimed. “Two miles away. How about flying there?”

     She could not possibly refuse.

     “Oi!” Stefan, who leapt up, interjected. “What flyin’? How do ye think I’ll catch up with ye?”

     His voice alone was a disgusting thing to her. That seemed to be the case for Diaval, too. He gritted his teeth — and then suddenly turned to her with a toothy smile. “Hey!” his eyebrows jumped up. “I remember someone’s been dying to turn one creature into another...” he nodded towards Stefan. “Check this out! Your lucky chance.”

     “No way in Hell! I’ve had enough of—”

     “You’re wasting my time!” Diaval croaked. Shrugged. Adjusted the gloves. “He’d make a nice wasp. Or a dog-bee. Go for it.”

     And the next second he turned into a bat.

     Stefan was given no more time to lament — Maleficent used a spell that she could now do even asleep and at death —

     “Into a bird.”

     She took off a second later, not looking back — only ahead, at a small black dot flying in the colours of dawn, blue and gray and silver. The purpose of their visiting Mr. Chanterelle was unknown, except that it had something to do with the upcoming Dark Fae attack. Perhaps she and Stefan, as neophytes, needed to get something — except what it was that they could only get from Mr. Chanterelle, that mushroom-nosed, scrawny little old man, the fairy had no idea. Where Diaval was leading them, she, too, could only guess. Soon she caught up with the raven — the bat, to be precise; he was flapping his wings like a blind man, and it was so jarringly unlike the grace and class of Diaval the Raven twirling around her over the Moors whenever they would fly together that it made her sick.

     They rushed over trees smearing away like dreams, matte water and the awakening hilltops, low liquid fog wrapping them like a silver beard. The sky was clear but cold, and by the time they landed the fairy was nearly chilled to the bone.

     “You fly great,” Diaval remarked as the black smoke cleared around him.

     “What’s with that surprised tone?” she grinned — he beamed back — Stefan landed next to her and ruined the moment. She snapped her fingers, and instead of a sparrow, they saw a dumbfounded man who had just flown for the first time in his life. He tried to hide his astonishment, but it still overtook him at the sight of the forest surrounding them.

     The place was familiar — Mr. Chanterelle must have worked not far from home: towering around them were thick trunks studded with equally huge mushrooms — as far as she knew, nearly all of them were inedible or even poisonous, although they appeared deceivingly harmless. But she did not remember the passage behind a small waterfall, hidden from view at first. Diaval led them along, skirted the boulder which concealed a dark opening, and softly called for Mr. Chanterelle.

     “We're here!” he said louder.

     “So soon? I’ve just made it back from the meeting!” the old man groaned as he appeared in front of them. A light came on — he took his hands off the lamp. He greeted all those present by taking his round mushroom cap off his balding head. “Are those our defenceless friends? Two at once... I hope I’ll manage. What shall we make them?”

     “All the same things.” Diaval stepped forward, closer to the flame. “Mantles, ointment, something for the hands. And the ‘ravens’.”

     With these words, he took off and pulled out of the dark case the burden on his back.

     In the flickering glow, Maleficent saw a large bird's head.

     No — not a head — a mask. A large mask in the shape of a bird's head.

     She had seen these before — in humans’ illustrations — just as black and elongated in shape. The mask had a long, sharp leather beak, seams and stitches stretching along it. Above the beak shone a pair of transparent glass round eyes. The stitches ran between them, as well as on the sides, to the very temples and beyond — the leather was covering the entire head and neck, not even having an opening for the ears — only a few straps to fasten the mask firmly at the back of the head.

     Diaval turned it over a little for demonstration — Mr. Chanterelle only nodded in understanding.

     “Of course he’s goin’ to make us look like corpse collectors,” they suddenly snorted right in her ear. Turning around, Maleficent met Stefan's grin. “What else can you expect from the devil’s bird. Is there a hook to go along with those?”

     “Why, need me to sweep you away?” Diaval hissed.

     “I’m not dead just yet,” he scowled back. But the ardour was short-lived. “I’ve had one of them coming for my parents, that’s all.”

     Maleficent could not help wincing. She should have remembered earlier. Stefan's parents had died from the Black Death ages ago, not long before they’d met in real life. He had just been about to be sent to the parish monastery, but he’d been trying to not let it happen. The friary leads nowhere, he’d said — and he’d rather stay in the barn and escape it later than waste years and years praying ‘minor hours’ and eating at refectory tables.

     At least, that’s what the former Stefan, the dead Stefan, the future Stefan the First used to think. What will this one say?

     “...Well, and now you’ll be dressed like one underground,” Diaval said flat, just to say something. His step heavy, he walked towards Mr. Chanterelle, saying something about tar...

     “Were you sent to the parish?” Maleficent said low.

     “What?”

     “Were you sent to the parish monastery?” she repeated. “After they passed away?”

     Stefan frowned but nodded. “But not that I liked it there.”

     Wow! You’d think, what did her existence have to do with that... And yet...

     “They kept me in as long as they could, and then they decided to send me as an apprentice to a fishmonger. To make me a servant, with an indenture and so on,” — snap! — he clicked his teeth. She had no idea what it was supposed to mean, but she couldn't get a word in edgeways. “But then the king changed.”

     “And you figured Fae sell better than fish,” the fairy bristled.

     “Everyone’s got to survive somehow.”

     “Of course,” Maleficent hissed and walked away, to matters that were actually important. Mr. Chanterelle was beckoning them near, simultaneously turning on the lights around.

     She could see the workshop better now: low but large, it extended forward and to the side, behind the waterfall. A cluttered table stretched along the wall, and above and around it were a myriad of hooks and cases containing all sorts of tools. Maleficent recognized tongs, scissors and pliers, crowbars, jigsaws, and things that resembled enormous keys, or needles, or spoons. A family of hammers flaunted in a row: from tiny ones to those whose wedge was larger than the master's head. He started examining some folded and reeled thick rolls — those must be leather for masks.

     Mr. Chanterelle invited them both to low stools near the desktop. Wings pressed tight, Maleficent sat down.

     “I'm afraid this will have to be put up,” he said sweetly, gesturing to her hair, and proceeded to lay out sheets of leather on an empty area of the table. Maleficent snapped her fingers — and the bandage wrapped her head again, as if she had never taken it off. The pixie chuckled. “Oh look, seems like you’ve already done half of my job... Diaval, my boy, stop stomping around. I know we’re all nervous but—”

     “I’m not nervous,” he interrupted his corner-to-corner march of a caged bird. “I’ll let you know I’ve two cups of lemon balm tea in my system... Alright, that doesn’t matter,” he waved away. “I won’t distract you if I chirp a little?”

     Mr Chanterelle chuckled. “Haven’t you chirped enough this morning?”

     “Oh, believe me, I think so too, but, you see, someone ,” he flashed his eyes at those sitting, “overslept the whole meeting. Got to have a private audience. And a preparation rundown, because only one of ye attended it.” He nodded towards Stefan and sent another menacing look at her.

     “Well, then I'll have another listen,” Chanterelle replied — he took out a long soft ribbon and wrapped it around Stefan's head, over his forehead, then over his cheeks, over his neck. What a strange procedure.

     Diaval cleared his throat. The claws on his feet scratched the floor.

     “All right. I’ll explain this in simple terms. In a couple of hours, the Dark Fae are going to pay us a visit — bewitched, brainwashed, deranged Dark Fae with a bunch of magic powder. They will fly over the lands and sprinkle it like snow, get into all our nooks to try to get us. The powder is hazardous for everyone, but all the more so for some,” he nodded in their direction. “It all depends on your size, the amount of the substance, how it got on you. And on whether you have been exposed to it before and how often. I suppose that puts us,” he pointed at both of them, and himself, “in a direful position. Therefore we are here. Ye will receive clothing and other protective equipment lest ye find yourself in danger.”

     The mushroom pixie wrote something down on a small green leaf. Then he got another, larger one, and, charcoal in his hands and his movements precise, began to draw shapes: a long curvy triangle, another smaller one with a skewed base. To the last part, which looked like circular sector, he applied a round tube and marked two semicircles near the border. Maleficent figured those were for eyes.

     He re-checked the notes and hopped over to her.

     “But,” Diaval stuck out one spindly black finger, “ye won’t have to worry about all that if ye follow the instructions. There are—”

     “Diaval?” Mr. Chanterelle interrupted — she has been too distracted and realized he was pointing at her horns. “What do we do with this?”

     The raven chortled as if anticipating the question. “Why, you’re the one making masks around here, not me,” he grinned. Mr. Chanterelle clicked his tongue, scratched his big nose, fixed his amanita cap, and brought the tailor's ribbon to the fairy. 

     “There are underground shelters all over the Moors for this exact situation,” he continued. “As soon as we’re wrapped here, we’ll get on with going there. Ye will know that it’s time to go down when the trees rustle — that is the warning signal. I should say it's not so bad down there, there's enough space. I advise to spend that time sleeping and gathering your strength. The attacks are usually short, but ye’ll need to wait until the air is at least a little clear of the dust, otherwise there is a danger of inhaling poison.”

     “Do trees do that job?” exclaimed Maleficent — Mr. Chanterelle huffed: he was measuring her head from forehead to chin. “Cleaning the air? Surely it’s wilting them.”

     “I didn't say it was a perfect scheme,” growled the raven. “I'm afraid we’ve no choice. Fortunately, soon enough their suffering will be through. We'll wait out the attack in the shelter, then make sure that everything is ready, and at dusk we are moving out — towards the ruins... this part is unnecessary to repeat, I hope?”

     “Yes!” Stefan blurted out all of a sudden. “We are moving out to the ruins of the East Castle, in the Forbidden Mountains; we will sit along the main wall above and below, and we will wait for your signal.”

     Diaval raised his eyebrows and almost smiled — and looked at her. “There! See? Would’ve known if you’d gone to the briefings.”

     He said little more after that, merely hurrying poor Mr. Chanterelle every now and again. He was working hard: in a surprisingly short time, he drew the same marks for her on a leaf, cut out mock-ups for both, applied them to the leather and cut along the contour — some parts once, some twice. He patted the parts into piles and began to dig into another compartment full of glass — he fished out two for each, fitted them into the prepared frames. With a huge needle the size of his head he made holes in the leather and sewed all the parts together, including fasteners. Then he attached a large sheet of softer fabric to the back of one of the masks, gathering it at the neck and making sure that it was stretchy. He fiddled a little more with the second one — she suspected it was to accommodate her peculiar anatomy. He made holes for the horns and made the fairy promise that she would wrap her headband all the way up, not just on the lower part.

     Then he went on to the capes. He rolled out a roll of thick, stiff fabric of an indistinct brown hue, fetched some rivets, ropes, and huge scissors. With the most serious face he circled Maleficent several times and then silently took out a small jar with something shiny out of the drawer, showed it to Diaval, and he nodded. It was then that she learnt that her poor wings would have to be covered with a special protective substance. Why smear her feathers with all sorts of filth and deprive her of flight, she did not understand at all. Her perfectly justified indignation was, to her horror, at first ignored — but arguing with the Queen of the Moors was a futile endeavour, as ‘former’ or ‘non-existent’ a queen as she was. She insisted that she would languish underground in a thick cloak anyway, that she can take care of her wings herself, thank you very much — she shut them all up — and her poor feathers were left alone. The cape, however, still stank of tar, and Diaval would not stop glaring at her as he greased the feathers on his arms and legs, but she could survive that.

     She had never seen such a quick job — and with next to no magic at that. Something told the fairy that everyone here is trying to preserve the magic — from the little mushroom pixies to Diaval. She could only guess what led to this state of affairs — what had been going on all the time that she missed.

     At last Mr. Chanterelle stated his readiness. He had already made them try on the masks and cloaks, making sure that everything fits nice and tight, but now it was time to put these terrible protective new clothes on for real. She fixed the headband, covering the horns completely this time. The pixie turned to Diaval, who untied a pouch from his belt. There were some herbs in it, which Mr. Chanterelle sewed into a thin, almost transparent fabric and stuck into the very tip of the masks’ beaks. She had peeped some dried lavender and mint — but in fact, the unbearable camphor and incense stood out the most. As if she is some kind of moth. Or as if they are burying her. Well, they were right anyway, although they were a few hours early.

     Her field of vision was now reduced to what was directly in front of her. But the mask was well constructed, and her breath was not fogging up the lenses. Mr. Chanterelle had an assortment of gloves at the ready, and they both took a pair. It was stifling in the heated cave with a cape over her wings, so Maleficent tied it on her back, leaving the wings free. With that, their donning was done — Diaval, with a strange, almost dreamy look on his face, gazed around at their figures, said that he had got himself a whole unkindness now, slapped the mask back on and went up to the mirror.

     “Almost my beautiful self!” she made out a muffled muttering — two masks were interfering with her hearing. He really did look more like a bird than ever — an overgrown, very large and very creepy bird in rags.

     He should have accepted her gift, he really should have.

     Mr. Chanterelle said he would stay here for the duration of the attack, in the back rooms under the falls, out of reach. Diaval gave a curt nod and ushered them outside.

     The forest had changed while they were away: the shade of the gray sky became lighter, the world turned azure, the snow shimmered, and she could even see the road ahead. Diaval asked to hurry: now that he was dipped into that nasty balm, he was ground-bound, they did not know the way, and the nearest shelter was not that close.

     They were trudging along a snow-covered road, crisp and squelching under their feet, and Maleficent remembered how often the two of them — she and Diaval, Stefan could only dream about it — would make their way to the forester's cottage in the dense thicket of the woods, to Aurora.

     Aurora. Her name alone was now a blow of a dull knife to the heart. Perhaps that was why the sun has not appeared here in all this time — for what sun can there be without her?

     The last day of her life. She met Mr. Chanterelle, by some divine irony she ended up in the company of Diaval and Stefan at the same time. She was to spend one half a day hiding underground and another battling humans and fae, but never see her own daughter.

     She had a ringing in her ears. An eerie, growing rumble.

     It never stopped. It encircled her and descended from the very heavens, from the crowns of trees.

     She was pushed on the shoulder.

     “Damn it! Early! Too early!” she barely heard through the mask. Diaval glanced about. “Shelter. Shelter.”

     He pulled her by the hand.

     “To the shelter! Quick! Before they— Quick!”

     Her sight split in two — two incomplete semicircles. Diaval dragged her along and pushed Stefan’s back in front — together they were going somewhere. Everything was shaking. She could no longer hear the rustle through the mask, could not look up, but that only increased her anxiety.

     “Almost there! We’ll go down and meet the rest...”

     “Listen to me!”

     She turned around, trying to catch a glimpse. Like thunder, a deep voice rumbled through the sky. She knew the voice — but she did not see whom it belonged to. Her palm slipped out of Diaval's.

     “Let's go!”

     Yes, to shelter. For cover, underground, to wait out, as she had been told. She ordered herself to keep going — the mask was working, no one's words were having any effect on her, except her own, she had to keep...

      “Listen to me!”

      She could see them clearly now — several Dark Fae, about ten or fifteen, emerging from the trees, and a black figure at their head like a wedge. She froze in amazement — something inside her figured it out faster than her self.

      “Listen to me!”

      Dark skin, long hair, a plate on the chest shimmering with dangerous gold in the light. The sound stuck in her throat like a bird. Conall. Conall is alive.

     He was hovering over their heads in the distance, but his voice pierced the air — the other fae were trailing behind in identical poses like kites — Conall echoed, “Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me!”

     Maleficent went back to her thoughts — they did not heed the bidding. She had no desire to carry out their orders.

     But there was an urge of a different kind.

     The Fae were about to attack the Moors. Trying to reach those who fled, to snatch those who were hiding, to condemn to death those who could not escape, to poison the earth, to leave their hideous trail like the seal of a maniac. And all throughout she will have to sit underground, in safe darkness, in catacombs, hoping that the nightmare will end soon and will not affect her. That she would be able to sit out the threat and live on, as if nothing had happened, as if she herself did not have but a few hours left, as if the wrinkled hand of death was not bending over her...

     She cannot let this happen.

     Besides...

     Conall will never forgive himself for what he is doing. And she will never forgive herself for letting him slip again.

     She won’t, then, if she can help it.

      “Listen to me!”

      They flew by, perhaps hoping to find the victims where they first were going to take cover with the rest. The sky erupted in gold. It's time.

     She soared upwards, flapping her wings vigorously, her hands at the ready, hardly knowing what she was going to do.

     “Maleficent!”

     She mentally asked Diaval for forgiveness. You can never expect subordination from her.

     The fae were still high and she was slower than she’d like, but she had an advantage — she was doing what she wanted. So far, anyway. And she had some gold of her own.

     A cry escaping her throat, she sent a beam of deafening magic towards them. It struck them like a jet of water. She was attacking from behind — not her proudest moment — but she had no choice.

     Stunned, the fae staggered and turned around — even in the distance she could see the burning yellowness of the eyes. She knew them, some by name, some only by face. Conall never left her line of sight. But he was not alone. There was Ini. There was Udo. His face, twisted with malice, slashed with magic, if anything, assured her. This must be put to an end.

      “Listen to me!”

      He reached for her — he was holding something in the palm of his hand — it fell down right on her. She dodged before the dust could hit her face — belatedly, she remembered the mask — the mask, there’s nothing to worry abou—

     She was sinking down.

     Wings stopped listening.

     She beat them hard, ordered to work, but they continued to stiffen, return her to the ground like an anchor. She turned around — they gleamed gold.

     Damn it.

     Slowly falling, she sent beams of magic into the fae — Ini cried out. She told herself not to wince, not to regret. Let them stir up, let them get angry, she cannot be the only one angry, can she. Let them decide that freezing her wings is not enough — let them follow her down for a real duel. She knows how to fight on the ground. She knows how to fight without wings.

     She almost knew what she was doing. What she was going to do.

     The mask was in — her — way — but she managed to aim — the dark figure at the head of the pack. She clenched her fists. The earth was getting closer. She took a deep breath, gathered her magic —

     The sorcery bounced off her palms, a strong impulse — so strong that it threw her right to the ground, onto her side.

     She squinted up at the sky — the magic hit Conall and he staggered. Moved towards her—

     “I’ll kill you myself!” boomed near her ear — she was yanked back along the ground.

     “Diaval—!”

     “Shut up! Do you want to get us all killed?!”

     She snatched her hand from his claws and stared. His face was lost behind the mask, but his whole posture said he was close to pouncing on her.

     “Shelter, quick,” he barked.

     “I am staying.”

     “Like hell you are!”

     “I am staying! I can handle this. You two, save yourselves.”

     “I—”

     “Don't make me use force,” Maleficent growled, rising to her feet. Magic was already swirling around her fingers, though it wasn't meant for him.

     “We’ll see about which one of us will—”

     “Leave her!” Stefan yelled, pushing him back. Diaval twitched, remembering that she was not the only person he was protecting. She could feel Conall coming, about to land with a crash. Others were already following him.

     “Go,” the fairy repeated, fearing that no one could hear her through the masks.

     Diaval grabbed Stefan's arm and dragged him along. They disappeared in the trees. Maleficent sighed and turned around. Time to welcome the guests.

     Just about ten or twelve of them. And what do they have? Muscles, magic, powder and blank space for brains. She has her sorcery and something like a plan. Nice.

     Conall landed squarely on his feet, wings spread.

      “Listen to me!”

      Her magic was in readiness. Fighting Conall would not give her any pleasure — but then again, fighting him was not her strategy. As soon as he took a step forward, thick green stems burst out of the ground and entangled his legs. He stumbled, tipped forward, saving himself from falling with his palms pressed to the ground.

     She moved closer to move on to the next order of—

     “Why don’t you sit down with me?”

     The earth cracked, trembled and skewed. With a rumble, the ground right under her feet moved up and to the side, knocking her down onto her back. Her still unmoving wings echoed in pain.

     She leaped onto her feet. All right. Now he’s just asking for it.

     He aimed again, she beat off the blows. There was something almost thrilling about it. She had never fought someone who also wielded magic before. She was almost into it — if it weren't for the mortal danger, of course.

     Had Conall been the only one there, it would not have been so difficult. But his comrades-in-arms were already rushing along. Distracting her again.

     No point denying — she had a weak spot. Very weak, very familiar. If so, then, to win, she needs to put them on an equal footing. To bring them down a peg.

     Flash — Maleficent hurled a beam of magic at the flying fae, whoever it may be. Pulled. She knocked them to the ground — straight into the snowdrifts. Soft landing. But she was not done yet.

     The sorceress dodged another of Conall's spells and pressed her hand against the snow — the ground beneath her split. The cracks stretched out into the distance, skirting the fallen fae in a circle.

     She banged her fist.

     The circle collapsed down.

     She touched the snow.

     It began to melt.

     She ran further into the trees, trying not to become a target, aiming at her next victims. Udo, Ini, the Tundra Fae. Snow won't work with them. She needs something else.

     Conall roared — too close — the ground beneath her shook — she veered away at the last moment to see a tree falling right in front of her. She held out her arm as not to get buried in snow. A huge oak tree collapsed with a roar — its torn off roots remained in the ice. And the trunk almost nailed her to the ground.

     Her breath was hitching. She was almost blind behind the fogged up glass. The smell of herbs weighed on her temples. You are not meant to fight in these masks, you’re meant to hide in them.

     Conall was somewhere close — got to get away. She twitched, but suddenly could not move away — the hem of her dress was stuck under the fallen branches and stems.

     Damn it. All right.

     With a flash of fire, she rived everything that was in her way — good thing she wears trousers under her skirts. And just in case, she set the tree on fire — the smoke might lure them to the ground like vile insects from the jungle.

     The wings fluttered nervously. She lifted one of the branches from under the dirt and earth, ordered it to grow, as once upon a time. The staff was a familiar weight.

     Onward, farther away from the tree, somewhere where she can see something and not suffocate. She broke into a run, trying not to fall into the cracks — something hissed loudly behind her — she looked over. The tree was no longer aflame: Conall stood on the charred trunk, as if only waiting for the moment she ventures out.

     Fine. Joke’s over. She struck him, hard, before he could. He fell down. The ground beneath him cleaved and sprouted with stems, binding, shackling into a pit. Ha! Thought he was the only one who could do that?

     Her lungs heaved. Her ears were ringing. Now what? Go straight up to him and try her luck? Or should she better tire him out completely first so that he doesn't resist when she starts? But what if he’s not the only one exhausted by then? What if she doesn’t manage in time — what if one of the fae gets in the way? She saw only half of them, had no idea where the rest were. And those she had already wrestled with — where are they? Where is Udo and his part of the attackers? She scanned around. There were none in the sky. None on the ground, in the snow. She could not see him, only the fae she had thrown into that huge puddle... Ah.

     There he was, white on white. Turning water back into snow. Hoping to rescue his companions. My, the brains are really not working! Let him try. Their wings will only be bound in ice. All the better for her.

     She pointed her staff in their direction — a wall of mud and snow rose above them. Someone needs to cool down. Nothing to be sorry about. There will be nothing to be sorry about when she cures them — and she will cure them.

     The fairy lowered her hand to — whistling — bring down a dirty avalanche on the fae — when suddenly she herself collapsed to the ground.

     Claws, grabbing at her. The mask tilted — she did not even see who was pressing her with their whole body. She swung her elbow aimlessly and bumped into something hard. Again and again, dodging the hands reaching for her mask, another blow — stifled, as if through a fabric, the fairy over her groaned.

     Thoughtlessly, the fairy wielded the staff in her other hand — wherever it lends. It crashed into something, but the opponent did not fall. Snow clogged up her collar — not good, not good, powder can get in — she continued to hit with the knob, fuelled by fear and burning with regret — but the grip did not weaken. The woman only gripped her tighter, so as not to fall. The mask came off—

     —and suddenly the weight disappeared, flew off with a thud. And there was another sound, louder now.

     Maleficent blinked.

     “Missed me?” came muffled in her ear.

     Oh heaven. Why? Why did he come back? This is suicide.

     Diaval did not give her a hand, and she got up herself, straightening her mask with a trembling hand.

     “I did not. It’s only twelve-on-one, I could do it,” she breathed.

     Diaval was sitting before her, same as he was, save for the absence of the cloak — and he was sitting reclining on top of the fae he had knocked down. Perhaps it was good he was here.

     She glanced around. Udo and the others — under the snow. She could buy some time. Got to run to Conall. If he’s still in that pit at all.

     “Twelve? I only see half!”

     “Yes!” Maleficent snarled. “I don't know where the rest is!”

     “Ha! You’re about to!”

     His words were a curse, a battle cry — for several fae appeared from the same place where Diaval and Stefan had fled. That troop must have attacked him, and he brought them here with him.

     “Couldn't you have taken them on?” Maleficent hissed, knowing she was unfair. She had no idea how Diaval could have held out against six fae for so long. He could not even transform.

     “Sorry I wanted to help you!” he shouted.

     “Who is helping whom?” she yelled back — and ran forward, holding out her arms — so that the binds around Conall would not fall apart — she could already feel his trying to break free.

     She should not have said that — because just then Diaval ducked down — the fae chasing nearly pierced him with his horns. He continued to fly at breaking speed, and Maleficent sent a magical golden arrow after him — he buckled and began to fall. One out of six. Diaval knocked out another one. Four are under the snow and mud. Conall is entangled in the snares. How many is left?

     She looked around — the shackles were barely restraining the leader of the Dark Fae. And she was not feeling so strong anymore. And was not so sure about how exactly to apply the magic that she required.

     “Watch out!”

     She finally registered the whistle — just in time. Bam! She slammed the fay flying at her with her staff. And once more — just in case. They don't need a chase. That’s what you get for trying to lie on top of her.

     What she did not expect to hear was Diaval's cackling laughter.

     “Not a staff!!”

     Oh yeah. Like the good old days.

     She looked back at the fay who had fallen victim to her magical club. Got to try. Maybe that's the way to start. The third ally would not hurt — of course, if everything works out. And if it doesn’t… if it doesn’t, this fight will greatly change its goal.

     “Diaval. Keep an eye out.”

     Without taking off her gloves, Maleficent turned the fallen body around. The fay was conscious, but covered with snow — with a stifled humming moan, he rolled onto his back. Half of his face was hidden — something like a gag. His wings were trembling — he would not rise. This was her chance.

     She put her hand on his chest and concentrated as much as she could. She thought of the magic that she had used to repair hundreds of trees, to heal Diaval, to keep Conall in the world of the living. Magic that penetrates to the very core.

     She ordered it to heal his mind.

     To run under the skin, to get to the heart and head. To lance through the fog of obsession, to take away that poison that changes colors, turns white into sickly yellow, black into dirty brown. To break the trammels.

     Her wings fluttered uselessly. Her head throbbed in pain that bore no protection — a thread stretching from temple to temple and further, whither the orders came from. Had anyone said “Listen to me!” right then, she might have not had it in her to disobey.

     “Don't listen to anyone,” she said softly, to herself and to him. “Listen only to yourself.”

     She imagined the bane disappearing, leaving through the skin, dripping off her fingers. Something golden was fluttering around them both — she didn't know if it was her magic or the powder, and she was afraid to find out. It spun like a whirlwind, clutching at the torn dress, at his wings. The eyes in front of her lit up brightest for just a second — real liquid gold — and then faded to green.

     The fay blinked and twitched. Backed away. Maleficent took a deep breath. Even the herbs in her mask seemed sweeter. She will do this.

      Snap! — the shackles around his mouth broke. The fairy had no idea that she would ever be glad to see someone forcibly gagged. If the rest of the mindless attackers were similarly gagged, and only Conall was allowed to give orders, things were panning out easier. She did not have to worry that the fae healed by her would immediately be brainwashed back by their enchanted kinsmen.

     She only had one target, then. One ally-to-be.

     And the fairy could already feel him breaking out of his bonds. Tiring him out did not work. Well. She will have to earn her victory in the usual way, then.

     Blind to everyone around, Maleficent rushed towards Conall. Snow, mud, and water rose in her wake — hard lumps rushing towards him like hellhounds. The ground beneath her feet was still shuddering and crumbling — and — a crack ran right under her foot — she lurched forward — her leg and staff got stuck — she stumbled down. The arm twisted painfully. Blocks of snow fell down behind her, hit her in the back, knocked the wind out of her. Her own frozen army failed her. A loud flapping of wings — the leader of the fae rose into the air above her.

     “Listen to me!” he roared, gazing down. She could only hear him, she couldn't see anything at all — the mask slid to one side, herbs rained down on her face, and the cold burned her bare neck. The world was noisy again, his voice — deadly loud. “Listen to me!”

     “Don’t hold your breath,” Maleficent hissed — and a huge ice spire sprung up out of the ground, as if out of water — it broke through, knocking Conall down. Maybe. She hoped it did.

     The fairy lifted her blind head, searching for all the magic she could be capable of now. He didn't lose consciousness — good — but he could bounce back. And the rest of the fae will surely come to protect him. Got to hurry... She could hardly get up...

     Something whistled right in front of her, and rumbled softly, and then she heard Diaval's voice. “Over here! Quick! Quick!”

     Maleficent managed to get up, knowing at once that something was wrong with her leg — but it could wait. She carried herself forward, shaking her head, adjusting her mask — in front of her eyes lay Conall, thrown supine, and two men holding him to the ground: Diaval and the forest fay she had cured.

     “Hurry up, will you,” Diaval hissed. His mask was not sitting right on him either. “We still have others to detain.”

     She rushed to Conall, a stone stuck in her throat. He was glaring at her with fury, just the she had imagined for almost two years now — a loathing, smouldering stare — it spat in her face with everything she had done to him, everything she could not protect him from.

     “Please,” she whispered, placing her hand on his chest.

     Gold dripped from her fingers.

     She wanted to scream. She wanted to think about anything but how she'd bowed down over him once before, trying to fix something — trying and failing. What had he told her then? To remember who she is. She did not know who she is for a long while now. And now no one knew. She knew who she should be — but not how to be that. If nothing had worked out back then, why should it be any different this time? Why not have Time taunt her one last time?

     She bid the magic to get to him, to his very soul — to shower him in all she could not say. Forgive me. Please forgive me. You died for me — because of me. Now live. Live the way you want. Listen only to yourself.

     The gold swirled around them like it had long ago, but she dared not cling to his chest. She could only look into his eyes with trembling hope, watch the gold ignite, shimmer — and shift to green.

     Conall exhaled. She called his name. He looked at her. Hatred turned into confusion. Even the marks on his forehead smoothed out.

     Maleficent could only give him a spellbound look. Alive, he was alive! She bit her cheek lest she cries — it would be so silly to cry for the third time in two days… She would have remained sitting like that if Diaval on her left had not whistled, “Can I get off him, now?”

     “Conall,” the fay holding back his other wing uttered. “We’ve been asleep for so long... She opened our eyes. Conall, wake up.”

     “What kind of bird is this?...” he croaked, gazed at her. Maleficent blinked because... Ah. Oh. Right. The masks.

     “My, even not enchanted they’re brain-dead,” Diaval spat, climbing off Conall’s wing. His crystal blade flashed. “It's a mask, you dunce. A mask I need to protect myself from you — and your flying friends. Whom we’ve been battling for an hour.”

     “I seek your assistance,” Maleficent finally spoke. “To cure everyone else of the poison. I'm sure you can help me.”

     Conall cast his glance above them all, to where the fae must have been hovering now — she did not hear any whistling.

     “…Yes,” he breathed at last. “I'm afraid I must.”

     She helped the fay to his feet — Diaval tutted at her, muttering that he had been soaked in powders and poison over the years and that she should not touch him too much — and together they got out from under the shadow of everything that had grown and fallen — the burnt tree, the towering block of ice, all the ploughed and cracked earth. She did not even realize how important the target she had hit was — when they looked around, it turned out that the rest of the fae had hardly moved. Like blobs or cobwebbed flies, they were hovering on the ground and in the air, as if, without contact with Conall, they did not know what to do at all. Probably that was the case.

     Maleficent touched the ground — roots, stems and vines crawled along it, wrapped around the arms and legs of the enchanted fae — gently this time — and pulled them towards her, down and forward: from under the snow and cracks in the ground, all ten of them.

     “I can smack them with your staff if you’d like! Just to be on the safe side,” Diaval exclaimed. Maleficent chuckled and shook her head. But he still got her cane from under the rubble, twisted and examined it. She could almost see what kind of facial expression he would have — the Diaval she knew.

     Slowly they approached each victim, wrapping in golden magic, bringing to life, explaining the same thing, all that had been forgotten: they had come to reclaim their home, but got caught by Lickspittle. He had plunged them into deep intoxicated slumber, deprived them of their minds, made them means to his insidious end. It's not their fault — they couldn't do anything. The poison left them no choice. They attacked the Moors, as they had done before, but this time they were cured by this fairy, whom, however, to Diaval's surprise, no one could recognize. She was afraid that he would ask something, but he was silent — he only whistled, looking at the chaos that was the clearing. Maleficent sighed and threw up her hands: dozens of roots and stems that had gnawed through the soil returned underground, the ice cracked and, like a crushed snowman, fell apart and melted away. Conall threw his hand — the earth, autumn leaves and snow lay in the same layers as before. The guardian left the fallen oak for last — healing trees has always been the most pleasant part.

     Raising the tree like a toppled idol, piecing together the torn bark and cambium, she almost convinced herself that nothing had happened. That she was not living the last day of her life. She was home, breathing in the familiar air, doing what she had been doing all her life, what she really knew how to do and what she really loved doing. And now both her people and Diaval were here with her.

     ...What a pang it was, what a snare, what tear smoke — the sudden realization of how much she really wanted this.

     “Can’t imagine what the moorfolk must be going through now…” Diaval whistled. “Half a day in the dungeon in darkness and ignorance. And their leader — attacked!” he sighed ruefully.

     “You? Their leader?” huffed Ini, barely coming around.

     “Imagine that…” drawled the raven. He hid the dagger into his bosom. “It's only temporary. The war will end, and starting tomorrow feel free to appoint make anyone leader. Conall or anyone else, a hedgehog or the Phoenix.”

     “Phoenix?! How do you know—”

     “Tonight shall be the last battle,” Maleficent announced lest the conversation goes in a direction she did not want at all. “We will free everyone else.”

     “We will fight alongside you,” Conall squared his shoulders. The rest supported him — but Diaval only grunted something, hiding his answer from everyone behind leather and glass.

     They set to fly back. Diaval ran some wet snow over his feathers to get rid of the protective muck that had settled in them and shifted — not into a bat, but into a wolf. His big furry figure skirted the trees and dug through the snow below, while the Fae dodged the high branches, trying to hold on to each other. None of them could fly quite right — recalling her state after yesterday's poisoning, Maleficent could only imagine what it must be like for those who had been under the yoke of delusion for years and years. They would fall or stumble into the mud and slush, like a puppet whose strings were cut. She herself could hardly stay aloft: like Udo’s, her wings got heavily tangled with snow — she was not looking forward to preening.

     Finally they reached the heart of the Moors, the Pool of Jewels — Diaval turned sharply to the left and broke into a piercing howl.

     At first there was no reaction — the fae landed nearby — but then stones and tree roots started moving, the hills themselves all but danced, until pixies began to appear from every nook and corner: stone faeries from the caves, slimy wallerbogs from under the chill depths. Even Robin showed up. However, as soon as they approached, they fleeted with scream and yelps. Diaval promptly transformed.

     “Everybody keep calm!” he declared, spreading his arms, pulling the mask back. “Keep calm! Ye have nothing to fear. They are not enchanted. We have cured them. They are on our side!” Weeping pixies whistled past their ears. “I said they are not enchanted!”

     “How do we know that?” Robin yelled, his paws across his chest. “Diaval, this is getting out of wing!”

     “Singing the same old song again, Robin…”

     “We've already taken one Dark Fay 'on our side', and look where it got us!” the pixie perked up. “For two days in a row, we are being sabotaged! Don't you see how the two are related?! For all we know, they all might still be bewitched, including her! What if she lured them here? And you brought them right to our rear!”

      She would have answered something, something very suitable, but her throat was completely dry, and she would rather no one looked at her at all.

     “He's right, Diaval!” squeaked Knotgrass suddenly. She put her hands on her hips. “We can’t just take in everyone we meet out of the goodness of our hearts!”

     Just by the way Diaval pulled off his glove, one could guess his feelings. “You took me in out of the goodness of your hearts, if I remember correctly,” the raven hissed, pointing his finger. “Is not it so? Or did you only need a defender?”

     Knotgrass blushed like her own dress and swayed away from his face.

     “That’s different, you birdbrains,” said Robin. “You were half dead — even if you had vile intentions, you would have to be on our side out of duty.”

     “Ah, is that how it is? I only serve you all only out of duty! That’s news to me! Who knew that you only—”

     Conall stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with the raven, his very stride revealing all the power and authority that lay within him. It reduced everyone to silence.

     “We know about your plans,” he announced, his eyes floating over everyone. “We know that tonight the fair folk are to attack King Lickspittle and his henchmen — including our brothers and sisters, who are still under the brutal influence of the intoxicating powder and need help. It is only right and necessary that we support you in this undertaking with our magic and power, that we contribute to the restoration of peace in these lands which we have considered our last true home from time immemorial. That way we shall heal our tribesmen, and we shall also be able to fight against the oppression of tyranny, on your side.”

     “Fight on our side?” Robin hissed. “Diaval, have you completely gone mad? You cannot possibly let—”

     “I didn’t say they would fight,” Diaval bristled — to a wave of shocked indignant clamour of the Fae behind him. He slowly turned his body on one leg. “I did not say ye would fight,” he repeated in a grave voice. “I said ye are on our side. Ye are no longer a threat to us. That does not mean that I'll let ye into the battlefield,” he grumbled. Ini cried curses at him, Udo groaned. “What? Ye thought, if I don’t agree with them, I agree with ye?! Far from it. Look at yerself!” he pointed at the Dark Fae with his finger. Unfortunately, it was at this moment that Udo sank painfully onto the snow, clutching his stomach. “Ye are drenched in this filth, it’s in every hair on yer head, under yer skin! How can I take ye with me, ye are walking targets! If something happens — or even if nothing happens, if we just get to the palace — ye'll go back to being crazy this quick!” — he snapped his fingers. — “What am I to do then, fight ye again? Uh-uh!” he snorted. “Hoping that someone ,” he nodded in her, Maleficent’s, direction, “will save me and ye — I’m not doing that.”

     The fairy watched Conall, at first calm, even majestic, simmer and simmer with every word Diaval said, and, unfortunately, she felt the same boiling in her own soul, although mixed with something much more bitter, to which she could not give a name. The fay stepped forward and spread his majestic wings. But Diaval was unmoved.

     “I have told ye,” he scowled, hardly changing his expression. “Once all this is over, you can choose whoever you want to be the leader — or the fuglemen, or the king of the Moors, whoever it is. But for now, the best way to admit your guilt and prove your reliability is to do what I say,” he rapped out, and remained deaf to everything they tried to tell him. “Go to the infirmary,” he snapped as the Fae’s objections were interrupted by exhausted moans and requests for water. “You have some of the worst evenings of your life and a lot of charcoal tinctures ahead of you. I'll guide you there and make sure you have someone to tend you.”

     Even Ini and the woman who had attacked Maleficent on the field could not find an answer, and neither could she herself — the world was floating before her a little, reminiscent of a figment of imagination rather than reality — a kind of dream, the unreality of which she has already figured out, but the plot which she could not alter. It was a shame, of course, that the fae would not fight with her, but she was more worried about their well-being — as though some kind of memory fragment that had spent the last two years doing just that re-surfaced her head.

     By the time they reached the infirmary — the prisoners were barely standing by then — the sky was already glowing with a flaming, spreading sunset. Diaval kept looking at it now and again, as did the fairy — but, most likely, not for the same reasons. They entered under the green dome — the raven summoned Knotgrass, Flittle and Thistlewit and several other pixies, and they began to swarm among the plates and basins and complain about the suddenly increased amount of work. Diaval remarked that thus he freed them from the obligation to fight a bunch of humans in iron, and the objections subsided.

     The Dark Fae kept casting glances at her — Maleficent would never have noticed before, but she had to get used to this on the island: to cautious curious looks, whispers she would only learned about later and in a roundabout way. To a mixed, as in a cauldron, feeling of irritation and shame.

     Now, she guessed with an uncomfortable sensation in her throat, they were probably looking at her because they could not recognize her. She hid from their eyes, leaving the passage to the infirmary into the front room, to the pixies, although she was hardly expected there.

     With one motion of a hand she kindled a fire in the hearth, which greatly pleased the trio — they even awarded her with dinner. The fire warmed her a little too — she could feel her frozen limbs again and was annoyed to find her ankle still sore. Slowly, she proceeded to do what the pixies did to the rest: she folded the mask, carefully, trying not to touch it again, removed the bandage from her head, because it must have got pollen on it, dipped both in cold, terrible-smelling water, washed her hands. Then came the turn of her unfortunate wings, just beginning to come to life. She changed and heated the water, moistened a rag and tried to clean her feathers as carefully as possible — both from poisonous powder, and from from everything that had managed to get stuck in them during the battle. Oh, this was a total disgrace — on any other day, she would have been horrified. Diaval would certainly chide her for such neglect.

     She was trying to form at least one good full-fledged thought when her outstretched basking wings shuddered — she was called by name. Speak of the Diaval. He stood behind her — just as washed up and therefore hilariously pitiful looking. He shook his head.

     “Are you… are you feeling all right?” She nodded. “That's good…” he drawled. She could not help but chuckle — of the two of them, he was rarely the one who had the hardest time with speech. “Then I have business with you. Time is short. Let's go,” said the raven and pointed to the stairs to his room. She arched an eyebrow. “It's a personal matter. Come on, it's almost time we move out,” he hurried upstairs — his mask bounced on his back, his cloak fluttered from the turn like a pair of wings.

     There was something familiar about his almost awkward evasiveness — intrigued, Maleficent followed him.

Chapter Text

     Intrigued, the fairy followed Diaval up the stairs.

     Entering his dark chamber, the raven tossed his mask and gloves across the room onto his nest. 

     “I have something to ask of you,” he said then, turning around. A pair of big glittering eyes stared at her. “One more little spell and we'll let you be, I promise,” he strained a smile. Its broken line was alarming, but the fairy bowed her head, gesturing him to go on. “The gift of shapeshifting. The one you promised me.”

      She peered at him, but he did not seem to be joking.

     “Changed your mind at last?” she smirked.  

      He nodded. “I’ve come to realise that it’d be very useful for me to better control my powers.” He averted his gaze. “Not that I didn't know it before. But it’s become painfully obvious to me that I am... limited in my abilities in a way that I don’t want to be limited,” the raven got his chin up and squared his shoulders. “I need to make sure that I can endure the battle tonight, and then at the castle. That I’m as immune to the enemy’s poison as I can be. Without your help.” He paused. “That is, precisely with your help, but only this one time.”

     Maleficent frowned — something about his words seemed iffy. But maybe it was just the bitter aftertaste of the cut-short dispute with the fair folk, the Dark Fae and everyone under the sun. Diaval’s watery smile and unexpectedly meek “Well?” dispelled her suspicions.

     “Only if you say please.”

     “Oh, come on!”

     The fairy took pity on the raven and pointed to his nest. They both sat down.

     “I should warn you, I’ve never done this before,” the sorceress marked, looking through the feathers on her dress for the one she’d picked up yesterday. Diaval made a sound between a pant and a wheeze. “But then again, I haven’t cured anyone from perennial poisons either, but as you saw I nailed it on the first try. Give me your hand.”

      The raven extended his dark hand — the fairy placed the feather into it, ignoring the wary look, and clasped it with hers. She tried not to think about what it reminded her of. The feather was sandwiched between their fingers, and she closed her eyes so that she no longer had to look at Diaval, at the way he was looking at her.

     Her call was short and hesitant — the call to her powers. The Phoenix had died in her — who knows, maybe magic like this was within her scope once, but not anymore? She hoped otherwise. The transformation worked yesterday. So it must work out today, too. Something inside her responded with a hollow echo — she called again. What to do now? She was acting on a hunch.

     She tried to recreate the feeling that came over her each time she turned Diaval — uncomfortable at first, she had grown more and more accustomed to it over the years, to the point where she expected it now. It was a tingling in the fingers, a rustling, crumbling magic. It felt something like a gust of wind or a wave born inside — to her . She had little idea what felt was like to be affected by someone else’s magic — maybe this wind rushes into you, this wave crashes against your head. She had never thought to ask him.

     She imagined waves breaking, willows swaying in the wind, water rippling — magic flowed from her palm. She envisioned bones shifting and folding and stretching, muscles contracting, magic flowing through them. Having stumbled upon this damned poison, settled down, eaten in, the fairy ordered it to disappear, to leave him alone. To leave only what he himself wanted to be. She imagined feathers, and fur, and skin, and tentacles, and paws, and scales, and spikes, and wings, and a human voice. She tried to remember how his eyes would change in that second as he shifted, how he would disappear and grow out of the smoke, out of the darkness, out of something that only he knew.

     Diaval gave a cry — a bird's screech.

     “Am I hurting you?” she whispered. He shook his head.

     Something was running away from her. It was terrifying, but she told herself not to fear. Nothing was being snatched from her — she was giving away. This is a gift.

     The magic flickered one last time with a small flash under her eyelids, as if imposing a seal — and then the body under her palm disappeared. She heard a loud, familiar clap, like a beat of a drum — when she opened her eyes with some effort, a black bird was flapping his wings above her head.

     Diaval cawed. And cawed again. She smiled.

     The raven circled the tiny bedroom, miraculously avoiding bumping into anything — perhaps his eyesight had become truly birdlike. One can only envy. She, for one, could hardly see him, only heard him.

     The bird perched onto her knee, gently grasping the fabric of her trousers, and she could not tell how many times she had already seen this.

     “Well, well, hello again! Pretty Bird,” she grinned. Diaval croaked, and then suddenly shook his head with a sound similar only to a human ‘hmm’. He fluffed his wings and glanced around, shifting from foot to foot, and then croaked again, puzzled. “Oh, I'm afraid if you want to talk, you'll have to turn into a man first,” Maleficent smirked, narrowing her eyes.

      She would have sworn that his squawk was a grumble of a scandalized raven. Diaval flapped his wings. And then black smoke engulfed him.

     Out of it stepped a tall figure.

     Diaval looked... like Diaval. Exactly as he always looked, save the outfit. The same silky hair mixed with feathers, the same pale face with no stretching dark lines, the same brightened hands with short dark claws, with scars vining up his wrists. Hell, even the scars, even the scars.

      The eyes became the same, too — two round irises, the black twinkle darting... How she missed his eyes.

     “Wait, I don't have a tail?” he growled first thing, and she burst out laughing. “Stop giggling! My tail fell off!”

     But she went on, laughing herself dizzy — even when he raised a mirror to his face, ran his tongue over his teeth, shook his head ruefully.

     “This is no good... Am I shorter ? What a mess. And my lovely claws! If I had known... Can I at least...?” he put out his hand and squinted — and then it changed — his claws grew a few inches. “Now, this ... Now this ain’t half bad.”

     Perhaps it really made sense — Maleficent tended to rely on her magic, but Diaval seemed to prefer to fight with his fists. Probably. She was having a hard time thinking thoughts at the moment. But she was less interested in his fangs and claws and more in his very face. She had seen him not too long ago — at the ruined party, in the backyard — but she had hardly looked at him then. She could not even recall what he was wearing, whether he was shaved. He probably was.

     Now he stood before her the same as she always remembered him, and she was almost ashamed of the titanic relief that his changed appearance alone brought her. Indeed, it was still the Diaval from the parallel world she had been thrown into, the Diaval with whom she had no chance. But then his eyes would gleam — and it was the same Diaval who had told her he missed her.

      He hid the gleam of his eyes behind a mask that he put on again, as he did the cloak. She handed him the glove, struggling to remember where her own must be.

     “Damn it, I knew it!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You look exhausted. I reckon you should stay.”

      She did not even comprehend his words at first.

     “What?!”

     “You should stay. Here, with the other Fae. You need to get well just as they do.”

     “Don’t be silly...”

     “Don’t you see? That's what I was talking about!” insisted the raven. He pointed down, “Just like them, you are too vulnerable to what they might use. That's why I asked you for this — to make sure I don't need your aid on the battlefield,” he gestured to himself. “Who knows what might happen tonight or tomorrow. You have to—”

      “I don’t have to do anything,” the sorceress shot up from her seat.

     “Are you listening to me?” he took a step back. “I'm worried about your safety!”

     Maleficent hissed as she stepped forward, “I can take care of myself! Don’t you go protecting me like I’m some kind of—”

      But his gaze made her stop — not as eerie as back when his face was covered with feathers, and his eyes were two huge holes, but one that suggested Diaval was about to shift back and peck her. “Should I remind you that you are essentially our captive?” he simmered. “And so are all other Fae? And that it's me, of the two of us, who’s giving orders around here?” snarled the raven. His gaze flickered across her face — his anger dissipated a little. He retreated further, to the very opening. “Don’t go. It’s not your fight.”

      She opened her mouth to protest, but the words stuck — his phrase hurt her more than it ought to have, and it took her a second to realise why.

     She had told him that herself once. ‘It’s not your fight’ .

     Not your fight... Not your fight...

     “Shut up!” she hissed, shame burning in her chest. How would she have reacted then if he had said that to her on that bridge to the castle? “Of course it is!” she pushed out of herself, watching his figure turn away. “It is as much my fight as it is yours!”

     He turned back around, leaning against the opening. “We’ve had the plan long before you came, long before any of ye came,” he stepped into the darkness. “And I’ve had enough failures already. You helped us a lot, but I swear whenever you’re around, things get out of wing, and I just can't take any more chances.” Steel returned to his voice. The fairy raised her hand to let him know all she had to say about that, but she was beaten to it. “I don’t have time for squabbling! I go, you stay with the fae in the infirmary! Go!” He motioned her to the stairs.

      Maleficent froze in place. She did not mean to quarrel with him, never did. Anger, flaming gnawing anger that was really despair, entwined her soul but withered under the yoke of a simple fact: this is her last day. The last day of her life. She won’t be able to spend it the way she wants anyway — she is destined to either these early farewells, or to an exhausting battle and throes of death in front of everyone at dawn. She won't get what she wants — she and she wasn’t trying to get it for a while now. Even the hope that had fluttered like a butterfly, born of his request for the gift, his trust in her, was dying. She won't be saved, she won't win even a couple of hours by his side. So what's the difference.

      She will do something useful for the fae and disappear into the marshy thickets at dayspring. Everyone will go to fight an army, she will be fighting something too.

     She nodded.

     Diaval heaved a sigh. He stepped towards her and touched her wrist. His hand was humanly soft.

     “I don't mean to be stern,” he murmured, squeezing her hand. “You have helped me more than anyone had in all these years. I’m in your debt.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Now go get some deserved rest. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

     Her throat spasmed as she exhaled.

     “Good luck.”

     “Same to you.”

     Before her eyes, the man became a raven — he fluttered above her — how she longed to stroke his feathers goodbye! — and flew out the window, becoming but a blot against the moon and the fading sky. The fairy watched him leave.

     She did feel bone-weary, although could not tell why — but it did not matter. The silence her grief had plunged her into was torn apart by sounds coming from the floor below: tapping, jingling, rustling, fae murmuring. She had no business staying here. On wadded legs, she went down to the infirmary.

     Maleficent had been to infirmary wards before — and it was always Diaval’s fault for some reason. The very first time it was the Perceforest infirmary, the same night her wings returned to her. Placed there were soldiers burnt by dragon fire — as a sign of peace between the realms and the end of the war, she had to stroll between their beds and treat their blasted burns like some kind of Knight Hospitaller. The Perceforest infirmary was as dark, dilapidated and deplorable as its deceased king. How people are supposed to get better in a place like that, she could only wonder. And still, she had felt a certain pang of regret, pity for the victims — the events of the day had made her unprecedentedly sentimental that night.

     The second time came five years later, and Ulstead’s isolation ward could not have made a more different impression. It was a huge hall with tall windows casting light on the voluminous columns and arches connecting them, with bed after bed separated from one another by screens. That time she ended up there because one big and scary black bear had mauled several soldiers. That time she wanted to bring them back to life even less than the last. Back then she could not quite comprehend all that had happened to them all, had not even fully realised why, despite the merry fact of Aurora’s marriage, she was so angry and anxious. Sure, now it seemed obvious — but not then.

     The third and last time the infirmary was completely different — because it belonged not to humans, but to the Dark Fae. To be frank, she had not remembered it much — she could only recall the parting darkness broken by two apertures spilling a faint stream of light. Everything around her was deadly silent, and in that underground room woven like a basket the Phoenix was alone. She should have known then and there that this would always be the case on that island — back then she could only register sticky fear and a piercing feeling that something was missing.

     But this time Maleficent felt nothing. Drop by drop, as if for an extract, everything has been sapped out of her, and now her head was completely hollow, and every sound stuck in it and bounced off the walls. She sank down on one of the beds by the door and let the world just exist around her.

     The infirmary of the Resistance had something in common with the humans’: the same rows of beds, the same vaulted walls. But the similarities ended there: all the walls here was essentially the insides of a tree, and thus they were curved and let the light in, and the dome was a clutch of branches. Instead of healers in white robes with green crosses, bustling to and fro were pixies: with wooden bowls, fragrant ointments, basins of water, hands glimmering with magic at the ready. Even the bunks looked more like nests or hammocks.

     And yet the Dark Fae had not taken all the available seats — instead they crowded around a few beds, pushing them together and sitting down as though for a family portrait. They kept whispering and glancing at each other, cleaning and preening each other’s feathers until someone would start to feel sick and would need to move away so that the pixies could aid them.

     Maleficent was sitting aside now, just like she always did — probably because she, too, was already quite sick of everything.

     She barely forced herself to look up when Conall addressed her.

     “I've spoken to all the Fae here, and none seems to remember seeing you in our midst,” he said. “How come?”

     Lies swirled on her tongue, but she swallowed them. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t rack your brains over it. You won't see me again anyway.”

     “What are you trying to say?” Ini dug.

      “That it’s none of your business.”

     Maleficent leaned her head against the wall. The window on the wall across her turned into a huge dark circle — the sky has darkened rapidly, devouring all the stars.

     She could almost imagine them going now — fighters ready to battle — hidden under the cover of the night, advancing quiet yet steady, in unison. Diaval must be at the head, leading everyone to the castle on the Forbidden mountains — what was he doing? Was he glancing about, was he anxious? Was he trying out his new powers while he still had the time and the chance? Had they recognised him, did he have to tell everyone what had happened? Was he a man, or had he discarded that shape as soon as he was out of her sight?

     Still, good thing she was able to bestow the magic on him. Even if it's all over, even if her hope is dead and she will follow suit, now he has magic — and freedom. Whatever Diaval sets his heart on after the war, now all doors will be open to him. No traps or nets.

     She should have done this long ago — given him magic. Him, the Diaval she knew. Before she had left for the island the first time after the battle, at dawn — or any other time after. She had no right to doom him to a life — almost two years! — in human form, without wings. Without wings — to think that she did that to him!...

     Yes, she would have given him magic. He would have come visit her, probably — on the Island. Would he not? The fairy used to find that idea horrible — now she could only wonder why. Her own feelings had always been a mystery to her, as though they had nothing to do with her at all.

     She had not liked this idea for the same reason that she had not summoned Diaval when she had been first rescued. The things she had said about her own — their own — daughter were so nasty that he would have never let it slide. It had been a moment of weakness, of pathetic anger caused by fear and resentment, her old friend, and she had not wanted anyone to see it — least of all him.

     In a sense, her entire stay on the island for the next two years was a moment of weakness, pathetic fear and anger. And he was still not allowed to see it. To participate in it. To be a witness.

     It was a horrible idea, she’d thought then, to let him be with her when she was so... when she did not deserve it in any way, when the only thing burning in her chest was not love, but shame. But now... now it seemed so stupid that she had pushed him away. She set them up. Only hurt them both.

     He would definitely come visit if he could. She knows how he is. Hell, she might even know herself a little bit — at some point she would have suggested that he stays longer, stays until they all make it to the Moors, stays with her. It would be that same scene, only with roles reassigned and without broken hearts.

     But there is no point in pondering the past and the chimerical. The fairy looked from the ink sky back to the ground, to the branches, the beds and the noise. The fae were still on their beds, but while her head was in the clouds, Stefan had joined their team of the beaten and humiliated, enduring unkind glances shot his way. Pixies hung around them, some in their true form, some grown in size to make it easier to help the victims.

     “How unusual!” remarked Thistlewit. “You don't look like you’re feeling bad at all!”

     “Thistlewit!” Knotgrass chided.

     “What? I'm just saying... It's just... Usually everyone pukes for hours.” She poked vaguely at Maleficent, and she squirmed. “But you hardly need any help. Even your sight seems all right! How is it that you are hardly affected?”

      The question occupied everyone, and one forest fey, the one whom the sorceress had cured first, hesitantly looked around those present. “I think… I think they did something to us… the day before yesterday, or maybe yesterday,” he drawled. “We were deterged. Of powder. For quite a while. They cleansed out of a lot of poison, we could almost think straight,” he eyed everyone again. “Is that right?”

     Conall slowly nodded.

     “Yes,” agreed another fey, “I think I remember last night. We all felt sick, I don't know why. I had a terrible headache, as if I’d crashed into something at full force.”

     “Who knows, maybe you had,” Ini chuckled. “There’s a whole a column that fell down in the castle — not to point fingers.”

     Oops!.. Maleficent exchanged glances with her, and the woman narrowed her eyes.

     “Um… I believe,” the first one continued, “they gave us something last evening or last night, and we felt almost clean. They said they were giving us a rest... That they would give some more to our other brothers and sisters, see what happens... But for now they would leave us alone.”

      “Ah take it that was talkin’ keech,” Stefan chuckled — but raised his hands in the air as soon as everyone shot him a glare.

      “It must’ve been. Because in the morning they gave us something again — except... it wasn’t powder. Was it?”

     “It wasn’t,” said the fey who had charged at Maleficent during the battle — now she remembered her name. Kara. Kara lost her sister in the real world. “It was a drink. But it tastes the same, feels the same. Except maybe… it works faster. But better. I can't explain.” She shook her head.

     “They are correct. It turns out that my memory does not fail me.” Conall cast his eyes at her. “Last night they tested a new version of the poison,” he summed up. His face was lost in the gloom. “It had a stronger concentration due to its form, because it was taken in rather than left on the skin, but it seems that the villain sacrificed the durability of his potion for the sake of strength. I almost don’t feel it anymore.”

     “Well, maybe you don’t...” Ini muttered. “I don’t understand why they had to change everything,” She clutched her head. Flittle bustled around her, her light flickering blue.

     “If I had to hazard a guess, Lickspittle’s decision has something to do with the new plan. With the Hunt, remember? Lickspittle’s no longer interested in catching fae and humans — he’s only looking for that one target now.”

     “Oi, Ah remember that!” Stefan grunted from his seat. Everyone eyed him. “He’s been talkin’ pish about it for ages, about the Hunt. That everythin’s about to change, that our beautiful life is threatened. Dunno whose beautiful life he was referrin’ to...” he flashed a wry smile. “But he’d talk about an enemy whose strength would be dangerous. About…” Suddenly their met eyes. He averted his. Maleficent was startled. “Um, well, a fay, but not an ordinary fay...” he explained more quietly. She caught him looking again — she raised an eyebrow... “Promised to grant any wish if you bring her to him, whatever you want.”

     And, like a little boy, he looked away again. That was her undoing.

     She’d thought that in her situation she could no longer laugh. But laugh she did, the jolt pounding against her lungs, stumbling in her throat, pushing her forward—

     “Ha! Ha!” She rose from her seat like a boa constrictor. He stared at her like a prey rat. “You filthy son of a bitch,” her ire hissed. “Same old scum — wherever you are, whenever you are! Well,” she chuckled, clutching the edge of the bed to keep from getting closer — although her willpower was weaker than her withered hope. “Good to know I have nothing to do with it after all — it's just who you are.”

      “Ah don't understand what you mean.”

     “Maybe.” She moved like a crawling viper. “But I understand perfectly whom you mean. And you do too. Isn't that why you caught me? Isn't that why you threw me right into Lickspittle’s mouth? You bastard, just to get a wish out of it?” she reached him. Time rumbled over her. “You've remained the same, Stefan, you've remained a petty venal—O-oh, you’re lucky I’ve no more fucks to give to keep hating you!”

      She forced herself not to hit him. Not to throw him out the window. Not to give him to animals to feast. To hell with him. To hell with all of them, and with her.

     The fairy moved away from Stefan, clenching her raised trembling hand into a fist, pressing it to her like a beast with a wounded side.

     “Damn it, what are you on about?!” Stefan yelled at her back like a coward before she could sit or leave. “Why do you hate me... so... Ah got it,” he said slowly. His tone swung like a pendulum. “We knew each other, didn't we? Before that piece of paper you signed. In your world — we knew each other.”

     The fairy froze like a puppet, staring at the wall that seemed to be floating in front of her. Something was bubbling up in her.

     “‘Knew each other’,” the sorceress sneered. Pursed her lips. “You ruined my life,” she said — and then shame pierced her worse than the stabbing wound of sickened resentment. “I ruined it myself,” she corrected herself — and smiled, facing him, “But I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

     Yes, she herself made this choice — and all the choices in her life before that. But it was he, it was he who made her the one who could think of them — it was he who led her into a corner, it was he who made her blind to everything that she had...

     “...Ah'm sorry,” came hoarse from his lips. Alas, almost shameful just how unmoved it left her.

     “Save it,” she managed, and turned away.

     It's him... But it's her. It's her, it's you , said the monster she'd seen a hundred times before. It was you who took on the role of the Phoenix, it was you who let down the one who relied on you. It was you who failed to protect hundreds of fae, it was you who let one half perish in darkness, and the other wither away from grief...

     “What are we looking at right now?” she heard Ini nearby. Someone chuckled. Something moved in the distance.

     It was you who wanted freedom from what was your duty, from what you could not even handle. It was you who renounced your loved ones, it was you who left Diaval a man.

     It was you who told him that you wished you did not know each other. It was you who escaped, it was you who signed—

     “She signed a deal with Lickspittle, and he threw her hence,” Stefan tossed at the fae instead of explaining. Why was he speaking for her? Why couldn't he be quiet? Why is he alive? He died — he fell from the tower — they fell from the tower... “That's why ye don't know her — she's from... who knows where,” he hissed.

     Yes... Who knows where.

     She turned around.

     “I’m from another world,” she shot an arrow. “From another time. From where you died trying to kill me,” she pointed — and then turned to Conall. “And you died trying to protect me.” She scanned her victims, “And so did—” and stumbled upon Flittle’s tiny figure, and the words caught in her throat and fell out in a stifled breath and spasm. “And so did many of you, because you believed, because you believed,” she peered at Conall, “that I was worth it, that I could save you all, that, being the Phoenix, being your legend, I could do something good even after your death!”

     She couldn't see his face — or anything — she could barely hear herself—

     “And you died because of me, and you said...” she gritted her teeth — it's him... But it's her, it's her, it's you, it's you, it's you, you, you... “And it's not your fault, it's my fault,” she breathed, recoiling... “You shouldn’t have trusted me with this... You shouldn’t have... I’m not...”

     She felt close to fainting, so she gathered herself and, without looking at anyone — not that she could not see anyone — only a hand reaching out to her — backed away. She needs to go outside — into the cold, into the wind — she needs to put out the fire. Her eyes were burning. Her heart was ablaze. Were she still the Phoenix, she’d think she was finally dying. But she wasn't the Phoenix. She was not burning down. She was drowning. She was sinking to the bottom. She was choking—

     Here it is, the air, leaving her lungs — with a push — with pushes — she was hit in the chest — in the shoulder—

     She was pushed out of the room.

     Someone was in front of her, someone was pushing her away — and then the door slammed behind them, and, falling to the floor, she grabbed onto the one who had already saved her from underwater once.

     Conall hugged her back, and she shut her eyes.

     “I didn’t mean to let you down...” she sobbed with everything she had. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry...”

     That's all she could — that's all she's good for — asking for forgiveness.

     “Are you the Phoenix?” Conall spoke low. “We found you?...”

     Her wings quivered. Her breath whistled around her.

     “You saved me, I was drowning in the sea... And then you saved my life again, at the cost of your own... I’m so sorry...” poured out of her again. She nuzzled into his shoulder as though, if she tried hard enough, she could push them both back into her world. Conall said nothing, and soon her sobs seemed so ugly to her that she forced herself to take deep breathes and quit the humiliation.

      “You said you let me down,” he said then.

     “I didn't keep my promise,” Maleficent breathed.

     “I took a promise from you?”

     “You...” She pulled back so she could see his face, albeit barely visible. They were sitting on the floor next to the big door between the ward and the round anteroom with the hearth and the stairs. “You said I hold the power of true transformation,” she found some words at last. “The nature’s—”

     “The nature’s greatest power,” Conall said at the same time as her — and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

     “You said that I could help the Dark Fae broker peace with the humans, and that it would be... our final transformation.”

     Words were hard to come by. She remembered when and where he'd said it — the first day in the Nest, after a tour of all the incredible lands above people she should — could — call her own. Under a huge rock with a large screeching bird carved in fire and pain.

     “Sounds like something I’d say...” Conall chuckled. His silence grew heavier with every second. “We lost, then?...”

      She paused.

     “No, we— We made peace. We have peace,” she nodded slowly, and the word whistled on her tongue — peace — coveted but deceptive. “The kind they write down on paper and proclaim from main towers.”

     “But that is wondrous...” Conall uttered in astonishment. “That’s what we’ve always hoped for, that’s what I’ve devoted my life to... But then why do you beat yourself up so?” he frowned. Maleficent bowed her head, her chest constricting. Why was she beating herself up? Maybe because he did devote his life to it — and laid it down for it. But she remained silent. “Phoenix,” the fay repeated, and his voice pealed like the winds whistling inside the Nest. “Why are you here?”

     “I'm not the Phoenix anymore,” she swallowed without looking up. “I signed a deal with Lickspittle to get away from my life. To stop being one. At least for a while.”

     “Why? What was wrong with your life?... Please, tell me,” he relented. “Even if I can't lend a hand, I can lend an ear. What happened?”

      A chill ran through her. And she knew Conall would not understand much of her trembling, broken explanation, but it rolled out anyway. “The Phoenix. The Phoenix, that's what happened to me. All this... death, and rebirth, and everything that came after. Everything that became my responsibility after that. I can't live with this. I don't understand how come I am the Phoenix. How come so many of us died yet I survived for my big promise that I can't keep.”

      “What promise?”

     “That I will take charge of the Dark Fae.”

     “I made you promise me that?!” he glunched. She was almost amused at the slight chagrin in his voice.

     “Well, you...” It was her turn to frown. Behind her eyes flashed his magic-covered face, red flowers around his head. “You told me to remember who I am. I thought that’s what you meant,” she said. The doubt that crept into her soul slashed her in the most troubling way, she stifled a breath. “That I need to take the reins when you're gone. That I now have the duty to protect and make sure that the Dark Fae are all right...” she breathed, but it came out ragged, and the whisper that had been haunting her for over a year burst out. “...But the truth is, they are not. It’s been over a yeah, and we’re still on the Island, although nothing’s stopping us from moving to the Moors. It's like we're pinned to the ground because... the losses... I think the gravity of this is just starting to dawn on us.” She clenched her fists. “We... we have lost so many it’s unbelievable... And I can’t even wrap my head around it, because only a couple of years ago I couldn’t even imagine that you exist , and any number seems huge to me, but you kept saying that there’s so few of us left.” She wished she’d never opened her mouth, because her eyes were stinging, and... “And now half of us have died, and the other half is grieving and wasting away, and I don’t know what to do!” Her sentence was cut short by a stifled sob that wrecked her body, and she hid in his turned shoulder. “And I should know, I... They're counting on me. But I can't do it alone.”

     Bitterness ate her heart, grabbed her by the throat, and yet it felt so good to finally say it — and to say it to him, even if it was too late.

     She felt a hand on her nape. Conall ran his hand over her head a couple of times.

     “Of course you can't do it alone. You don't have to do this alone,” he said in her ear. She let out a heavy breath — she had already heard it yesterday, from Diaval — that terrible, soul-crushing ‘No thing is worth doing alone’ of his — but now she did not try to argue or disbelieve. She didn't have the strength.

     For a minute Conall was silent, giving her the opportunity to compose herself. But then he took a deep breath.

     “Look, I can’t know what I said then... and I sincerely question whether you should even take it into account, given that I said all that and then died...” he drawled, and Maleficent chuckled despite herself. It never occurred to her that Conall might have a sense of humour. “But if you’re willing to heed the words of another me who is still alive and breathing, here’s what I’ll tell you,” his tone went back to being sombre. “I have lived long enough to observe loss with my own eyes and hear regarding it from my parents and my parents' parents. We have lost a lot — our homes, our sense of safety, our loved ones. Loss is nothing new for us, and yet it is just as painful. There is anger, and sorrow, and a lot of shame in it. A lot of guilt.”

     She held her breath.

     “I must confess... Even now I am no stranger to... I...” he trailed off uncharacteristically, but then continued, “I feel remorse for what we’ve done to the Moors that we call our true home. It was, in a way, a loss of ourselves. We are meant to protect this place, not be the ones to protect it from.”

      Maleficent raised her head. A shadow fell across Conall's face and echoed in her heart, though the wound was old. She thought of the long years of her sad reign over Moors. Of how she had let someone else's cruelty deprive her of herself.

     “But this… This is not our fault,” he said. She did not believe him, and he must have noticed. “More precisely... We cannot be blamed for somebody else’s choice, for we cannot control it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you shouldn’t hide from everyone out of guilt for others’ actions and decisions or something that was not your choice.”

     Her gaze softened of its own accord, and her breathing slowed in response to the wisdom she really should have known by now. Maybe, she thought, she did.

     “In other words... I don’t know if the decision to shoulder all the Dark Fae’s affairs was your own, or if somebody made you believe we have some sort of tradition of dumping everything on the Phoenix,” a barely perceptible smile graced his lips, “but I... I'm sure something can be done about it. And if it needs my forgiveness, then I forgive you.”

     Her heart... felt something. Conall's words flew through her like little birds high in the sky, and for a few seconds she admired them until they impaled themselves upon shrike thorns — the sharp tip of a clock hand. Time. She had no time. No time and no love. It’s over.

     And yet she was grateful for his words. She leaned her head against his shoulder so as not to look him in the eye, not to give foolish hope. But Conall went on, returning to his serious tone, the kind that echoed off the rocks on the Island.

     “We are indeed few, and if that should teach us anything, it's that we need to stick together. Any chance of succor is invaluable, it’s vital, only this way we overcome grief, only thanks to each other we still live and live we shall,” he said and stroke her head once more. His words were soothing at least through the fact that now she believed them. Even if she dies at dawn, it must be easier to die knowing something for sure. It must be... She may have done a terrible job at living up until now, but at least she knew what she would do if she could live on. If she could return. She would think of something. She would stop lurk in damp caves, she would not hide from her love. Yes... That's what she'll think about when her time comes. She will allow herself one last dream. It almost comforted her. “Each of us is just a small thin twig that can break in the wind or in the wrong hands,” Conall said, seeing how her breathing evened out. “But together we are... well? What, I didn't tell you that ?” he clicked his tongue. “Well, take a guess, then.”

     She strained a smile. “I don't know. A broom?”

     The fay inhaled indistinctly and gave a chortle that was quite unbecoming for a leader of fae. “...I meant a tree, actually... But sure, a broom. Broom works too,” he nodded. His chuckle infected. Almost everything cleared up in her mind.

      “Thank you,” she said sincerely, holding out her arms to him again. He still smelled of foxglove, but mostly of medicine. It's good that he's alive. It's good that he’ll live on. And it’s high time she...

     “Better tell me why you're here,” Conall interrupted her thoughts. 

     She pushed her face away, wiped her wet, tightened cheeks. “Because no one has told me all this before,” she breathed fervently. The smooth surface of the water, having barely calmed down, threatened to overflow again. “I… I detested my life. I signed a deal with Lickspittle to get rid of it, at least briefly — but now it seems life has got rid of me,” the fairy chuckled. “This world exists as if I’d never been born. That’s why you don’t know me and neither does anyone else whom I know. And soon enough... soon enough my time will be over,” her gaze fell on the exit from the infirmary, a large arch leading outside, white snow looking dark grey in the wilderness of the night. Around midnight, a few hours before dawn. She whispered, “This morning. At dawn it shall end. And I shall die forever without a chance to be reborn.”

     She was almost at peace with the idea. It was almost making her happy. But Conall was hearing it for the first time. “Surely there must be a way to escape this fate, even if it's Lickspittle!” he retorted, enraged. 

     Maleficent gave a sad smile. “There’s only one way, one loophole... But it’s off the table. A True Love’s Kiss.” Conall's eyebrows shot up, either in surprise or with hope for a miracle. “It's hopeless, I... my attempts were in vain,” she shook her head, and her heart contracted. No time and no love. “The one I love just flew away.”

     Conall's eyebrows, oddly enough, rose even higher.

     “You mean that bird? ” he blurted. She burst out laughing, though the laughter gave off a pain in her temples. “Forsooth, love works in mysterious ways...” he shook his head, which amused her even more. How strange indeed, she thought, that she had fallen in love with a bird. She fell in love with her best friend again. And he fell in love with her. And they almost kissed because he was so happy that their daughter had a daughter. She would never have believed that the thought would ever warm her so. How sweet that they had each other, at least for a while... “So, what now, the kiss didn't work?” Conall suddenly asked. It whisked her out of her rut.

     “...We haven’t kissed,” she muttered, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. It occurred to her that they were sitting between two utilized rooms. She could almost hear sounds behind the door, although that could just be the ringing in her ear.

      “Then why are you so sure?”

     “Oh, this is nonsense,” she breathed. “Just false hope inspired by fear. One cannot fall in love in two days. I barely managed in two decades,” she smiled in disappointment.

     And then it turned out that she had not imagined the sounds behind the door.

     “How do you know?” came from the other side. “Maybe he did fall in love with you!”

     Oh heavens...

     “Didn't he just call you upstairs?” another fay chimed in.

      “Yes, and you stayed with him all night yesterday!” Flittle shouted.

      “ What?!”

     “ Flittle?”

     That was Thistlewit and Knotgrass.

     “Oh!” Flittle squeaked. “Aw come on, you girls!”

     She wished the ground would swallow her up.

     “I just gave him the magic to change on his own...” she hissed helplessly.

     “O-oh-h! Courtship gifts!” She heard Ini's voice. Heavens! By gods, there’s a whole... There’s a whole... a whole broom out there! “Have you flown together? Well, if you have, then what’s even the question?”

     She heard Conall laugh softly. She glared at him, hoping to convey all her... It wasn't anger, it was... Despair. It was a throat-tingling despair. She was standing in the middle of staggering scales.

     “Sister, you have nothing to lose!!!” Ini yelled and pounded on the door with her fists. “Grab him by the horns!”

     “I don’t think he has any—?”

     “Don't interrupt me!!! Does he know he should kiss you?! Does he or does he not?!”

     Her mind was completely dazed.

     “He doesn’t know why he should,” Maleficent said weakly, not sure what that weakness was leading her to.

     “Then go and tell him! Go and tell him the whole truth!”

     “Let him know that the clock is ticking!” Thistlewit shouted.

     Maleficent's head was spinning. All those screams, as shameless as they were, they... they could... Something wavered inside her.

     She glanced at Conall, giving him one last chance to dissuade her, to pull her out of the raging waters of some desperate, screaming... hope. Or maybe it wasn't water. Maybe it was fire. But he, damn him, only smiled and nodded his head.

     “You do have nothing to lose by telling him the truth. It’s either... either what awaits you... or you going home,” he said softly and touched her shoulder. “You can find your own peace, now that you’ve helped our kind find ours. I didn’t just tell you all that for no reason...” he smiled. He had a beautiful smile, albeit a heavy one. It flopped on the scales and overturned the hell out of them. He squeezed her shoulder. “Are you the Phoenix or what? Come back to your life and live. Live the way you want. Listen only to yourself.”

     Maleficent blinked. Her breath froze in her chest — and then flew out, jerkily, forcefully, like moments before takeoff.

     She had nothing to lose. She would die anyway, even if she did not make it in time, even if he did not believe her. Even if... She had nothing to lose.

     So she could do anything.

     She could! She really could! She could fly after Diaval.

     Maleficent staggered to her feet, barely believing her own thoughts until they became crystal clear, so clear they seemed obvious. She looked down at Conall and gave a shaky, silly smile. There was so much gratitude in her that it threatened to spill. She was grateful to Conall, whose words, if she survived, she would repeat to herself until she follows them. She was grateful to Flittle, whom she peeped in the tiny glass door panel, she loved every butterfly over her head. Hell, she was even grateful to Stefan, if only because no matter what, she could be sure she would never have to see him again.

     She rushed through the darkness and thunderclouds as though she was spurred on. And she was — she was spurred on, she was spurred on by Time itself.

     The Forbidden Mountains had never been her favourite place, but now she rushed to them as to her own home, although it has only sheltered her once and for a short time.

     The leaden skies hung heavy over the ruins of the castle. It was lost in dark — but that was probably the intention. If the ambush managed to hide from her , then hiding from Lickspittle should be a piece of cake. The castle was huge, tower after tower, albeit destroyed, but she figured the Resistance squad used the one with an adjoined bridge stretching over the road. That one seemed to grow right out of a rocky snow-bound slope, rising its broken face to the fields between the Moors and Perceforest.

     If she remembered everything right, Diaval was to be on guard at the very top, up there, by the window. Time was laughing with her, time was giddy with anticipation, time did her a truly magical service — that place by the window where he should sit. It was where they had met for the first time.

     The fairy flew up from the side, landed from the side of the bridge. She could swear she saw the hem of his cloak. Yes, he was there, hidden from prying eyes — a man! — on the corner of the stone frame, almost in the same spot where she had stood that night. She would have laughed if she had not been so nervous.

     Maleficent told her heart not to jump out of her chest.

     He was wearing a mask, which was probably why he did not hear her come near. She felt like doing the silliest things.

     “It's quite a view from up here,” she said nonchalantly, touching his shoulder.

     Diaval twitched and lost his balance.

     “What are you doing here?!” he whispered, startled, jumping up from his seat. “Why aren't you with the others?”

      “You need to know, once and for all, who I really am!”

     “You’re going to ruin everything...” A heavy step towards her. Something flashed.

      “I’m going to fix everything,” she proclaimed. “All of it — Lickspittle, and the Moors, and your life!”

     “Maleficent—”

     “The hunters who caught you!”

     “How do you know about the hunters?!” he turned abruptly.

      “I—”

     There was some loud sound coming from far below — a glint rushed right past her face — and then she was pushed again, and she pressed herself against a wall with a louder thud than she expected. Even less did she expect the glowing blade at her throat.

     “You weren't even Lickspittle’s puppet back then!” Diaval shouted — behind the mask she could not distinguish his eyes at all. “How do you know about the hunters? Tell me!”

     “I'm trying! ” she cried. Damned fear laced her voice — or maybe it was anger after all — and he took the crystal blade away. He cast an anxious glance out of the window and back at her.

      “Go ahead. Make it quick.”

     “I know because I saved you from the hunters. In the world I came from!” she exclaimed. “And now I've been thrown into this one, and you were captured and held in the castle because of me, so that we don’t meet again. So that you can’t fall in love with me the way you did once, and I can’t break the spell. But he won't win if we...” She swallowed. He was still close, dangerously close, pleasantly close. Some kind of light was reflecting in the dark lenses. She placed her fingers where his mask ended. “All I need is one kiss.”

      Diaval stepped back. “I don't have time for these ravings!”

      “And I don’t have time for your mistrust! I only have a few hours—!” She clutched at his cloak, pulling him, staggering back against the wall as he drew his blade. The sound bounced off and became distant — or was it something outside? Her own ears were ringing with overwhelming despair.

     “I don’t know how you found out about the hunters, or why you think you know me and we’re some couple of lovebirds,” Diaval growled, “but if you don’t—”

      “I do know you! I know everything about you!” she finally yelled, pushing him away from her. “You... You never tie your shirts! And you're a terrible swimmer!”

     He tilted his head to the side, but there was...

     “I'm a bird, of course I'm a terrible—”

     ...but there was no stopping her now. She marched on, leaving him no choice but to back away, closer and closer to the bridge. Something was nudging, pushing her onward — an immense pain in her heart.

     “I know you can carry a tune and you dance well, although you never ask anyone. And you love blueberries and pear tarts — we both love pear tarts!”

     “How do you expect me to—”

     “You've been here before. You stayed here for the night when you first came from across the sea. You come from the western lands, far from here. Where it rains all the time and wolves roam around. You love rain and you despise wolves.”

     They reached the bridge over what sounded like the raging sea, a shipwreck — but she dared not take her eyes off him.

     “Stop it, I don't understand...”

     He shook his head for a second, and she caught the moment — pulled him as close to her as the mask would allow. Now she could see his gaze flicker — his flickering gaze — should she tell him about it? about his gaze? that she loves most in this world? What should she tell him to make him believe, to let him know just how much they—

     “Did you want a daughter when you were younger?” she said low. His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me. I know,” the fairy smiled. She heard him gasp even in the rumbling, in the whistling, wherever it was coming from... “But, most importantly, I know that Lickspittle managed to capture you because you were never saved like you were supposed to... I was... I was supposed to save you,” she whispered. “And now all of this is happening because I haven’t kissed you yet.”

     She touched his mask with a silent question, a request. Whistling in her ears — a piercing sound from down below. She froze. Diaval glanced down, looked over — right where that whistle seemed to have landed — and then leaned forward to her...

     ...and grabbed her, pulling her along...

     …and then something brightly lit up. And she could hear nothing more.

     And soon it turned out that she could not see either. She shut her eyes and then could not open them.

     Everything was shaking — she felt it under her. Everything was shaking — but she could not move. Something dancing in her eyes. Fireflies, stars, gold.

     Gold. It left her motionless. Enchanted. And so when...

     ...and so when, after the explosion, her hearing came back... and when, after Diaval's loud, desperate swearing, she heard loud a clear, ‘Listen to me!’ ...

     ...she froze completely. Because a voice inside told her not to move. And she could not disobey.

     Something was happening around her, something terrible. Something brushed her skin, she knew she was no longer lying on the ground — someone was holding her, cold leather, gloves. With the part of her thoughts that had not yet dried up completely, she realised: a trap. That’s what happened. Trojan horse. They missed the patrol. Diaval did not send the signal because he was busy listening to her serenade.

     And now they have launched everything they had not given the rescued Fae the day before, their entire supply of powder. It was in the air. She could smell it. She could still breathe. The poison got into her throat — it burned the mucous membrane so much that her eyes watered, and some of the powder cleared with tears — she opened her eyes. Except it did not do much. She only saw the shaking sky above her head — she was being carried. She could not look — it was probably Diaval. He stayed in the mask, she felt his gloves. He must be immune to Borra's words — and it was Borra, the leader of the rest of the Fae, who shouted again — ‘Listen to me!’ — and she suddenly saw her hand rising...

     ...rising to punch Diaval in the gut.

     They staggered — but did not fall — and they would not have, but she pummelled and pummelled until he tumbled down with her in his arms. The fairy fell onto her side and saw that the part of the bridge connecting the keep with the rest of the castle had disappeared, leaving clouds of dust and sludge. The only part remained intact was one next to the tower the half-surviving dome of which Diaval miraculously reached.

      “Dammit! Dammit!” the ground shook beneath her. Diaval slammed his fist on the stones under their bodies — one! two! — but got up onto his knees. She thought he would take her again, but he hurried to shift — out of the tail of her eye she saw the black smoke...

     ...and Borra laughed in her head...

      ‘Listen to me!’

     Once! Two! Just like Diaval had the ground, she slammed him — his barely transformed bird figure — he screamed — she would scream too if she could —

     He shifted again and grabbed her hands. They twitched, twitched against her will, started clawing at his gloves, trying to snatch them off — Diaval threw himself over her body, wringing her arms, pinning them between her back and wings.

      ‘Listen to me!’

     She jerked — he paid it no mind. He began to unfasten his mask. She wanted to shout, to forbid him from trying to save her, but she was beaten to it.

      ‘Listen to me!’

     She hit the mask, and it tilted, opening up the lower half of his face. Now they were both in danger. The poison did not stop there. She was pulled forward — she thrust Diaval away and charged atop him in the same way he had just tried. He resisted, parrying blows she did not wish to throw, cursing her in a language she did not know, until he shoved her back and got the chance to stand upright with his back to the window.

     But it was a blunder. She already knew it. Because her body froze, froze in a very believable pose. Froze to pounce.

     Borra was shouting in her head, somewhere far away. ‘Listen to me!’

     Even further away, Conall replied, ‘Don’t listen to anyone. Live the way you want. Don't listen to anyone.’

      Diaval slightly spread his arms like wings, breathing heavy. The mask barely covering his face. His darting gaze — checking, hoping. His relaxing posture.

     He fell into the trap.

      ‘Listen to me!’

     Her body leaped forward, her fingertips lit up with flames — she was thrown at him, her hands at the ready — and she pushed Diaval forward out the window.

     He staggered and fell out.

     A scream froze in her chest — a scream so anguished it drowned out even Borra's orders.

      ‘Listen only to yourself.’

      She jumped down after him.

     Her wings did not open, and the wind — the wind whistled — the wind erased the boundaries of the places passing by, only the yellow flower of the road and the Fae, above, now above their plummeting figures — she managed to grab Diaval’s hand — ‘listen only to yourself’ — she opened her wings — the ground was near — he turned into black smoke — but it was too late — she turned them over and her breath was knocked out of her.

     ...She had no idea how much time had passed: when she snapped her eyes open again, the sky was still black, not a glimmer. But her chest was already breathing deeply, although her back hurt terribly, but she rolled over onto her stomach and opened her wings. They had fallen into the snow-covered grass. Could have been much worse — it’s a wonder they survived. Diaval...

     Where is Diaval? She began to frantically look around until she saw the ink figure lying not to fae away. Diaval was on his back, his mask with a broken clasp knocked over by his side. The fairy shook him by the shoulder. He hissed and opened his eyes.

     For a moment he stared at her, exhaling noisily, then his gaze drifted higher, to the tower from which they had fallen. His face contorted as if a huge black claw had been run over it. He cast a glance at her, one that made her recoil.

     “Are you all right?” he rasped. She nodded. “Good,” he snarled — jerked himself to his feet — and shifted at once. And took to air.

     “Diaval!” she rushed after — with loud cries the bird was flying up and away from her, right through the window and onward, wobbling, descending, until she finally caught up with him and tried to grab him — he disappeared in the black smoke right away—

      “Get out of my way!” he roared soon as he was a man — she beat her wings as not to crash into his standing figure. His face was ugly with anger. “This is why you should’ve stayed on the Moors and minded your own damn business! And let me mind mine! Instead of feeding me your fantasies!” he shouted, pointing his finger, gesturing around, “They’re all gone, enchanted! What— What the hell am I supposed to do now? The battle— They're all—” he gasped. “You ruined everything!”

     The truth hurt.

     “I didn’t mean to.”

     “Oh, I should hope so,” bristled the raven. “I don't know what I’d do to you if you did! And I not only— I actually—!” he did not finish, he only turned away, let out another helpless growl, like a cornered animal.

     They were cornered. The fair folk fell under the spell and disappeared — they did not even know where to. To the castle, to the enemy’s lair? Or maybe the fae have attacked the Moors and razed everyone to the ground while the two of them lay unconscious? They were still weak themselves. Part of the fae stayed behind to lick their wounds, the other was ready to wipe them out. Diaval had been tricked. They had no way out left.

     …Except for one, Maleficent thought suddenly. No way out — except for the only one.

     “Wait!” she called, not recognizing her own voice — she grabbed his arm and turned him around. “Diaval. Kiss me.”

     “What?!”

     “Kiss me and all this will be over,” the fairy breathed. “It’s the only way to save everyone.”

     “Leave me alone!” roared the raven, barely giving her time to finish, snatching his arm away. “I don’t have time for your True Love talk!”

     He limped away — everything was falling apart — everything was falling apart — everything was so wrong, wrong—

     “You— You’re the one who’s supposed to believe that True Love can solve everything!” she called to him, and to the air, and to herself. “It’s you who’s supposed to say that—”

     “ I don’t know who you’re talking about!!” he bellowed, turning around like a sudden wind. His eyes were bloodshot, the snow melted on his face like tears. “I don’t know who you imagine me to be, but it’s nothing more than a fairytale,” he spat, stepping forward. “True Love won't save us now, it never has! True Love didn’t get me out of that net, True Love didn’t get me out of that castle — I did!”

      “Yes, but it wasn’t supposed to be the case! It’s all meant to be different — and it will be. True Love—”

     “Have you not worked it out yet? There is no such thing as ‘true love’!”

     Maleficent froze. Time was laughing at her. Her very past was laughing at her. Out of everyone who could have told her this — out of everything he could have told her—

     “Diaval,” she whispered, unable to find air. “Don't say that— You— It does exist.”

     She heard, heard its laughter — of Time itself.

     “And how would you know?”

     “I know because I am your True Love. I'm the one who saved you from the net...” she winced. “Should have saved you from the net—!”

     “Well, where were you, then?” the raven scowled. “Where were you when I needed you?”

      ‘Stay with me, stay with me, please’.

     She squeezed her eyes shut so she could not see a thing — not his livid face, not their ruined time, not her crumbling world. Nothing but the fire blazing in her chest, burning down her heart and lungs, hitting her eyes with water hot like lava — and piercing cold all around.

     “...Just give me one chance,” she mustered. “It will fix everything. I promise.” She heard him tread. “Just trust me—”

     She felt his lips on hers.

     He had a cold face, cold lips. But his hands were warm — he pulled her to him — it took her a moment to realize that he was actually kissing her — and she could only think one thing — how nice it is, goddamn it, what a sweet thing a True Love’s Kiss is! — something was changing around her — she raised her hands to run over his shoulders, to caress his cheek—

     — he was pulling away —

     And his hands left her like receding waves.

     She opened her eyes and saw his face. And the same inky sky all around. Not a single star.

     The waves returned to her. They covered her head and crashed before her eyes.

     Nothing changed.

     Diaval drew away from her face.

     “I wish you were right,” he whispered. And moved back altogether, a few steps away, leaving her standing like part of the castle ruins. “I have to go,” he said loud, tense. “Don't follow. Don't follow!” he shouted one last time, and the black smoke swallowed him, and the darkness carried the raven away from her towards the castle.

     November stabbed her in the back, threw snowy wind at her, threatening to take away that last piece of warmth that she had received, that she had put so much hope into. That let her down.

     The True Love’s Kiss did not work. Not because love did not exist, because she felt it like never before. Not because Lickspittle had deceived her — everything was fair here. Because Diaval does not love her.

     She did all she could, but it was not enough. The thirst for life was quenched by cold snow. The Phoenix did not set itself on fire to live. The Phoenix drowned.

     Standing on the surviving part of the bridge, Maleficent looked down at the road. It was green — her eyes mixed all colors again — the remains of golden dust settling like a giant terrible flower. She failed her people again, now forever.

     Slowly, Maleficent stepped closer to the stones, away from the snow, hiding from the world just like she had a long time ago. Here, near the wall, the wind’s dirges was not as hard, not as plaintive, and in the priceless silence she resigned herself to her fate. Her world was not only deaf but blind — she could not see anything — and did not want to. As always, time stood still for her, drawing to a close, merely flowing past her whilst others lived in it: captured rebels struggling to regain their freedom, the cured fae healing their wounds on the Moors, Lickspittle savouring his future victory, humans scouring city streets and misty Perceforest woods, striving to find Maleficent in time and bring her to Lickspittle in order to grant their precious wishes...

      She blinked. Bringing Maleficent to Lickspittle. Stefan had mentioned it, back in the infirmary. The fairy’s head in exchange for granting any wish... Any wish.

     She had just that.

     How wonderful.

Chapter Text

     The icy wind, the kind that only reigns at the high inky altitude, was whistling against her ears, tossing her hair into her face, and rising like a lump in her throat. Maleficent touched down in front of the huge, dilapidated gates, feeling like a piece of ice, both outside and inside.

     The guards blasted off to the sides, defeated by emerald flame. Maleficent strode ahead.

     The last time they dragged her through this castle, weakened, her mind clouded. Now she was walking an her own accord, feeling more confident than ever, perhaps even more confident than when she had passed these same stairs to see another king with a curse up her sleeve. Behind the heavy doors — a voice. High-pitched, disgruntled. Not for long. She will make him happy.

     Her last performance, not without her dramatics.

     Deafening, like a thunderpeal, the doors to the throne room swung open.

     “Lickspittle! I hear you are looking for me...”

     The chamber was gloomy and packed, but she saw the little bastard straight away — far ahead, by the very royal seat. He jumped right on the spot, hit by the echo of her tocsin of a voice, as if stung, and turned to her with fiery eyes.

     “Finally!” he shouted, hopping off the throne, flying into the crowd — yellow-eyed puppets parted for her, shuffling along the floor — the latter seemed to have cracks she had not seen the last time. Whatever. At least no one was attacking her yet — the fae flowed away like a living sea. The Fair Folk must have been hidden somewhere. Knowing Lickspittle, probably in a distant basement full of iron and dangerous liquids. But that won’t last either. The pixie was carrying a paper scroll towards her. How convenient. “Well, who brought her?” he cried. “Who’s our lucky fellow to get the deal?”

     And the fairy snatched the scroll right out of his wrinkly paws.

     “Me,” she smiled. “I brought you Maleficent. And I get the deal.”

     Away, to the table — in one fell swoop, the indignant, questioning Lickspittle with his ‘but-but-but-no-but’ flew off to his own throne ahead of her, and the plates and glasses scattered with clang and din. There only thing left on the table was an inkwell. The fairy tugged a feather from her own wing — aw — it doesn’t matter — it’s only going to get worse from here. She dipped it. Blood and liquid gold.

     “That means I have the right to get anything I want.”

     Any wish. What she wants more than anything in the world.

     The winter chill had been a nice cold compress on her head. It weathered the last grains of foxglove, froze all her doubts, turned caustic fear into a blizzard. She will finally do things right.

     She raised her hand. Started writing her wish under the rubric. Lickspittle twitched in place. “Too bad!” he yelled, reaching for the paper — she moved it away and proceeded. “Did you even read the contract? Only True Love’s Kiss can terminate it! Did you think,” he chuckled, “you could just write your name and get your life back?!”

     Maleficent looked him straight in the eye. “I'm not here to terminate the contract.”

     For the first time, Lickspittle looked struck with incredulity. Round eyes, raised eyebrows. Even his ears twitched. The colour seemed to have come off his face. “Then what do you want?”

     Maleficent smiled.

     What did she want? What has she wanted, for so long? What was it that she has been fighting for all her life, that had her disappointed in so often and so terribly, that she could never quite reach? Peace for her kind and the peace for herself — things so dangerously intertwined, almost mutually exclusive. At least that’s what she had thought. But now she had this gift. The forgiveness she could only hope for. That crumb of peace that she, perhaps, deserved. Even if her body is to rot in chains, at least she was free from the fetters around her heart — she could hear it now, like never before.

     And when it came to things that mattered, she always followed her heart over anything else. Right now her heart cared about nothing now but the matters that had an obvious culprit and a clear way to fix it. She knew who the culprit was, and she knew who was now to fix everything.

     She signed her name.

     The quill gritted to a stop — and fell from her fingers. At the same moment, hot iron shackles closed around her wrists. She clenched her jaw.

     Doesn't matter. All that matters is—

     There was a familiar rustle of magic, that sweet gold chime — the paper lit up, and so did her feather, and the very air around them. Outside, behind a colourful patterned window, the skies bloomed in flowers of gold — the only time explosions in the sky were not a cause for terror.

     And then one by one, shrouded in a golden cloud, the fae began to disappear from the throne room.

     There was a rumble outside. Some mighty rumble. Perhaps falling from a height is not the most pleasant thing. They'll figure it out. Now they can do everything themselves.

      ‘Free the Fair Folk, the Dark Fae and humans from poison, duress and captivity. Forever.’

     She reckoned — she allowed herself to hope — that Conall would be proud of her. That Diaval would be proud of her. And Aurora too.

     Her hands were burning alright now. She swayed.

     Lickspittle jumped down into the hall, where his former enchanted warriors were growing fewer and fewer in number. The side door creaked open, and soldiers fell out of it as though from the jaws of a monster. “The prisoners! The hostages from the Moors!”, “They’re gone!”, “The Fae have disappeared! It was some kind of magic!” she heard them yell far away.

     Her only thought was just how badly her hands hurt, how dull the voices of the guards were, and how glad she was that everyone was free. Joy beat its wings like a bird in a cage. It’s over. Or at least it will be, soon.

     She must have got too dazed for a moment there — through the veil of pain she only registered how they grabbed and dragged her, how they were leading her down the stairs. The steps flew by, beating against her knees, dust rose in her eyes, but she did not flinch — only her wings were trembling. Heavy doors grated open — to a gigantic room, dark and blue and cold, like a sunken ship. Looking down at her were packs of soldiers lurking on the balconies along the walls. There was not a single window in the whole hall — only torches along one of the walls, their barely discernible light falling on the soldiers, on a pile of iron on the floor. Broken handcuffs, broken cages. Years of enchanted imprisonment left behind.

     “Well, I don’t even know...” Lickspittle sing-sang in her ear, slapping his sides, cavorting backwards with a torch in his hand. Now their eyes were on the same level, except that she was constantly swayed from side to side. “What an interesting end to the story! The most powerful fairy of all time, the legendary Phoenix bravely gives herself up to be torn to pieces to save a bunch of living squealing mushrooms!”

     She heard a gasp — perhaps it was her own.

     They released her, and one pair of fetters was replaced by another — long, chained into the wall. They locked her hands with a heavy clang. She hit the stone floor like a broken branch. Behind her stood several soldiers, as well as behind Lickspittle. But she was not that easy to discourage.

     “But at least they are free, and as long as Diaval’s with them, you will have to fight them alone,” Maleficent spat.

     Laughter bounced off the walls. “How touching!” the runt mumbled — the warmth in his voice clashed with the toothy grin. He took a step to the side. “Should I tell him? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

     The soldiers behind him moved away, and Lickspittle threw a torch behind his back — it landed by the opposite wall at the feet of another chained prisoner.

     “Diaval!”

     She fell apart.

     Maleficent jerked forward — pain pierced through her body in a searing wave, from her hands to her heart. Wings fluttered uselessly, helplessly. The more she tugged the chain, the more it nailed Diaval to the wall on the other side.

     “You bastard, we had a deal!!” Maleficent thundered, shuddering — trembling in her, like crumbling ruins, was everything she had fought for. “You agreed to free everyone!”

     “Now, not quite everyone! What did you write, again?” the pixie squinted. “Fair folk, fae and humans. Couldn’t have put it better myself. Get this, though...” Lickspittle approached Diaval and chucked him under the chin. He hissed. “Your sweet little bird is not a fay or a talking bush. And not even a real human, no matter how hard you try... What he really is, is my first test subject...”

     The raven raised his arm to strike, but it pulled Maleficent back and he recoiled with a hiss. Lickspittle patted his cheek with a laugh.

     “Ah, I remember you, my birdie. My monstrous creature!” Diaval growled, clattered his teeth, jerked his fist again — just as unsuccessfully. It only made Lickspittle angrier. “Thought you had an ace up your sleeve?” he roared. “Thought I have no control over you anymore? You fool,” he yanked Diaval towards him, grabbing him by the chin. “You are a servant, you’ve always been. A servant, all your life, even the one you can't remember — servant of another bird caught in my snare!” he let go. Diaval staggered but did not fall — he only stared at Maleficent intently, lost. “Would you look at these sweethearts — found each other after all! But you won’t outwit me,” the runt murmured. Diaval bared his teeth — and pounced onto his shimmering wings, only to stop short when that dragged her to the wall again. “Now, save up your rage, you’ll need it,” the villain chimed meanwhile. “Yes, yes, my subject… Alas, you ran away before I came up with the second version of the poison. But it's all right, it's fixable. I’m sure we can find a vial. Liquid is always easier to store than tons of powder. Indeed, why have a whole crowd of enchanted fae,” he raised his leg, “when you can have one wonderful shapeshifter!”

     And then Lickspittle kicked Diaval in the chest. He fell on his back with a hollow sound and did not get up. He seemed have lost heart at the words spoken — he turned his eyes to her and fixed them there. With a sneering “I'll be right back!” the pixie stepped on the torch, killing its fire, and left. The doors behind him slammed shut and snuffed out the last lights.

     Maleficent was left sitting on the floor — or perhaps lying, she could not tell as she felt nothing. Her legs were frozen from cold stones, but her hands were trembling from hot pain.

     “Never met anyone more reckless than you in my entire life,” came a voice nearby. She could barely see Diaval's face, only a tiny speck of light on his cheek, the gleam in his eyes. “And braver. I am... eternally grateful to you.”

     She tried to commit it to memory. The gleam in his eyes. His gratitude — incomparable to how much gratitude she felt for him. She saved his life once, and he saved her life every day after that. Until she put an end to it. Looks like she will never fix that — not even here.

     “You were right,” she uttered. “I... I should have been there for you when you needed me. Like I’ve always needed you. And you’ve always been there for me.”

     She thought of him, of Diaval — of another Diaval, the one who had followed her to the castle to save their daughter. Of that fact that the Diaval facing her will never know that he once dared her to say what she has just said. Of the fact that that Diaval is gone forever — and that this one is now being tortured right before her eyes. Just when she tried to make things right.

     She heard a broken chuckle.

     “So you were telling the truth... about the two of us.” He turned his head, and she could not predict his answer, her temples throbbing. But he narrowed his eyes. “Really went and fell for your own servant, huh.”

     In a fit of some wondrous feeling, she smiled. “You left me no choice.”

     “Yeah, I figured. From what you’re saying, I was a hopeless romantic,” he shook his head. Maleficent shut her eyes and nodded. In that one moment, even the end of the world meant nothing. “Good for us,” he breathed out. She might have even glimpsed a wistful smile. He never really smiled wide. 

     Silence. Only the sounds of the soldiers above and his stifled breathing. And then, a short, ragged breath. 

     “Maleficent...” he whispered. “I'll try not to hurt you.”

     The fairy sighed. His eyes were even more shiny. Her shadow trembled on the floor.

     “Don’t. I will die one way or another.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” he shushed — but then the doors opened again, and a familiar short shadow ran up to Diaval. Lickspittle was carrying in a tiny shiny vial — with each short leap the golden liquid danced behind the glass walls. Diaval bellowed, dodging, kicking to knock it out of his hands, but soldiers surrounded him and nailed him to the floor in no time, in spite of all his hissing and snapping his teeth. The raven frantically shook his head — to no avail: the liquid dripped into his mouth. Diaval twitched and spat — then, with a furious cry, Lickspittle grabbed and lifted his chin himself — and in a few long seconds, the vial was emptied of the remaining poison.

     They released him — the soldiers wasted no time running aside, and the runt disappeared behind the beams, moving up above their heads. Diaval spat and shook in deafening hoarse cough that wrung her heart, but with every second he sank lower and lower, shivering as though from cold, trying hard to crawl away to the wall but twitching despite himself, against himself.

     Suddenly the handcuffs on her hands clicked and fell — and the next moment came unbearable rumble from above, and the ceiling split into pieces and drove off to the sides, revealing everything that was going on above: balconies with soldiers, walls of the throne room where she had just turned herself in and signed the contract. Stained windows reflecting the light of the broken chandelier. All the world, all eyes were on them.

     “Gentlemen!” Lickspittle announced. Diaval was writhing on the floor. “Finally, the moment we've all been waiting for! The main event of the evening — the rebel who’s been ruining my plans for years, and the one who finally made them happen! But whom will they have to fight?” he rubbed his hands together as he retreated, climbing the stairs to his dress circle seat. “Oh, I know!”

     Diaval rolled over on his side with a cry, unable to stop the clouds of black smoke and dust that surrounded him, devouring him. Maleficent leaned forward, afraid to get too close. Her hands still hurt — she felt but a slight tingle of magic on her palms. She needed time. She had none. He was growing in size. A huge scaly tail thumped across the floor. The scream turned into a growl.

     “A dragon!”

     Fixed on her — a pair of big golden eyes.

     “And now... Listen to me! ”

     The air shook with a deafening roar. The dragon began to rise to his feet. The chains clattered off his paws as if torn — he opened his maw. Maleficent barely dodged before the fire poured out. It licked the floor and spread, but quickly faded. Diaval kept growling and moving ahead.

     The fairy soared upwards — she needed to buy time until her hands heal enough to use magic. Then... Then she can hit him?

     No, no. The dragon lifted his head and sent a stream of fire upward — she flew off to the side and hid under the ceiling. No. Fighting him is off the table. She must heal him. At least for a while. She needs to buy time, and then get close to him. She needs to, needs to—

     Diaval banged his tail against the wall — the whole castle shook, and the ceiling cracked for real: a huge stone part right above her head shuddered — and soon as she evaded, fell to the ground. The dragon snarled in fury...

     Now, that, that could play into her heads. She just needed to... Maleficent soared higher — to the balcony where the soldiers were still standing — and hovered in the air right in front of them. At once Diaval turned his head.

     One, two... Diaval opened his mouth.

     Three.

     Maleficent leaped away — and Diaval doused a wave of fire on the guards on the balcony. Screams, screams. Maleficent felt almost sorry for them. She was too busy trying not to get hit by the hot billow — the dragon realized his mistake and was already turning his head after her, setting fire to the air right behind her.

     The air — smoking. Her eyes — watering. She was too late to see him aim right in front of her — or to move away. The tips of her hair lit up — without thinking she patted the flames away and cried out as her hand hurt all over again. Crap!! She needs hands! She needs magic!

     Got to heal him. Got to get closer to him. Got to wait. Got to not get caught by him.

     She flew off to the nearest wall, where the flames would not touch her. She could almost feel the chill of the stones on her feathers. Time, time... How much more time? She looked down at her hands... At least a little, at least a drop of magic... Just for—

     Suddenly, everything turned upside down — with some kind of crash, an animal growl, her own scream — and a piercing pain in her back. All the spirit was knocked out of her. She was on the floor. Something pressing her down. Dust in her mouth. She did not feel her wings.

      Move, move, move!

     Maleficent leaped forward — and crawled out from under something huge. A glance up, around: at the ruined wall she had just clung to, at the dragon who’d butted it, at huge fallen blocks, clouds of dust. She tried to move her wings — but she only felt pain. They trembled but didn't move. The left wing didn't seem to belong to her at all. She won't be able to take off. Damn. No magic, no wings.

     And just like that the dragon seemed ten times larger. The roar as he shook his head in pain — even more strident and dangerous.

     Damn. Damn.

     She drew back, glancing around in search of something to hide behind, even that same boulder that had hit her in the first place. Will do. Anything.

     Blessed seconds — the dragon was still shaking his head. He must have hit it quite hard. Maleficent was left to wait for magic to return. She only needed enough for a minute. She will heal him — and they will escape through the window. Well, it’s not too bad that she got closer than she meant to, then. Diaval roared in pain — or in something else, because a second later he suddenly looked up again and breathed fire right at some soldiers.

     Lickspittle groaned, got off his seat. “ Listen to me!”

     Something went wrong, then. Perfect. It will help. It should help. Maleficent stroked her wrists. Please. Please. Right now. While he’s looking at Lickspittle. Right now.

     Time to run.

     She rushed away from the block along the remaining part of the wall, trying to stay in the shadows — but the damn bastard shouted, “Listen to me!” again — and Diaval turned his head back, looking for her. There was no time to check if his eyes were yellow or black — she ran, trying not to trip over chains or sharp stones, and behind her splashed fire, licking the ruins and melting the iron.

     Got to get closer, got to... He nearly hit her. Fire licked her leg. She fell down with a cry.

     The dragon stopped, crouched. Took a step forward. She backed away, ignoring her leg, her wings — nothing mattered but her hands. Right now. Please. The dragon craned his neck. Feathers stood on end before the decisive blow. She waited as long as she could. Right now.

     Diaval raised his mouth to burn her alive. She looked into his yellow eyes.

     And put out her hands.

     Gold poured out.

     It enveloped his jaws, his eyes — golden, then brown, then black. He lowered his head. The dragon breathed out — no fire, only a heavy sigh. He leaned his head against the wall right above her, exhaled, more and more, sliding down, shrinking — nuzzling her shoulder.

     “Forgive me,” growled, rasped he. His frame was trembling. “Forgive me.”

     “ Listen to me!”

     “I’m sorry too.”

     Her mouth felt numb. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe, she could hardly do magic. Gold, gold — barely a light strand, thin, weak, fading. She did not have a minute. She had infinitely less. They’ll barely have time to rise into the air, they won’t make it to the window before he’s a dragon again. Too soon. She had needed more time. She will never have enough of it again.

     “ Listen to me!”

     “I can't— It’s too—”

     “ Listen to me!!!” Lickspittle thundered again — and Diaval screamed, twitching, out of his own control again. Scales on the neck, long tail, giant fangs. His eyes turned yellow.

     He did not leave her side because Lickspittle did not want him to. He achieved the necessary — Diaval drove her into a corner, pressed her against the wall. No way out. It’s over. Well, so be it.

     The dragon lifted his head to aim better. Clicked his teeth. Deafening ringing sound, like glass shattering.

     Glass shattered — somewhere. And then — rainbow spilling down. And screams. Not even screams, more like... battle cries?

     And then — yes, then screams. Soldiers screaming. And the Dark Fae crying for battle.

     Through a huge uneven hole in the stained-glass window, newly freed fae were breaking into the throne room. Like arrows, they darted inside, knocking everything and everyone in their path. With a crack and whistle, some of them threw soldiers off a balcony, and a few more landed on the floor right in front of her. The dragon ran amuck, his head turning left and right, his teeth clattering and his tail hitting the floor — Borra, who landed nearby, narrowly escaped its spear-sharp tip.

      “Now what kind of pangolin is this?” he bawled from the other side and raised his hands up — numerous stems, thick and hard, broke out of the ground and wrapped around the dragon's paws. Borra flew off to the side and pulled — the branches shrunk, and Diaval barked.

     “Be careful!” Maleficent yelled, standing up — dodging a fallen soldier. “He's enchanted, he doesn't know what he's doing!”

     “We kno-o-ow! That's why we're all here! We got to—”

     The voice was drowned in noise — of iron clanging, of soldiers fighting, of wings flapping, walls crumbling, Lickspittle shouting, and most importantly, in the deafening fiery breath of the dragon. The fire consumed the green shackles — and Diaval's own paws, but he seemed to pay it no mind — he carried on creating flame, as if coughing it up.

     “Dammit!” Borra spat. “Change of plans!”

     He sank down to the ground and grabbed the fetters that had held her and Diaval, now lying around, ripped out of the destroyed wall — he grabbed them as if they posed no danger to him. With them in his hands, he took to air again.

     Maleficent did not like this plan. She did not like this plan at all. But everything around her was on fire, and Diaval, spotting the noise, was about to throw a ball of fire right at Borra. No time to doubt. She sprinted to the side — the dragon got distracted by her and turned his head. Borra threw the chain right around his neck and pulled hard. Diaval bellowed.

      I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

     “Take that! You! Big ass snake!” the fay thundered, circling the dragon, tying the chain around. Diaval shook his muzzle, dodging. “Conall or Udo! Get them here! Now!” he called out to Maleficent.

     “They are not here! They’re—”

     “They are! Get them!”

     She wanted to answer that she could not even take off, but first, just to see, she flapped her wings, and they obeyed somewhat. She soared into the air, swaying.

     Conall. Udo. Maleficent looked around. The balcony where Diaval set the soldiers on fire — still on fire. On the other side several fae were fighting soldiers. Got to fly higher, to the throne room. Damn it.

     She flapped her wings again, searching, scanning. Shattered window, shards, wrecked floor. Fae, soldiers, even some Moor Folk. Damn, damn, damn. Dragon roar. Dark Fae, soldiers, fragments, wrong, it’s all wrong, stones, Conall, more Dark— Conall!

     He met her eyes and immediately flew towards her.

     “I can't find Lickspittle!” he announced.

     “Whatever! Down!”

     Conall looked down through the hole and shouted to whomever was around, “All those on the right — find Lickspittle! On the left — down, follow me, now!”

     Several dozen fae leaped down after him, and together they rushed in a whirlwind to where Borra was holding back the dragon amid fire and smoke with the last of his strength. Seeing them, he let go of the chains and flew off to land next to her — helpless, she sank down too. Above their heads, the fae surrounded Diaval, and vines and chains got him on all sides. Diaval growled.

     “We must think of something else!” Maleficent called out to Borra.

     “They will heal him. We're here to heal him,” he said, his breathing heavy. “But first we got to tame him.”

     They were taming him alright. Diaval was no longer roaring, because the chain was wrapped right around his muzzle — he was only swayed until he swayed so bad he fell on his side with a crash, raising dust. He miraculously did not land on the rocks. The circle of fae in the air became tighter.

     She has to be there.

     Maleficent took off, half-flying, half-running towards him, calling on all the higher powers to have enough magic to help. Around him, the fae raised their hands — and then gold — not poisonous, healing — like covered him like slow rain, dribbled down his paws, glistened on his shiny scales. She ran up to his dark head — he was not twitching anymore, only staring at her with his huge eyes.

     The fairy put her hand to his neck, to soft thick feathers, and slowly stroked, leaving behind gold. He was hot to the touch. She watched as his skin lightened, as he shrank in size, chains slipping off him, as webbed wings became clawed hands. As his eye became black.

     Diaval was panting, his body shaking a bit. He blinked a couple of times and rolled over to look straight at her and the fae above his head. “That... was... very rude... actually,” he grunted, his gaze darting over them. “Some snare... you got me in...”

     He squeezed her hand.

     “You were trying to burn me alive, you fucking lizard!” shouted Borra from the back as he strode. He held out his palm to Maleficent — and gold, warm and healing, poured over her wings and arms. She nodded in gratitude and pulled Diaval's hand to help him up. The raven smiled at her, staggered a little but standing straight just the same, looking up to where the sounds of fighting were still heard.

     Maleficent spotted the pixie first.

     Remaining the only one out of his once army, but still small and agile, Lickspittle had jumped to where he would not be sought — the fae had been wrestling with the most resilient soldiers higher upstairs, in the throne room, but the runt, having jumped off the shattered floor, found himself on the balcony and was now rushing in the opposite direction.

     “Are you going somewhere?” Maleficent chimed, lifting herself up in one motion. Taken by surprise, the pixie backed away with a sugary smile — once Borra was behind him, the smile disappeared.

     However, before Maleficent could strike him with magic — or her fist — Lickspittle climbed onto the balcony railing and, without looking, waved his hand, shouting, “ Listen to me!” — and with a laugh dropped down.

     Loud bang. And laughter again — but low and hoarse this time.

     “Hell no!” Diaval said far below, his foot on his chest. He looked up, sweeping the hall with a burning gaze, his shining eyes. “Should I cut off his head now or later?” Lickspittle twitched. “You see, we were going to cut off your head and then free the fae. As you can see, the fae have already been freed, and yet your head is still in place. That won’t do!” He leaned over his very ear. Barely audible, Maleficent heard, “I would like you to turn into a fly, but I’m afraid that’d be too kind,” and Diaval got up. “The battle is over! Victory is ours!”

     And so came an eruption of the Fae’s rapture — both downstairs and upstairs. They shook their fists in the air, beat their chests, hooting and patting each other’s backs, spreading their wings, celebrating their freedom after years and decades of imprisonment. Diaval got his foot off Lickspittle, but they did not let him go far — he was immediately snatched by Borra who jumped off the balcony. He demanded the rat for himself, and Diaval waved it off. Several fae followed the leader, expressing particularly dubious ideas about having dwarfs for dinner.

     Maleficent sank to the floor a little further away from the public merriment that rang like bells in her ears. Neither the sore leg, nor the aching wing, nor the pulsing temples could compare with the sweet emptiness in her head, in her chest. It was as if a huge block split and fell from her heart — as if through a broken stained-glass window, it was now illuminated by the busy, glowing dawn.

     Diaval’s eyes found hers.

     “He-e-ey!!” he shouted, flashing his tearfully familiar crooked grin. And then suddenly leaned forward and got her from every side. “We did it!!”

     Diaval smelled of dust and burning, and she was surprised that he was breathing and talking well — the last time the Dragon had left him with a sore throat and smoke-poisoned lungs. Maybe the magic took pity on him when it became his.

     His hugs were as tight as ever. They did not share hugs very often, but she could recall every single one. Memories washed over her. After Mairead’s birth. Before that — on the anniversary of the day she saved him, which they considered his birthday. She had a few drinks for the first time in twenty years, and he laughed his head off at the tactile beast that took over her brain. Before that — several times when she had nightmares. Before that — after Aurora’s coronation, when they first flew together. Before that — for the first time — when Aurora woke up. She pulled them both into a huge hug.

     Aurora loved to cuddle. She would squeal at the two of them if she were here. The thought alone warmed her like the dawn.

     “Thank you,” he breathed into her shoulder. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

     Maleficent snorted and clung to him tighter — she was swaying. Everything around was whistling. Dust clogged her nose.

     “Yes,” she simply agreed.

     “Now everything’s going to be fine,” the raven smiled.

     “Yes.”

     Strangely enough, she actually believed it.

     The light from the broken window was touching him, and his feathers seemed not black but purple, green, blue — glistening with magic. He beamed from ear to ear, baring his teeth — and then burst out laughing when someone nearby reminded that after the victory they were going to empty the castle's wine stores. The joyful chirping was caught up by the moor folk who had been imprisoned in the castle — they twirled in the air, sending around the gold dust illuminated by the rising sun.

     Sun.

     Maleficent winced.

     The sun was rising.

     She looked up at the broken stained-glass window — pouring from it was a stream of steady golden light. Soft and calm. Just like she had wanted.

     And she was almost not afraid.

     She felt a familiar warmth — and what she’d thought was whistling and dust turned out to be golden magic, rustling, enveloping her from her feet up, up, depriving her of movement. She’d better get down.

     “Maleficent?” Diaval frowned — and lurched along when she fell. “Maleficent!”

     “Her time is up! Ouroboros! Tempus edax rerum!” Lickspittle nickered from somewhere far away, in someone's grip, millions of miles away. “Her time—”

     “Maleficent...” Diaval becked her. He was twitching his head a little — his gaze was flickering over her face for an answer. Always this confused nervous panic of his. She’s always found it amusing. Aurora picked up that stupid habit from him.

     “It's all right,” she said only.

     “There must be something I can do...” he voiced low. She felt his hand at the back of her head, his fingers on her arm. But she felt little else other than the warmth that was gripping her. Like sunshine on a warm summer day. Aurora adored days like that, she herself simply endured them, and Diaval had a ridiculous love-hate relationship with them, because every year without fail he’d get sunburnt and peel his skin for the rest of the summer.

     She reached out to him. How silly — after so long of her hand being insensitive and useless it was the only thing she had left. The fairy touched the feathers behind his ear.

     “You’ve already done a lot for me...” she smiled. “We have... We have Aurora...”

     He had the same soft and smooth feathers he always did. It was comforting, even as the warmth receded.

     “Aurora, who is Auro—” he suddenly choked on his own breath, and his eyebrows shot up. “That's our daughter's name, isn't it?” he breathed in almost reverent awe.

     Maleficent nodded.

     “And she already has a child of her own.”

     He let out a laugh — short and rapt, strained and trembling. His eyes sparkled, but for some reason he still looked sad. He leaned closer, shaking his head.

     “Incredible,” he heaved, smiling. She smiled back. He smiled wider.

     She could no longer feel his feathers under her palm, but she still felt his hand that had been holding her head and was now stroking her hair, and his breath on her cheek. Almost like that time. The rest crumbled into oblivion. She already knew what it was like there, and you can’t make up for lost time. But she could try.

      “You know what's truly incredible?” she murmured. “I love you so much right now I can’t imagine how much I must have loved you all along.”

     It was the most sentimental thing she had said in her entire life, albeit absolutely honest, so she was sad to see how her words seemed to shatter Diaval completely. He shut his eyes, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. Bent over her. He could be nuzzling her cheek now, as he would often do when he was a bird — as he had done those few times they hugged. What a pity she could not feel a thing anymore.

     “Then we’ll meet again in another life,” she heard in her ear. “This one wasn’t enough for me.”

     It was taking her away from here and into unbearable emptiness — into eternal cold that had already opened its gates for her once and was not going to wait any longer. It was waiting — the All-devouring Time. The world was already falling into its mouth from every corner. All she saw was Diaval's face, feathers fading into darkness. It threatened to devour him altogether — so before that could happen, Maleficent closed her eyes first.

     She felt almost nothing — only a light touch to her lips.

     ...And then — darkness.

     Infinite and expanding. No end.

     No sound, no colour, no matter.

     Devouring, swallowing nothingness.

     She was falling to pieces inside it. She already fell to pieces.

     And stayed there. Like a detached incorporeal thought, slowly fading away.

     Slowly?

     There was no time here. 

     It might as well

     have been

     an eternity.

     Eternity — cold, empty, black.

     Black.

     Black.

     Black.

     Black.

     Black.

     And then came gold.

     First, like a blossoming flower, it unfolded in the distance — and then, like lightning, it exploded and struck her — and threw something heavy, and hot, and alive into her.

     Her heart.

     She had a heart again. She was...

     Kissed. He kissed her. It was... the True Love’s Kiss.

     It worked.

     The deal is broken.

     She... she got her Phoenix power back — she got her life back. She...

     She...

     ...She was screaming.

     She was burning.

Chapter Text

     She was on fire.

     The wind fussed around her — thousands of tiny specks, moving closer and farther, soared up — so did she — as if she herself were these specks of gold dust. There wasn’t a thing around her — and then suddenly there was.

     Maleficent opened her eyes and flapped her wings — and then it wasn’t her that was on fire.

     It was everything around her.

     From the very tips of her huge black wings — the fire ran to whatever she hit with them.

     It shattered into smithereens.

     She beat them again and again, raising a cry — a bird’s cry.

     With it, all the power erupted from her, the thunder of hundreds of drums, a lightning that cuts the sky, the erupting mouth of a volcano. Liquid fire coursed through her veins, and she continued to beat her wings and tail, burst into a battle cry that turned into laughter.

     Unprecedented ease. Life blossoming after death. Love! Love! Love!

     She realized where she was — in the air, cold and fresh, somewhere in the woods. Beneath her spread a glade — the snow had completely melted, exposing the ground. The glade — and what is left of the workshop.

     And everything was on fire.

     The fire licked the collapsing dark bookcases, the smoking book spines, the paper and the herbs. The fragments of broken cans, metal tools. Leather and feathers. 

     And the flowers. Foxglove was catching fire.

     And so was the scroll on a collapsed table — with her name half-written.

     Life coursed through her like a flame. Just like it did to Diaval once upon a time, fire gave her freedom.

     Maleficent returned to her fairy body — she was wary of getting seen, although she did not understand why. Thoughts were just beginning to form in her head — she’d spent an eternity without a single thought, without a single feeling. So for the time being, she was content with just the sensations. The burning wood crackled and smelled of smoke. Flames of yellow, orange, red frolicked around, devouring what was left of Lickspittle’s legacy. But even up close, she couldn’t see him anywhere. As though the earth swallowed him. Did he manage to hide? He couldn’t have gone too far.

     She snapped her fingers — ordered the fire to die out, the smoke to dissipate. She snapped her fingers again — and the charred, dead nothingness left from the workshop gathered in a heap and slowly dispersed into the air. She snapped her fingers a third time and told her magic, wherever it finds him, to turn Lickspittle into a fly. Harmless, brainless — but flying. As he deserved.

     Was he left there, in that other time, in another world? Did it still exist, that dimension, did time continue to flow there? Or maybe it crumbled to pieces forever with her, like a long dream, with the destruction of the contract? She wasn’t sure which of these options she would have preferred, but she suspected she was never to find out.

     For a moment it seemed that she has, in fact, just been asleep for a very long while — that it’s all been just a dream, a nightmare — but there were too many things signifying otherwise. After all, in that case, the Phoenix would not have appeared.

     Which means it all really did happen.

     She came back to life, saved by a True Love’s Kiss. She died because her time was up after the battle in the castle. She went to the castle to trade her life for the freedom of others. They were locked up because she ruined the plan — she came to persuade Diaval to kiss her. To convince him that he really had known her once upon a time.

     He didn’t know her because she had asked Lickspittle to rid her of her past life. She asked for it because... because... she was angry with everyone, she was angry with Diaval.

     She was angry with Diaval because they had a falling-out at the feast.

     Yes. There it is. The feast!

     She had a falling-out with Diaval!

     Lickspittle did not lie: not a second had passed since her disappearance — which meant that a couple of hours ago she ruined her daughter’s fete, said nasty things to Diaval — and since then she has not seen anyone.

     Oh bloody hell.

     She will have to return. She will have to apologize. She will have to explain everything. For the past two days, real life has been a forbidden, stolen, desired fruit — her desperate imagination tormented her with everything she would do if only she returned and made peace with Diaval. But now the dream had come true — and ahead of her she had a conversation that she had no idea how to conduct. Thoughts would not make sense. Feelings washed over like boiling water.

     She is alive! She survived. She made it out of eternal darkness.

     The memory alone shook her. Amazing, how amazing it is that only a moment has passed in this world. She seemed to have spent an eternity in that place — an eternity and a day. She has been terribly cold.

     But now the sun was shining over her head, and her heart was beating again, and she was warm — both from the sun and from the fire of the Phoenix seething inside.

     Yes. That’s what she’ll do. She will stand here for a while, feel the sun, breathe in the air — and then she will go back. And maybe she will even have something to say.

     Slowly she raised her hands — and the fairy dust rolled, poured, tricked down. It covered the burnt clearing with a blanket like sparkling snow and settled down, restoring the grass to its former appearance. Maleficent healed the bark of trees that got scorched with her fire of life. And that comforted her. Even returned from the other world, she still knew how to heal trees. Knew how to restore. Knew how to right her wrongs. It was a relief.

     It was around that time that Maleficent noticed the change in her appearance. It was almost funny, the way both times the Phoenix’s magic decided her looks just did not cut it for an event as important as rising from the ashes. And it must have ignored the November chill — it chose not some lush lined houppelande with flaring sleeves falling to the ground, but a snug well-fitted velvet gown shimmering in the sun. Yet the dress wasn’t voluminous or heavy, which she supposed would make flying easier. And the treasure hidden in the folds remained in place.

     It wasn’t the Phoenix’s last little trick — it also left her hair down. She was out of the habit of wearing it that way, did not know if the hairstyle still suited her. For some reason, it was loved by everyone except for herself, especially by Diaval. When Aurora was still but a frequent visitor on the Moors, she would always ask her to remove the headpiece so she could braid her hair. And Diaval, being Diaval, would condone that silly undertaking.

     Aurora. Diaval. She needs to come back.

     She hadn’t seen them in ages.

     Flying in the dress was indeed easy, even with the insane speed she gained. She did not have the courage to take the short route, however — high in the sky, she circled the house and landed a little off.

     To her great relief, there were no more hordes of spectators dallying around the shack — in fact, there was not a soul outside at all. Maybe enough time has passed, maybe they had been frightened by her doomsday, or perhaps they’d been waiting just for something like that the whole day and now, satisfied, have happily gone home. Maleficent decided to come in through the main entrance.

     Inside the number of people has diminished as well. All the children were gone, and King John has disappeared, along with his blasted rigged out entourage, warriors and jesters. True, the cooks had not left their combat post, and a dejected man was sitting under the stairs with a piglet on his lap, and coming down the stairs was...

     “Aurora...”

     The sun was hitting her back as the fairy stepped forward. The queen smiled a little — and was surprised to find herself in an embrace.

     “Mother, you’re back!”

     Yes, she is back! Heavens, she somehow came back.

     Maleficent wrapped her arms around her daughter’s neck, trying, despite her overflowing tenderness, not to press the girl too hard, because she was holding the child in her arms. Mairead just laughed and reached out to the embellishments on her dress. Maleficent drew back to peer into her radiant, ruddy face.

     “Oh, hello there, my pearl!” The girl gripped her index finger instead of a greeting. The fairy broke free of her grasp to pull a yellow-haired doll from under the folds of her dress. Mairead beamed. “I couldn’t leave you worried about your little friend, now, could I...” Maleficent shook her head solemnly.

     “Hah, and we turned the house over searching for it! I even made Phillip look upstairs...” Aurora rolled her eyes. The prince perked up from the corner next to the cooks, distracted from his plate of stew — Aurora defiantly waved the doll in Mairead’s hand. He chuckled, got up and walked towards them, greeted Maleficent, took Mairead from Aurora’s arms and returned to the meal with her. Aurora’s smile faded slightly. “Mother, are you all right?”

     “Yes.”

     Compared to an hour ago, she was. Compared to a year ago — even more so. The fire of the Phoenix seethed within her, restless. Of course, soon enough it will subside, and it’s bound to leave her in the cold waters more than once — but now that she stood firm on her two feet, she felt no fear. How to put it into words, she had no idea — nor was she sure if that was what she was asked about in the first place — so she merely added a nod and a smile to her laconic answer. Aurora grinned back, her shoulders slightly relaxed.

     “Maleficent!” suddenly squeaked Thistlewit, flying up to her ear. “The man—”

     “My son!” broke past her warning. Maleficent nearly knocked the man down with her wing. “My boy is still a piglet!” he shouted. His face was alarmingly lustrous, amusingly pitiable and resembling a ripe apple in colour.

     “Oh, mother, they’ve been waiting for you here all this time,” the queen frowned. “Will you please turn him back?”

     Maleficent couldn’t find enough causticity in herself. A snap of her fingers turned the running piglet into a tall plump boy. Judging by his eyes, he had not been half as upset by the transformation as his father. The man reluctantly bowed goodbye to her, and to Aurora, and to Phillip, while the boy only shot them a broad smile and hurried after him to the exit.

     “If you meet King John, tell him that my mercy does not extend to his wife!” Maleficent called after them — then stealthily watched Phillip again. She never quite cared how the prince felt about his mother having hooves now, but judging by the way he only watched the pair go without changing his expression for a second and then returned to his daughter, the news did not bother him as much as it could. Humans are such strange creatures, she thought. Queen Ingrith must not have loved her child at all. Maleficent didn’t understand that — and perhaps that was a good thing. She looked at her daughter: so grown up already, so smart, so strong, but still childishly joyfully rosy-cheeked. Her hair still shone brighter than gold, her eyes sparkled with the blue of the river water, cool and murmuring, and she was all like spring, sunlight personified, and she’s missed her so much all this time... “Beastie...”

     She hugged her again, tighter now, and pulled her close with all her might. Aurora reciprocated.

     “I’m glad you missed me so much so soon. I missed you a lot as well. Don’t worry about what happened,” she said suddenly, anticipating Maleficent’s thoughts that hung like a gray cloud over her head, “I won’t hold it against you! I swear. I was only worried that you wouldn’t come back,” she drooped, and Maleficent’s heart sank.

     Yes. Some time ago she was sure of that herself. But she did come back. True Love’s Kiss. Diaval kissed her...

     That’s it. That’s what was wrong in this room. Whom she was missing in this place.

     “Aurora,” she uttered, her voice deliberately even, taming the bitter rising dread. “Where is Diaval?”

     The queen made her way to the cooks, glancing thoughtfully at the stove.

     “Ah, he’s probably still in the backyard,” she sighed ruefully, pointing to the back door. “He left half an hour ago. I’ve already begged him to come back inside, but I guess he’s determined to go down with lung fever.”

     There was an ill-concealed annoyance in her voice, and Maleficent silently wondered if this had happened before. What... what was Diaval doing the day she left, a year ago? Two weeks later, on her birthday? Or on his birthday, a little less than two months ago, when she didn’t come? All this time they hadn’t seen each other? And today, after her escape?

     As she sneaked out of the house into the backyard through the front door, avoiding eyes, skirting the building, the dread amplified a hundredfold to a nervous throb in her temples. Yes, she returned to the real world where they both were safe and sound. Only here she had told him the nastiest of things. It had been almost three days for her, but only a couple of hours for him. Surely he...

     He was sitting. With his back to her, on one of the cabinets brought outside, between the chute leading to the mill along which she came, and an old chest. He was holding something in front of him — she could only see his back and nape.

     Maleficent got closer, and he gave a start. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked at her, then at the forest before them whereto she’d left, and then behind her whence she came, then back at her — up and down, along her changed dress, down her hair. But then his gaze dimmed, relaxed, as if it didn’t really interest him that much after all.

     This threw her into a stupor. But she should have expected it. He had the right to pretend — or not so much pretend — that her presence had nothing to do with him.

     Except Maleficent could not bear it.

     Quietly, she approached him from the side, gestured at the remaining space to his right. He budged slightly to the left. She sat down next to him. He still didn’t say anything, only took a sip from the cup he was holding. It smelt nice. Maleficent snorted.

     “Lemon balm? Since when do you have this habit?” she chuckled — and Diaval looked at her in confusion. “I’ve never seen you drink it before,” she explained.

     Diaval raised an eyebrow. “Well, you haven’t seen me in a while,” he remarked.

     “Right,” the fairy snapped hopelessly and looked in the same direction — forward. So they remained sitting while everything inside Maleficent quivered mercilessly, striving to decipher the intonation with which Diaval uttered his words, and think up something, anything she could say to him in order to start some kind of conversation.

     “You’ve changed,” Diaval eventually rescued her minutes later. 

     Again, she did not quite understand whether it was a question, a reproach, or just a statement, as well as what exactly he was referring to, so she twisted her lips and squeezed out a laugh, “My hair grew longer, I know,” but Diaval’s look clearly conveyed that her humour was just as lame. To be fair, he glanced at her hair, snorted, and looked away, shaking his head. And left them in heavy silence again. She was still helpless in small talk. Was it worth trying to keep it, this small talk? Or is it better to just make a clean breast of it? But what would that “it” even be? Where to begin? Will he listen? From where he stands, she still regretted ever knowing him. “You haven’t changed much, though,” she remarked quietly. He looked much the same as she had last seen him — a nice suede doublet, slightly grown hair.

     “I was supposed to?” 

     She shrugged. “I thought you’d grow a beard.”

     By some miracle, this amused him, at least a little bit — the raised corner of his lips gave him away. “Why would I do that?”

     “To spite me, of course,” Maleficent smiled. “Since I’m not here to ridicule you for it.”

     And just as magically as it appeared, his verve vanished. He almost bristled. “Sure, mistress,” he rasped, sipping the rest of his cup. “That’s what I usually do, isn’t it. That’s what servants do — act against the wishes of their masters. To spite them.”

     She glared at his angry face. With tenacious paws, the November cold crept up to her throat. He couldn’t still consider himself... He couldn’t...

     “You know very well you are not my servant. You’ve been free for a long time,” she said labouredly — until a mocking ‘so you left him without wings?’ shook her. “Even if—”

     “Is that so?” the raven squinted. “I’m afraid it’s not been a year and a day just yet. You should’ve waited another month,” he grunted, not looking at her, swaying slightly. “Unless, of course, my mistress gave me a sack when we spoke last — but, I realize now, she did...”

     Not angry. His face. It wasn’t angry — she realized now — wasn’t offended. Sad, just sad.

     She’d said it would be better if they never knew each other.

     “No, that wasn’t—” she rose from her seat — you don’t mean that — oh, I do — and froze in front of his seated figure. “Diaval...” She longed to take his hand, to make him not only look wary and startled at her abrupt movement, but also understand her, somehow see everything through her eyes. “I know my words hurt you,” she picked her words like cards flying from her hands, autumn leaves soaring into the air, “and I know we were avoiding each other for ages—”

     “ We were not avoiding each other. You were avoiding me. I tried to meet you for several months,” Diaval cut through, and shame rose in her throat. Damn it. She’d thought they both... and they never... Diaval shook his head, “It doesn’t matter. I stopped after a while. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, forget it,” he muttered, pursing his lips as he set the cup aside. He took a deep breath. “Listen... I’m happy to see you. I’ve been worried about you. But you,” his heavy gaze slid down the hem of her dress, “look as beautiful as ever. That’s good to know... The last time we met,” he winced, “I completely misread everything, and what I did was unacceptable. It was not my intention. It will never happen again. You won’t have to deal with or speak to me.” He swayed a little, twitched his shoulders. “Like I said, I’m glad to see you again, it’s all right if you’re not.”

      No, no, no!!!

     “I am!” she breathed out in a voice she did not recognize. “I’m so glad to see you,” the fairy reached for the hand that put the bowl away. He stared at it like it was the strangest thing in the world. “I’ve done so much to come back here and see you again,” she gulped, squeezing his hand tighter. Who cares, who cares if he has no idea that she is talking about, who cares if time had bent around her, had hidden her short little heart drama into its pocket — it had happened to her anyway, and she came out different, changed and now she could finally say... “And I missed you very much. We—”

     “Didn’t look like it,” he said, and his oppressive, self-deprecating stubbornness was destroying her already barely present composure.

     “Diaval... I never say what I mean to say. You ought to know by now,” the fairy forced a smile — and could not ignore his shifted eyebrows in response to either that wry smirk or to the arguable statement. That discouraged her — she let go of his hand. But Diaval did not look away. He was staring at her attentively, if a little bewildered. It was a good sign. She tried to rein in her burning feelings, to wrap them up in words. “We... We really need to talk. In private. Later, when the feast is over. I have a lot to explain, so much that I haven’t a clue where to start. But I need to fix this, all of this, for both of us.”

     She had nothing more to say. As if spellbound, she waited for a reaction, but Diaval mirrored her expectant look. When it became clear that she had exhausted herself, the raven blinked and leaned back — only then did she notice that he had leaned closer. His face softened before he looked away, took a deep breath, and—

     —and the door creaked open behind them.

     “Father—?” Aurora called — and then exclaimed, “Oh, you’re both here!” as they gave a start and stared at her and Mairead in her arms. The latter just waved her hand, and Diaval immediately smiled back, albeit absent-mindedly. “Isn’t that wonderful!” the queen melted, and Maleficent tried to recall the last time she’d seen her parents together. And since when did she call Diaval father? In Maleficent’s presence, he was addressed by name. Or has she missed that too?... But Aurora was already frowning. “If only you weren’t freezing here! You’re going to get sick all over again, father, you’d really better go inside. Although— Well— I see you two are in the middle of something...” she grew embarrassed and even took a step back. Perhaps Maleficent was seeing things, perhaps Diaval did give a benign pitying smile. “Hrmph. All right. I might as well take advantage of it. Mother,” the queen’s attention shifted, “we’ve already had another pear pie baked, and this time it did not burn. You— I mean, you two...” She let out a rather unroyal exasperated sigh. “You’ll figure it out yourselves. But you’ll do me a favour in return, will you? Would you be so kind as to feed Mairead? She’ll behave, she promised me.” Aurora looked at the baby, “Didn’t you?”

     The girl confidently said, “No!” 

     Aurora clicked her tongue. “Come on!” she called them again. “I’ll be waiting for you!” chimed the voice one last time as she shut the door.

     Diaval was the last to look away. Maleficent was watching his tense face, and he knew she was, but he got up anyway and picked up the cup.

     “Let’s go,” he said softly. But the tension must have got to him the way it did to her — tearing through it with unprecedented smoothness, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “We can talk, I don’t mind. I... Nevermind.” He withdrew his hand as though burnt. Drew away. Headed towards the house, skirting her as she was pinned to the ground. “You feed, I hold,” he said at the very entrance, and she came unstuck from her spot.

     Some of the strain remained in the backyard — Maleficent stepped in with a stock of volatile yet necessary relief. Diaval was gliding through heat and steam, rearranging chairs, taking a knife, turning a round cake into pieces, picking up the golden-haired beauty who chose not to sit down with him to dine but to declare war on the feathers on his head.

     Taking her seat on a nearby chair, seeing the two coo to each other, Maleficent suddenly realized that she had never seen them playing together, and the thought burned her heart so much that she could hardly sit still. The very scene — Diaval having the girl in his lap and telling her what the pie and the salad are made of, as if she understands him — filled her with tenderness so overwhelming that it leaked out in the stupidest of ways...

     “...Never thought I’d see you baby talking, ” Diaval remarked cautiously when the girl refused to swallow another spoonful from her hands.

     “Open your mouth,” the fairy frowned. “Open wide! Here comes the birdie!” she rocked the spoon with theatrical enthusiasm. The girl retorted with something very long, very incensed — and completely incomprehensible. “Oh, now you’re just lying!” the fairy threatened in response, and Diaval finally laughed. She shot him a fiery, mocking look. “I don’t baby talk. And if I do, you saw nothing.”

     Diaval pursed his lips, as if promising to keep his mouth shut even under pain of death. His gaze, however, was so warm, so disarmingly affectionate, that Maleficent involuntarily wondered if he was occupied with the same kind of thoughts she had.

     She let them occupy him while she manoeuvred the spoon to dismember a pear for the toothless devourer.

     “How long are you staying?” he asked a little later, betraying no emotion. 

     She tried to mimic his restraint. “As long as I can.”

     “Really?” he cracked right up. “But what about your post, your duties...?”

     “I hope they can kindly get off my tail for a while.”

     “Hah! Well said,” a smile touched his lips — she mirrored it too.

     “I knew you’d appreciate.”

     They didn’t talk much after that, merely exchanged instructions. Mairead chewed on a couple of peas, a few spoonfuls of mashed turnips. They did not dare to give her a pie, so they had to pick out the pear slices from it. Those she did enjoy a great deal — the little princess was a hopeless sweet tooth, which upset her parents (as though they were not the same way) and pleased both flattered cooks.

     After much gratitude, the child was eventually taken away to be prepared for the ride home, and the number of people downstairs got lower still. The two of them were left to finally deal with the poor pie. They ate in silence — the cooks still hovered nearby, and thoughts would not enter their heads. Most of the time, Maleficent pretended not to notice that she was being stared at. Diaval pretended not to stare.

     But the pie had a tendency to come to an end, and there were only so many warm clothes to put on the princess and old memorabilia around the house to collect. Maleficent magically returned the furniture outside to its place, while Aurora, Mairead, Phillip and their retinue awaited their carriage. As they loaded it and fervently bid goodbye to their parents and aunties, some more time passed — until it poured out, down to the very last drop, into the blue-violet fading sky.

     The hut became empty — once the prosperous royals took their leave, once the busy pixies flew away, it was just the two of them standing between the locked door and the vespertine unknown.

     The raven plunged into it first.

     “Where do you want us to...”

     “In my cave,” the fairy nodded. She allowed herself to lighten up. “I hope you took good care of it lest it gets buried in dust and moss?”

     She didn’t mean it, of course. She did not expect him to — besides, she had not abandoned her cave. Every once in a while she would roost there, if the flight back to the island on the same day that she came seemed beyond Maleficent’s strength. But those nights were just as painful and difficult as in the grotto above the Phoenix’s cliff, except that at home she was afraid to accidentally stumble upon the sleeping Diaval.

     But he gave a deep frown. “You’re the only person who’s been there for the last two years. It’s your home, after all, not mine. And... I wouldn’t be able to,” he shrugged. “The rock is a tad too steep to climb.”

     Right. Of course. Damn it. He was a man.

     “Right,” she only nodded, barely holding her head upright under the weight of shame and embarrassment. The same shame, however, gave her determination. Perhaps she has no idea how to put her heart to words — but she had already tried this spell once. “I shall attend for that too.”

     The fairy summoned her magic and showed him its brilliance instead of a warning or a question. He nodded and she snapped her fingers. The raven took off with a cry of joy, and her own wings lifted her into the cold evening air.

     She had the time of her life flying with him. As always.

     After a thunderstorm at midday and a gray afternoon, the sky sank into the depths of royal blue. Clouds floated in its vast, purple and dark pink, light and soaring, brazenly trying to hide some of the stars, but in vain — there were too many of them. Their distant glittering neighbourhoods swept by: the hunter Orion, the Great Dog. Their flying figures seemed to be being chased by the Charioteer. The long periwinkle Andromeda was leaving their sight — for almost a year, until August.

     Maleficent looked down at the Perceforest woods and the Moorlands drifting past them. Bare until spring, mired in twilight, they seemed dark purple, inky. The hills glowed gray and blue, and the river, still unfrozen, shimmered like a sapphire necklace under the celestial dome.

     The Fae will love it here. When they finally get here, they will love this place. Where there is sky, where there are stars and clouds and seasons. Where the sun is not some kind of ghostly ray that barely reaches its hand down through the thorns but a ball of fire that turns night into day and day into night, silver morning into blue midday, into a purple-scarlet dusk, into violet twilight, into emerald midnight and back to silver morning. Where every goddamn year from October to April it snows, and all that’s left is to complain and wonder when it would end, and when it does end and the heat begins, everyone dreams of snow. Where there is always some noise in the trees: tiny pixies or the wind itself. Where there is the roaming autumn fog, the most magical thing in the world — soaring water, a frozen downpour.

     But the fairy did not look up or down so often. Maleficent watched Diaval. He descended and rose without moving his wings at all, only spreading them and letting the wind carry him. Looking at his hovering figure, she would never have guessed that he hadn’t flown in over a year.

     But Diaval did not soar for long — he interrupted his graceful swing to roll to the side, make a turn or half turn, or break into an elaborate loop, because Diaval was a poseur first and a raven second. She wasn’t even sure he was impressing her necessarily — most likely, he was simply proving to himself that he’s still got it. As if anyone questioned it.

     But Maleficent did not let him dazzle her. It was a piece of cake for her to catch up and overtake him, to force him to stay close so as not to be blown away by the wind she caused. He did not mind — he only croaked happily and took an abrupt turn to fly not beneath, but above her. It was a blatant challenge, and she was hooked like a fish, so they circled each other all the way to the finish line, figuring out who’s holding on the wind better, which was completely unreasonable, because it took a ton of strength.

     Finally, among the trees and the approaching darkness appeared her cave, a huge black opening maw — and all the determination that had been pushing Maleficent forward dissipated. But it was too late to change plans, so the first thing she did having landed was to light all the lights and candles she could find. Diaval pushed some closer to her with his beak, and soon even a small constellation appeared in the cave.

     Their dim, modest glow, however, did little to ease the creeping dread. Too much like her self-imposed cell on the island. Like the dungeon. Like a much deeper cave from which there should be no way out. And the November evening frost only made it worse — she was all numb.

     The fairy turned around — perched on the edge of her nest, shimmering in blue and purple, Diaval was preening. Perhaps she’d better grant him magic right away while she was full of strength, but he seemed to intend to have the conversation first, giving her some time to think with his actions. But it did not help — he looked up from the case when he was done, and the wind was still whistling in her head.

     He made a crooning sound.

     “I don’t know where to begin,” she admitted, afraid her voice was giving away her nervous exhaustion. Diaval spread his wings and swooped down low with a loud croak — a familiar sign. A raven became a man. He sat down on the edge of the nest, watching her reaction, although the liberties were the least of her concerns.

     “We could start with today. You said—”

     “I didn’t mean any of that,” she leaned forward — but — you don’t mean that — oh, I absolutely do. “That is, I...”

     “You said that you were pulled in all directions,” Diaval cut her desperate lie short, and it was not quite what she expected to hear, so Maleficent twitched. “That you’re like a puppet in the hands of anyone who finds you,” the raven repeated heavily, and the echo of her past words pushed her to take a seat beside him. He propped his head on his hand. “Your Phoenix duties...” he glanced at her and sighed. “Are you having a hard time with it all?”

     Her surprise and hurt ego unfolded in a short sniff. 

     “Hah! Is it that obvious?” the fairy gave a bitter smile, mirroring his motion.

     “Well, I’m afraid I could tell.”

     Maleficent recalled the times when they would still see each other and visit Aurora together, back when she had been carrying the child under her heart and not in her arms. Recalled his inquiries about her matters, her awkward and cold evasions, like blows of an axe.

     “Yes... I knew you could. And it was terribly annoying,” she shook her head gently. “Your questions and all.”

     His face clouded up. “I did it because I cared—”

     “I know. I know that.” She reflexively held out her hand, but his was too far away. The fairy exhaled and just leaned on it. “I knew that. I just... couldn’t tell you anything. I doubt I can tell you anything now , I won’t find the words,” the irritation turned into an angry, tired sigh. Say anything, anything worthwhile! she prayed to herself, but only what had already been said in the afternoon would cross her mind, nothing convincing, nothing clarifying. She sensed warmth — Diaval took her hand above the wrist. “I thought I’d fix it, fix us once it gets better.” The words finally took shape, enveloping her imagination and all that remained on the island and in her memory. “But it never did. And then that... thing happened. It only made matters worse because... You—”

     “I messed up,” muttered the raven; his hand rose a little higher to her elbow. “Forgive me. I got the wrong idea, I just... I’m so sorry,” he squeezed her arm, but then let go. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

     “No,” she turned to him. “It’s all right, you—” the fairy peered into the face opposite. ‘You...’ But what’s next? She could have said, ‘You may kiss me, you may take my hand’ , but he looked too gloomy in his embarrassment, his imagined disgrace, not to take her words for a mockery. That, and she doubted she could utter them. So she said the next best thing. “I have no hard feelings towards you for that, I haven’t for a while now. I just didn’t expect your move. Nor your feelings.”

     “Really?” flashed his sour smile. “I didn’t think I was hiding them all that well.”

     “I don’t know if you were hiding them well or not. You can expect anyone else to have an eye for that, but not me, Diaval,” the fairy shook her head. A couple of the candles, she noticed, had already gone out, the others slowly following suit. “But you frightened me. It is not your fault. It all happened at the wrong time,” she strained. The raven’s gaze was attentive, but she could not satisfy his curiosity. Even if “the wrong time” was such a nebulous, vague concept. Time... Time was still bubbling around her and roaring in her ears. Until recently, there was no time around her at all, and now there was so much of it — the past, the present, and the future — that she was lost in them. Better to follow the line without swerving. He had tried to kiss her. He had frightened her. And she... “And I was wroth with you, with your impudence. I thought you were being unfair. But I also...” Everything in her stirred against her judgement — her palm reached for his cheek, her lips spoke of their own accord. “I also missed you so much... More than I realised myself,” the fairy smiled. She expected him to crack a joke, as he did a long time ago — but no such luck. He only peered at her. “So you can imagine I was in my feelings today. And then all that ado... I didn’t know what to say, but I’ve been meaning for us to talk it out for a long while. I wanted us to make up, but I didn’t know how, and then everything went awry—”

     “You wanted us to make up?” Diaval interrupted her.

     His voice made her take her hand away. His tone was... She didn’t know, she didn’t know, damn it. What was it in his voice? Determination, hope? But what if what she heard was a broken, insipid sneer — the worst of sneers — because of how ludicrous and belated her thought was? No, it wasn’t a sneer. She heard... She heard uncertainty.

      “And I missed you very much.” — “Didn’t look like it . ”  

      “All I want is to be left alone!” — “Everyone has already left you alone! For almost two years!”

      “I will not stay here to treat your feverish body if you catch a cold.” — “I wouldn’t dream of it, mistress.”

     “You wanted us to make up?”

     “Yes,” fluttered from her lips... “Of course. One day,” she whispered, and realized that she was telling the truth. Even at her worst, even when she thought she hated him more than herself. And all those two-plus days that she spent gnawing at every opportunity to come back. There it had been, this feeling — that they would someday reconcile. Even such grief could not separate them forever. Against the odds they had found each other in another world — let alone this one... “I didn’t ween it would take me a year to open my mouth, but I...” she tried to smile, but Diaval’s face was motionless — the same slightly cracked hesitance. And in a moment, Maleficent understood where it all comes from, his mannerisms, his jittery movements, his ever-darting gaze — from not knowing where you stand, what you mean to someone who means a lot to you. But she knew what he meant to her now — turns out she had known all along. “I don’t want to give up on you, on us.”

     And that was true, too.

     Diaval squinted a little, and she was convinced he was mocking her. But then he made a sigh — of relief, she realized — and took a deep breath...

     “Then let’s say we have made up,” she heard. “We’ll figure out how we did it later, but for now — we’ve made up.”

     And the clock hands in her head started moving. 

     They seemed to switch places: he tried to smile, and she simply stared back as though having just regained her hearing, until the words hit her on the head like a pendulum. The hour struck — and the bird sang.

     And then she leaned forward and pounced on him.

     He wrapped his arms around her, and she loved him more than ever, more than she thought she could before.

     This was enough for him. Her few words were enough for him. He is... he is...

     “You are my dearest friend, you know,” she breathed into his shoulder, because he should have known that and never looked at her with such uncertainty again. And his palms clasped below her wings.

     “And you’re mine. I missed you terribly. But you knew that already, didn’t you,” he said against the crown of her head. She smiled without looking up. “I’m sorry I frightened you, I never meant to. I shouldn’t have crossed the line. We could have done without it. I’m sure you’d have had an easier time, too.”

     “I don’t know about that. It was... a difficult time,” the fairy breathed. Again, again, not right, too dry, too shallow...

     “Hey,” Diaval touched her shoulder as she clutched at his own. “We agreed that it could wait. You don’t have to tell me everything now. I’m in no hurry.”

     Yes... They had time. She could fall asleep and wake up in the morning and not be afraid that it would be her last... A wondrous feeling, if unfathomable. She still remembered the cold creeping up on her through the morning sunlight, Diaval’s figure leaning over her, the way she held on to the feel of his feathers under her fingers...

     And remember something else, too. Something important. And interesting.

     “Diaval...” He hummed back, lost in thought. “If you could look different, would you stay the same?”

     “Are you on about the beard again?”

     “No. If you could be a man, but...” she smiled, reminiscing, “say, look more like yourself. With feathers, a tail, bird vision...”

     “Instead of looking like I do now?”

     “Not necessary. But let’s say that.”

     “I’ll pass, then.” 

     She smirked — but realized he hadn’t said what she expected. “Wait, are you serious? Why?”

     “Well, for one, because I’m already used to looking like this. And that took a damn long time,” he jutted his chin — and looked away. “Not to mention that you made me this way and not any other.”

     “Diaval, what have I got to do with it? I’m asking you— ”

     “What do you mean, ‘What do I have to do with it’? You made me this way. This is the most important gift you’ve given me. I would like to keep it as is.”

     His gaze conveyed the rest: the good and the bad, the gratitude and the longing in separation. Everything inside her swelled up — both from pity and from tenderness. 

     But all she said aloud was, “Heavens. You’re so sentimental,” and he snorted. “Well, all the easier for me. Sit up. I have another gift for you.” She straightened up and let him do the same. “I’ll have to do what your granddaughter loves to do.” She pulled the feather right out of his hair, ignoring his yelp. He extend his hand upon her request, she placed the feather covered it with hers.

     “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” he whispered.

     “I cannot in good conscience deem you released from service unless I grant you the freedom to transform.”

     “I’ll be a raven-man?”

     “A raven-anyone. Even a bear during spawning.”

     “Ah! Hurry up, then.”

     This time her summoning call was confident — and it garnered a power she hadn’t known last time. It blew out all the remaining lights, leaving in the darkness of the night only a sparkling, shimmering yellow and orange of magic. It hugged her under the elbows, rolled down her wings — and rushed towards Diaval. Maleficent squeezed his hand in warning. But this once she kept her eyes open and saw him staring back, two black mirrors reflecting the gold.

     Gold.

     It was no longer a bad omen — only a sign of her magic. Her gift. Gold was not taking away freedom anymore — it was bestowing it.

     And again roared the waves as they hit the rocks — her back; again swayed the willows — her torso; and again contracted the muscles of her entire body, squeezing her out like a cloth. And now Maleficent could see Diaval’s skin glow, his hair stand on end, his irises widen, the marks on his temples and neck become much more visible... Diaval gasped and staggered forward — she nearly reached out to kiss him.

     The seal of magic seeped under his eyes and flashed — and then everything went dark. The candles were gone, and so was the man in front of her. A black raven beat his wings under the ceiling.

     “Just don’t turn into a bear right now, there isn’t enough room.”

     Diaval croaked a chuckle. And once more. She smiled.

     Perhaps the magic was indeed stronger this time, perhaps she was nervous, perhaps she had flown too dashingly in the evening, or perhaps something else had an effect — but Maleficent felt so exhausted that she was ready to fall into bed right then.

     The bird landed imposingly onto her knee. She languidly petted his head, he just as languidly croaked in response as though humouring her. But she still stroked him under the beak and between the eyes, as a treat, for coping with everything so well. He opened his beak, and she mockingly almost made him choke. Scandalized, he defiantly — but very carefully — chewed on her finger that, by pure chance, landed between the jaws. She flicked his forehead in punishment, even though there was nary a scratch.

     “Won’t you turn into a man?” she asked at last. Diaval shook his head, but that didn’t upset her. “I really want to sleep. I take it so do you. You could stay the night if you like.”

     It appeared that he did.

     Dead on her feet, Maleficent floated from one corner of the cave to the other and back again. To take a bedspread, a blanket, a change of clothes. To hang her dress, to tie the nightshirt at the back. To close up the entrance to the cave with a thick drape and branches to prevent the cold from getting inside. But eventually she ended up in her nest.

     Maleficent rolled onto her side, pressed her wings to her back and covered herself with a blanket — exposing only one arm, because Diaval lay down on it. He cooed, perched, fluffing his beard feathers, tucking his head to his chest, hiding behind a wing.

     She was dying to annoy him in some way — to scratch his wing, which he did not like, or to poke or tickle him, but she restrained herself in the name of fatigue that had washed her like a ship to the shore. Every movement would take her away from sleep... And she didn’t sleep a wink last night... Isn’t that ironic... You’d think an eternity in the world of Death would get you rested enough...  So unfair... Such a stupid, ridiculous injustice... At least now she’s very warm…

     ...She dreamed of something vague and floating, and it lost its meaning, colour, and the very memory of itself the very instant she opened her eyes. She was lying on her back, it was still dark, and her head was tilted uncomfortably to the side. She tried to turn it the other way.

     She tried — to no avail. It didn’t move.

     Her gaze shifted down to her right arm the bird was lying on, and she tried to move her palm, to pull it out.

     Nothing happened. She remained motionless.

     Enchanted. She was enchanted. Again, again—

     Something was whistling — whistling for a while, only to stop. She could no longer move her eyes. There was suddenly something heavy on her chest — it got heavier and heavier still, it lowered, pressed down on her chest like a block, a broken wall.

     Sound outside. Something was clambering up the rocks outside, up the cliff, right here. She was stuck in her body, as though a force prevented her from even blinking, even breathing, even... — something black appeared right above her — ...even screaming, she wanted to scream — but the blackness crept closer, spilled to her right and—

     “Mistress... Mistress! Maleficent,” came a whisper right above the ear. “It’s me. It’s me. Can you move?... It’s alright. It’s alright.”

     Weight — it was everywhere now — but different. Diaval. These were his hands. She barely moved her eyes. She must have exhaled as it whistled.

     “Good, good. Everything’s going to be fine. Look, you’re better already. Come on, come on, wake up,” she was slightly shaken by the shoulders. “Maleficent. Maleficent.”

     It was soothing. Her name. His voice. Diaval patted her cheek, rubbed his hands over her shoulders and arms until they came to life and she slowly held them out towards him.

     Her name sounded again and again, and he slowly removed her hair from her face and tossed it onto her back. That, too, was good, although he must have been disgusted — life was returning to her body, and now Maleficent felt in a muck sweat and terribly cold at the same time. She was mumbling something, too, something stupid and beyond her comprehension — words of gratitude, she hoped — and tried to catch her breath.

     “...Are you feeling better?”

     Her stiffened wings finally thawed and dropped on both sides — Diaval rose slightly, lifting the fairy with him, and now she was almost sitting, leaning against his chest, her wings covering them.

     “How did you know...?”

     “Don’t know. Your breathing was strange.”

     “Thank you...”

     “Has this happened to you before?”

     “...A couple of times.”

     But those times had been different. She would remain supine in the nest, enclosed in her own body, for what seemed to her a while. She would not even know what was happening to her, and there was no way to stop the visions until they passed by themselves, until she broke out screaming. This time she was supposed to stay calm; but those damn flowers — a wretched sense of lack of control was now for her forever entwined with them.

     She parted the drape, letting the moon into the room, and lit the candles closest to them, though only tiny lumps remained of it them. Diaval bent a little and pulled the blanket over them both, over the wings.

     “Is there anything I can do? I can prattle if you like. But tell me what you want to hear about.”

     Here it is. If she had doubts about whether she had remained in another world and whether the real one was but a late dream. This was Diaval. Who had already sat with her after nightmares before.

     The fairy ran her hand over the suede of the doublet. What did she want to hear about?

     “How was your year?” she rasped. “What did I miss?”

     “What did you miss...” the raven clicked his tongue. “Why, you missed a wedding! Yes, and not just any wedding, but one between a hedgehog and a mushroom, no less!” She chuckled in surprise. Now she recalled them! One of them was named Pinto, but she didn’t quite remember which one. “Yes, it was something. I was so gigantic compared to everyone else, I had to try my best not to trample anyone.” She shook her head in grave disapproval. “I said I tried not to! And I didn’t!” Diaval snorted — and caught her mocking gaze. “Ah. Whatever... What else?... It’s hard to say. Everything I’ve seen Mairead do, you probably have too. Ah! Wait.” He shook his head. “She hit me the other day!” he smiled. She bulged her eyes. “She did. On purpose! You see, she has this habit... Whenever she hits something, I have to kiss it better, and then I have to hit back whatever it was she bumped into — you know, for misbehaving. You can’t hurt my girl and all that. Why I’m the only person expected to perform this ritual, go figure,” he waved his hand. “But the other day she dropped her doll, and we both crouched on the floor to get it and bumped our foreheads. She started crying so I kissed her on the forehead. But, you know, I was wounded too, I deserve a kiss on the forehead too. I told her that — and then she came up to me and smacked me on the forehead.”

     This made her laugh. Diaval pretended to be extremely offended.

     “She adores you, though, I saw it,” the sorceress smiled.

     “Well... She used to cry at the sight of me, so yes, this is progress. Did she cry around you too?” She nodded. “They tried to convince me that this is because we’re—”

     “—not her parents, yes. That is true.”

     “Heavens. Humans are so strange. Ah, there it is!” the raven snapped his fingers. “You missed the epic ups and downs of my human nature.”

     “Haven’t I been witness to this epic for over twenty years?”

     “Oh, sure, but there’s been a new twist as the human form is now lasting,” he nodded. Damn. Again she recalled her foolishness, her thoughtless fear, resulting in such a mistake... And she could hardly even explain herself... “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” interrupted her thoughts. “It’s funny, really. I took up fishing. Can you imagine? I mean, with that huge stick and ropes that humans use, and with that annoying contraption.”

     He drew something in the air, something she did not recognize. But the picture her imagination painted intrigued her: Diaval, knee-deep in water, maybe even waist-deep... What would he do with his trousers? Where would he collect the loot? Was there a lot of it?

     “And how’s that going?” she asked from the pile of questions.

     “Pretty well, if I may say so! Phillip even gifted me a boat. So I can fish in that wide river between the Moors and Ulstead... There’s something to it,” he muttered, “though it’s not as nice as it could be... And other fishermen try to strike up a conversation, but I just... I don’t know... Don’t really feel like talking to them,” he shrugged.

     “That doesn’t sound like you,” the fairy frowned.

     “Ah. Maybe. I don’t know,” he broke off, which made her frown deeper still.

     And then, of course, her drowsy memory served up on a silver platter every single time her wretched raven tried to hint that he’s been lonely. All those stories he’d shared the last time they met... What were they about?... About the Perceforest folk who almost recognized him by sight. About some woman who would treat him to stew but not know his name. About the birds that flew away to warmer lands, while he stayed... and she did not...

     Don’t beat yourself up over it, she repeated to herself. She has already apologized for everything she could apologize for so far. The rest will come in time...

     She tried to look at the bright side, to fish out something funny in this vile set of circumstances. After all, she came from the other side. She’s seen a Diaval that Diaval himself, probably, could not suspect in himself — a Diaval who never knew Maleficent. And that was a rather sullen fellow, as she’s gathered in two days. Apparently, the absence of Maleficent in Diaval’s life makes the latter a brooding, unsociable grouch with a cistern of soothing tea — not only in twenty years, but even in one and a half. Who would have thought. Who knew that it was she who makes him an unbearable buoyant blabbermouth.

     It really was a funny thought — and all the more touching for it. If sad.

     He was supposed to fly with her to the island... Why didn’t she let that happen? Why was it so hard for her to even imagine...

     “Well, and what did I miss?” Diaval broke through the veil. She blinked the thought away. He bent his brows. “Hm. Well. I’ve manifestly missed your nightmares coming back...” a warm hand was on her shoulder again. “Do you have them often?”

     She didn’t really feel like discussing it. But the dream left her in a painful wakefulness, which, however, could not hold a candle to the monstrous weariness she would experience on the island those few times. Besides, she wanted to be honest. And there was nothing more to put off, no matter how much time she now had. One has to start somewhere.

     “Yes,” the fairy breathed. “As often as back then.”

      “Back then” was the time after Aurora’s sixteenth birthday, a few months later — when the joy of gaining back her wings, reviving her “goddaughter” and burying the hatchet with humans finally peeled off and opened up the abyss of what had been pushed away for the time being. Out to the surface came the weeks of miserable panic before the fateful day, the pain from the events in the palace. Echoed in dreams and nightmares were words never spoken to Aurora until too late, and those that the sorceress had refused to say to Diaval. After all, he’d tried to help, but she’d brushed him away, hiding the horror, the rumble of her understanding of the world, of justice, of love, of herself collapsing. He hadn’t even known she had tried to break the spell.

     And that was a funny thought, too — hadn’t it resolved the same way? He wanted to help her with a problem she wouldn’t even let him know about. She didn’t let him do it. And then it was too late.

     That’s what she had been talking about, choking in despair in the upper room of the infirmary — about perpetual mistakes, about the fact that she never learns anything. When it had seemed that she was not the Phoenix, not a bird hovering above time, but only a poisonous viper spinning in circles, devouring its own tail. When time and love had seemed to disappear.

     But the Phoenix was forgiven by those for whom she appeared for the first time. The Phoenix was forgiven — and sent back. And now...

     It had been Diaval who would pull her out of nightmares — back then, over six years ago. And then she would come clean — about the curse, about Aurora, and about everything that she had wanted to say at the Black Pond. Something was telling her that this time she would have to do the same. To learn the lesson once and for all.

     “Crap. That’s not good,” Diaval drawled, stroking her hair again. “What do you usually do with it?”

     “Nothing.” Maleficent gripped his sleeve, stopped his hand. “I can’t do anything because you’re not there. With me on the island,” she breathed. His hand now rested on her belly, and she would not let it be, squeezing his fingers, stroking his knuckles. “I think... I think that’s why I didn’t take you along. You would have seen me like this. You would have had to help me again—”

     “Are you bloody kidding me?” the raven cried. “You— you wretched—”

     “You know well that this is beyond your duty. Even if you were still a servant—”

     “I wouldn’t do it because I serve you.” He squeezed her hand in return. “You know that. It’s not about service. I—”

     “Yes. That’s the point. And if you’d been there, I’d have understood it myself, sooner or later. That you are not just my servant. That you have long been much more than my servant.”

     His hold loosened a little. He was silent for a moment. “And you didn’t want that,” he concluded in a flat voice.

     “No,” she shook her head immediately, but he misunderstood her. Damn it! “I mean, no , that’s not what I meant. It’s just that...” she glanced at him, but the words still wouldn’t come. “Heavens. I’m not good at making speeches, Diaval,” the fairy sighed. Disappointment made her finally unstick herself from him — she leaned against the wall to his right shoulder, pulling her covered legs to her chest. She tried to find the hidden answer somewhere on the dark ceiling. But the cave was silent. Outside spilt the ink of the night, the scattered stars and clouds illuminated by the moon. They reminded her of the old days. “Remember all those balls and ceremonies after the unification of the kingdoms? When we’d end up on the balconies every time?” she said slowly. Diaval nodded. “And we would talk about all sorts of nonsense.”

     With a warm chuckle, he nodded again. “Yes.”

     “I kept thinking about it, about those times, when I was away,” she drawled. “About how while discussing my past we accidentally cursed my future.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Remember one time we... I don’t remember how we got there, but we talked about how I’m the only one of my kind... It’s not only that it isn’t the case,” she pursed her lips. “We talked about how I’m different from the rest of the fair folk, even though I was born and raised among them. And that I still don’t always understand them. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t rule them fairly when I was Queen of the Moors...” She shook her head. “Well, as it turns out, when I find my own kind... Who were right under my nose for decades and only recognized my existence when they needed my help...” she said — and realized she had never told anyone about that before. About how, deep down inside, it was angering her. Or perhaps not quite angering, but rather... But that pain has already grown dull with time. “When I find them and realize how much they differ from me and how much they don’t understand...” She smiled bitterly, turning her head towards him. “Then I will find out that I don’t know how to rule them either.”

     Diaval’s gaze was heavy, sceptical. It was asking her to elaborate. “Hmm,” he just muttered.

     “I don’t know what went wrong.” She looked away. “Perhaps it is the case that too many people had faith in me, maybe I was trusted with too much. Or perhaps I’m just telling on them. There was a ceremony... Huh. You should’ve seen me. They put something on my head, and they painted my face so bright — I was a walking picture,” she snickered. “Was it any other time, they would’ve had a real celebration, but no one had the heart to make merry, and everything was so quiet and solemn. Perhaps I already knew it then...” she drawled. Perhaps she already knew it then — that she had no wish to be anyone’s leader, anyone’s queen, anyone’s mistress. Or perhaps she’d known it even earlier... Shouldn’t she have got it all the moment she’d uttered all those mean things the first day there, at that rock? The moment she’d said she had no daughter — hadn’t she felt so terribly ashamed later? Hadn’t she been glad, in her own way, bitterly glad that Diaval hadn’t made it there, or else he wouldn’t have bore those words?

     But no, Maleficent gave herself a shake. Conscience could not rewrite the past, wish as it may. Shame was always a late guest — when Maleficent spat bile, she did so from the bottom of her heart. When she did something, she always thought at that moment that she was doing everything right. And when she was crowned...

     “Or maybe I didn’t — maybe I’m just looking at it in hindsight,” the fairy shook her head. “For some reason, I don’t remember that day very well. Maybe I was full of determination. I even had some semblance of plans...” A crooked smile crawled onto her face. Yes, the plans hadn’t yet died back then. After all, she would fly back and forth more often back then. Once or twice a week. Back in those days, she would even satisfy Diaval’s curiosity on the matter. “I’d have meetings upon meetings with King John and his narrow-minded court, and we spent months drafting these papers and alliances, discussing utter nonsense. And they weren’t even always the fools in disputes... And even when we were done with the papers, there were still problems with the Moors...”

     “Problems with the Moors?”

     “Yes... You’ve seen Shrike, haven’t you? She’s of the Jungle Fae. They reside in hot, humid forests with plants whose leaves are bigger than my wings. Or take Borra and his tribesmen. They are Desert Fae. They live among hot sands — or rather, they’re supposed to. They would, were there any hot sands on the Moors. But the Moors are the moors.”

     “Wait, those trees that just sprang up here one day last spring — that’s all you?” he marvelled. She chuckled — it should’ve been obvious. Few others would even attempt growing pistachios in the Scottish Highlands! It had cost her weeks of thought and effort: examining the peculiar flora living — surviving — on the territory of Borra’s tribesmen, as well as their intricate hanging homes, and then trying to replicate something similar in completely different conditions. Growing any sclerophyllous plants on the Moors was, of course, an impossible notion — but the acacias and olives came out good, as if they had always grown here. But...

     “That wasn’t enough. There were those who refused to move, kept putting it off to ruminate. Especially the elders,” Maleficent dropped her head. The blanket was thick, pleasantly soft to the touch. She swept her palm back and forth over it, raising and flattening the pile... “Old, old fae from the deserts, they’d explain just how much they’d have to leave behind, but I still didn’t understand them. Because I never even had anything like that,” she said. She thought back to the tight circle of elderly Fae, their faces as lined as the cracked savannah land. Their long beards — black or silver — their sunken tan cheeks, eyes contoured with kohl, and thick eyebrows fused into one wide bush, which made their frown even more unperturbed. Many spoke a language that she did not understand well, and Borra did not do a good job translating. They would speak, oddly enough, about their language: about all the inscriptions in it on the island, which will be forgotten forever if they leave and die soon... The Tundra Fae would ponder on the same: on all the magical artefacts that will stay behind, on their long history. History! They did not know their happiness! They had history! They hadn’t lived away from everyone for decades! They were so... so... “They’ve been resisting for ages, quarrelling with me to stay — and this is when their children died for the chance for them to fly away!” Maleficent snapped with exasperation that came out of nowhere, a brief burst of anger. But, again, again, it wasn’t anger, it was... “Their children died,” she repeated in the silence of the cave. “Some in the massacre, and some even earlier. Not quite children, they were my age, but... A child is always a child,” she gulped. And before her eyes flashed the setting sun — the bloodiest sunset in her life. And her daughter, lying on her bed, fallen asleep forever... “I hate that I relate to it,” passed her lips quietly. “I hate it. I hate that the only thing that we have in common is death. Death, death, so much of it, and struggle all our lives.”

     There had been a tomb bloom field on the Moors — before it was defiled by humans, she’d only been there a few times, wondering if any pair of them belonged to her parents, and who all the others belonged to. Robin refused to elaborate on it, the pixie trio steered away from that part of the woods altogether. Perhaps she could find out — perhaps the Phoenix powers could have helped her — only she had not known she had them back then.

     There were two tomb bloom fields on the island: one in the valley of the Desert Fae and one around the Phoenix Rock, above which she lived in a cave. She would see them every day, soon as she stepped out — all the more reasons to stay inside. She doubted this was what the Dark Fae had imagined their future ruler to be like...

     “I think they were counting on me to know what to do,” she said as Diaval stroked her shoulder. It helped to remember that she’s in a completely different cave — even as the feeling lingered, enveloped her in dampness, stayed bitter on the tongue...

     “It’s not fair,” Diaval said with unexpected firmness, reminding her of his missing doppelganger. “You never asked for this. It’s cruel.”

     “Maybe it is. What matters is that I failed... And it ate me alive,” she said, staring into the gloom of the night. She remembered the beast that would attack her every day with the onset of darkness... “Got me so deep into its belly that I didn’t notice how much time had passed.”

      You failed , the beast suddenly told her. She recoiled. You can’t handle peace. You were born for war.

     She clung to Diaval’s arm. The beast roared at her, and she averted her gaze. She wasn’t asleep anymore, she could move her eyes. She was no longer imprisoned in her body, no longer enchanted. “Don’t listen to anyone else. Listen only to yourself”... She didn’t listen to anyone else. Especially incorporeal ghosts.

     Conall said that. Diaval said that. If she was born for chaos or for war, she wouldn’t rue it so much. If she was made for war, she wouldn’t burn to live.

     “It’s alright,” Diaval said nearby. “Don’t tell me if you don’t wish to.”

      You failed! shouted the beast. You promised me, you promised me... You let me down...

     ‘No,’ Maleficent thought to herself, so that the beast could hear. ‘I kept my promise. If I let him down... He forgave me. You forgave me. You said you forgive me.’

     Conall forgave her for his death. Conall said it was wrong to hide from everyone because of guilt over things that weren’t her choice. Over things she couldn’t change.

     “It’s so silly, really—”

     “Of course it’s not—”

     “— I’m the least affected by the tragedy,” she said. And then she closed her eyes. “Flittle... I never knew I could miss her so much. But I’ve always liked her best... Don’t tell anyone,” she breathed, and Diaval hummed, barely audibly, all warmth and woe. “And Leaf was like a brother to me. They knew me as a child...” Diaval’s hand slowly rose and fell along her own. The fairy remembered how Flittle healed her of her wounds in the infirmary. How she helped to get into the upper room at night. Maleficent tucked this love, this longing, along to everything else that was still good in her. “But I didn’t know most of the deceased. Even Conall — I’d only known him for a few days. He almost became my friend... You would have liked him. You both have nothing but moralizing on your mind...” she smiled. It came out watery. “I think he knew more. About the Fae, about their past, maybe even about my family. He could have told more if he had lived. Everything would’ve been different. But he died — for me,” strained the fairy. The palm of her arm stopped. Diaval knew about Conall, knew he had saved her from the sea, knew he had died, but Maleficent did not tell anything else. “On the eve of the battle, humans entrenched on the tomb bloom field, and I went there. There were warriors with bullets... He shielded me. Everyone knows that he got shot there, but he didn’t just get shot. He saved my life,” Maleficent said. Only she and Borra used to know about it. But Borra never discussed Conall with her. Or with anyone. She felt she knew why. “He died not only for me, but for all of us.”

     And she could hardly put in words how grateful she was to him for that.

     “Was he expecting you to take over after him, too?”

     “I used to think so. On his deathbed, he told me to remember who I was. I believed that was what he meant. But now I suspect that it was not the case,” the fairy looked away. The beast was no more. “He wanted me to lead the Dark Fae to peace. And I did everything I could for that. I don’t trust papers the way humans do, but that’s what we’re counting on. We have mulled over them for too long for them to carry no weight. But everything that’s happened since, on the island...” she swallowed. But the beast was indeed disappearing, she could feel it. Conall banished him, his accusing counterpart. Conall did not find her guilty. ‘Any chance of succor is invaluable, it’s vital,’ he said, ‘only this way we overcome grief, only thanks to each other we still live and live we shall.’ She promised herself she wouldn’t forget. “I can’t do this alone anymore,” Maleficent said clearly.

     In the silence, Diaval was peering at her, and she wondered if he was not accidentally hearing some echo of her thoughts.

     “You shouldn’t have done this alone. Nothing is worth doing alone. I thought you knew that.”

     She stared back at his words — were they not the same? were they not the same as those spoken by his twin? Oh, and he didn’t even have a clue... She smiled, and the two Diavals merged into one. She thought, now there’s no way he doesn’t already know everything without words. She had already told him all this.

     And he had lent her a very nifty phrase, if a little cheeky. ‘I won’t be doing this alone. And I won’t be doing this forever.’ Now she knew.

     She grinned wider. “I do. It took over a year to figure it out.”

     “Well, one year is not sixteen, could’ve been worse.”

     “...Shameless.”

     And Diaval laughed. She was almost not offended, so he beat a tiny smile out of her. Fancy that! she even missed this buffoonery.

     “So what’s the plan,” he finally sobered up, “now that this wisdom has struck you? What can we do to have you stop crucifying yourself?”

     Maleficent sighed. “They say that back before war became a real tangible danger, there had been a council of elders. Several men and women from each clan: from forest, jungle, tundra and desert fae. They were chosen by everyone else, and they would consider the important matters. I think that would be a good idea — although maybe not just the old geezers this time around. We made peace — why not restore the power that was in peacetime?”

     “Have you put that proposal forward?”

     “When I visit them next time.”

     “Good,” Diaval said firmly. But his eyes were piercingly soft — and soon his voice too. “I hope this makes it easier for you.”

     “I’m not doing this for myself,” the fairy rapped out. But no lying tonight. “...Maybe only partly for myself.”

     Diaval nodded contentedly and drew his hand away from her arm, as if he had just noticed it. But Maleficent still felt its warmth.

     If truth be told, she didn’t know what else to add. It seemed that she had sapped herself, and now a clear conscience kept her afloat like a rickety raft, and she was grateful that Diaval simply listened and said next to nothing. And yet there was something elusive — a twinkle of expectation in Diaval’s stare. In the silence that followed, she tried to remember or think up.

     “Are the other fae coming up with anything?” suddenly rang out. She turned her head. “To find some peace of mind? Surely they have some ways.”

     She hadn’t expected this question, and it alarmed her.

     “We held wakes for the first few months,” she answered slowly, remembering the blazing fires, the fae sitting in groups. She had been anxious that everyone would stare at her, but it was a narcissistic, self-absorbed thought — no one needed her that day. Everyone was too preoccupied with their sorrow to look at others. They flashed in her eyes, these scenes — the fae standing with funeral lights. She had hoped it would help. But grief cannot be sealed and put away like a chest — it crept in later, like a rattlesnake, like the falling sickness. “The Desert Fae tried summoning spirits — it never quite worked, so they gave up. Some stubborn ones still do it, of course... I’ve seen some find special herbs. They are chewed or smoked, as one likes... A peculiar thing — to say nothing of the smell.”

     “Have you tried them?”

     “No. I’ve been offered, but I don’t see the point. It does not change anything. Neither do séances.” She peered at him. “There are no spirits on the other side. I can tell you that for sure,” she tried to smile, because it was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t work out. She shivered in the sudden cold. “There is nothing on the other side,” she echoed and averted her gaze. The cold hasn’t gone away. “Besides... I don’t know,” a stifled breath escaped her. “You should have seen them, Diaval. You should have seen their faces — those old desert fae. Almost nothing grows in their part of the island — but now there is a field of tomb blooms in the middle of the sands. Their children are gone. No smoking can help that,” she managed. The calmness of her voice was gone. “And many children have lost their parents. They are so... little... but old enough to know and cry and...” She took a long, deep breath. “I’m almost glad that I never knew mine. That they died so early. I have nothing to remember, nothing to grieve about,” she whispered a thought that had until now only echoed in her head, never turned into words. In the stillness it rang especially frightening. Diaval took her by the hand, and she remembered the little girl that had brought and put a twig into her palm at the first evening fire. The next day she had lost her father. Even in Udo’s company, months later, she sometimes looked so lost that the fairy wished to be burnt alive every time. “And what do you say to them?” she found herself whispering, “what can I say to them? We can wrap them in blankets, find them a new family, move them to their true home, give them all the tinctures of the world, we can punish all the guilty — but what can we say to them? To those who’ve lost their family, their loved ones... I don’t know how to help them. I hardly know how to help myself,” she looked at their entwined fingers, battling the approaching cold whistling like the wind over the Island — but to no avail: it was creeping closer, begging to come out of her mouth. “You know, the Island... It has all those spikes on the outside. Like the Wall of Thorns or the iron barbs in Stefan’s castle. As if they are frozen and thrown into the sea. Those snow-covered spikes facing the water... Those who didn’t know what to do with themselves, they’d sometimes stand on their peaks, looking down at the water. Maybe beckons them. I don’t know. I try not to. It’s too much like death,” she said, and Death heard its name. The All-devouring Time — the cold creeping up on her. It called her back. “Because... Death, it’s just as...” she whispered, panting. “It’s so cold, so cold and dark, so dark, and so... and it hurts so much—”

     “Come here.”

     And she felt arms around her, and Diaval pulled her close.

     Her heaves didn’t burst into sobs — her breath hitched, but she didn’t want to cry. She only strenuously tried to hide from the cold, clinging closer to Diaval, nuzzling into his shoulder, his neck. He was saying something soothing — she did not listen to the words, only the voice itself — low and hoarse, emphatic. He moored her to the shore, did not let her fall underwater. His hands were always warm, almost hot. He always said it was bird nature.

     “Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Open your wings a bit, please. I’ll just... one moment… there you go. Warmer now?” She nodded. He tucked the blanket in better. She was silent for a long time, counting the seconds. She tried to get rid of the chilling shame, to breathe through her nose, slow and measured. Diaval smelt of pine needles and snow. She liked the scent. He still lived by to his spruce, then. “It’ll be all right,” he repeated, his breath hot on her neck. “You shall feel better. You’ll all get better someday, I promise. Maleficent,” he called. She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up. “Everything will be fine. Time heals everything.”

     “Time is eating us alive.”

     “That’s not true... Time just changes us.”

     “I don’t change with time,” she condemned herself again.

     “That’s even less true.” His hand reached out to her face, tossed her hair back. She tilted her head to catch it so he’d leave it on her cheek. He smiled, a little surprised, and nodded at her, “Well, tell me, would you be sitting in my lap ten years ago?” She snorted dejectedly, and he smiled a little wider. There was truth in his allocution, perhaps even less innocent than he had in mind. She had indeed never imagined ever craving his touch so much. “You wouldn’t have told me all this but a year ago. Of course you change. And all this sadness... It’s from love. You have a lot of love, then, much more,” he stroked her cheek. The words enveloped her heart like sweet, fragrant, viscous syrup, like honey. She let it run like oil over the noose around her neck and untie it. Gripping them, setting them aside to the other important things she’d heard in recent days, she tried to turn the rope into a lifeline from the whirlpool. Her heart was still pounding, but perhaps she could handle it. “...Are you feeling better?” he murmured after a while.

     “Yes. I’m fine. I’m just a little... I need a little more—”

     “—time. See? That’s what I've said,” Diaval smiled, soft and not condescending. She recalled the words she’d told him while fading away, felt how true they rang even now. It seemed now she somehow loved him even more than at that moment. “I wish I could help you,” he said a little later, more to himself than to her. But she took his hand.

     “You already do. Right now. I’m better with you by my side,” Maleficent said. For such rare praise, the raven gently stroked the inside of the wing. This did not help her composure at all, although it was no attack of panic threatening her anymore. Rather, an attack of romantic sincerity. “That’s why I couldn’t take you along,” she said without looking into his eyes. His hand froze. “Because you love me. You love me and would have followed me. And then what? You would’ve seen what I have become and grown to despise me. Or... Or you would have chosen to put up with it, to help me, to love me despite it, and I don’t deserve it. I can’t have it.”

     Diaval was silent for a second — and then clicked his tongue in despair and pulled her even closer, almost crushing her.

     “I swear you believe such stupid things sometimes,” he hissed into her ear so plaintively, shaking her by the shoulders, that she giggled. But Diaval did not seem to be laughing. His eyes were as sad as when she had just come back. “You’ve been through too much already to add anything to it yourself. You deserve...” His hand flitted from her wing, his gaze flitted from her face. “You deserve everything in the world, more than I can give you, mistress. If I can make you even a little happier, then it all depends not on whether you deserve it, but on whether you want it or not,” he said. She tried to protest because he, too, was thinking such a stupid thing. Silly creature. He was so vain about the little things and so meek about the big ones, she couldn’t wrap her head around it. As if he didn’t know how nice it was to be loved by him, even to imagine it — how gut-wrenching it’s been to imagine all this time... Diaval threw his head back against the wall. “Bloody hell... A whole year...”

     Maleficent blinked. His broken voice trepanned her skull.

     “Pull yourself together,” the fairy muttered, hoping to get some nostalgia out of him. “Or else I’ll cry too. And I’m sick of crying,” she breathed. Diaval glanced at her anxiously, as though asking if she’d been crying recently. It wouldn’t be surprising, and yet he couldn’t have known how many times she’d been reduced to tears over the past few days — in a place he knew nothing about. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that she did not want to cry anymore. She disentangled herself from his embrace — to take deep breathes, not to rest her horns against the wall, to look directly at Diaval. “I’m better now,” she said, and rolled her eyes at his sceptical gaze. “I know I don’t look the part. And it might not be the last time. But it’s true. I am much better than I was even a short while ago. I’ve had a lot to think about lately... even against my will. But I think I understand better what to do. Maybe not so much to help the Fae, but to help herself.” Her gaze swept over him, reaching his face. “I want to get better. At least I need to try. That’s why I’m here. I want... I want love and I want time.”

     She smiled at her thoughts. Even if only she had the memories, she was glad to say it out loud.

     Diaval’s eyebrows went up. “How poetic.” An solemn shake of the head. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, facing her — tucked his legs up to move closer. “I wish you those things too,” he said softly. She smiled and he smiled wider. His words swooned her for a second — she suddenly though he’d say more — or do more — but Diaval remained in place. She moved a little closer, bowed her head, because she wanted to... “...Don’t gore me,” Diaval suddenly cut in, and she burst out laughing before he finished. And he rolled with laughter.

     It was an old joke. It was born the day she drank for the first time in forever. Who knew that alcohol makes her sentimental — and dumb. She had been about to hug him — but accidentally tilted her head too low — and pressed her pair of horns not quite gently against his chest. So much so that he yelled — more in surprise than pain — and then would beg her not to butt him to death every damn time she as much as tilted her head even a little.

     “Perhaps I should have brought some wine?” he exclaimed mid-laughter — and cracked even harder at her ‘No!!’ The joke wasn’t half as funny as they made it out to be — but Maleficent still couldn’t contain her amusement — absurd, warm, joyful. They made up, they made up. Some few weeks ago she could only dream of it, but now they did, and they’ve shared so much nonsense, so many things no one else understood, so much time that could not sink in any water. She told him the truth — he was her closest, her most precious friend. And it was so nice to get their friendship back. Not to mention everything else that was just begging to come out. Diaval took off his doublet, straightened his legs and moved away, sitting down along the wall. “Lie down,” he said. “Come on, come on, you might still have some sleep before morning. We don’t know how much time we have, and we have grand plans.”

     “Plans?” She lay down beside him, letting her wings drape off the edge of the nest, pulling the covers up. “And what are the plans?”

     “I’m not certain yet. But we will hide you from the Fae, at least for a little while. What? You said it yourself, let them get off your tail!” he made a face at her bewilderment. “That’s it, then! We’ll have you somewhere warm and sunny, away from those frozen icy spikes...”

     “It’s November, Diaval! It’s not warm anywhere now. And the island is... Well, maybe it’s... I guess it is rather lacking in sunshine...”

     “What a nightmare. Then we’re definitely flying somewhere,” he sank down onto his side. “And I will make you lie in the sun, drink hot infusions and soups, eat sweets and listen to pleasant music on lutes every evening...”

     Maleficent laughed. “Are you going to sing too?”

     “Ah, taunting me as usual.”

     “Not at all. It was a sincere question,” she shrugged. “I would like you to sing. I missed your singing.”

     “Is that so-o-o?”

     “Well, I missed your voice, singing or not.”

     “Hm. Anything else you missed?”

     The fairy smiled. “I missed flying—”

     Diaval almost got up with a start. “What?! You were on an island full of flying fae! What the hell could you miss?”

     “If you’d let me finish, you’d know!” she clicked her tongue. “I missed flying with someone who wasn’t boring or annoying.”

     Her sincere, albeit devious compliments finally broke through his distrust, accustomed to her scattering praise only in jest. She read it from his eyes, but Diaval kept a stone cold face — he did not deprive his voice of sarcasm. “I’m sorry? I thought I was annoying? I thought it was my prerogative?”

     “You do get on my nerves, but in a way that I can handle.”

     “My, my! And I thought I was unsufferable! ” he shook his head, using her words against her again. But she wasn’t afraid of it — not when his hand reached for her hair, down her arm, stopped almost at her waist.

     “Well. I guess you’re very sufferable after all,” she smiled.

     She missed his hands too, but she could keep that to herself.

     “Glad to hear that. I missed your grumpiness.” Maleficent laughed. He moved closer. “And your laughter too,” he nodded, smoothing her hair for the hundredth time this day and returning his hand to her waist. “We should make you laugh more. Maybe I’m not politically savvy, and I don’t know how I can help you with the Dark Fae — but if there’s one thing I excel at, that’s cheering you up.”

     “That’s true...” she breathed. The stone that had been pressing down on her chest from the moment she opened her eyes in the middle of the night finally fell and let her breathe. The candles had almost gone out, emanating an iridescent glow and a honeyed, musky, sweet scent. On the island, candles were made from insects and seeds, and they could not boast of any aroma or of fire without smoke. Therefore, she hardly lit them, and her grotto was often drowned in damp cool darkness, so suitable for her vile loneliness. She was so done with all that... She liked watching the fire play with light and shadows on the face opposite her, his hair and feathers shine. She could... she could watch this every night. If she had the chance. “Diaval,” she said, before anything could scare her off. “Would you like to fly to the island?”

     The raven blinked.

     “After we’re done with my sunbathing and soups, of course.”

     He blinked again. “Are you being serious?”

     “Yes. Now that your shape is only subject to your desire, you can come with me to the Nest. And... If you’d like, you can go back and visit me from time to time. Or come and stay until all the Fae have moved, if that sounds interesting to you,” she tried. And yet, for a second, fear took over. “I ask you not only for my own sake. Although, of course, I shall be glad to see you.”

     Diaval was silent for a short while — although, of course, long enough for the fairy to curse it all. Especially as his face grew dark.

     “Maleficent. I know next to nothing about that place.”

     “I think you’d like it there. I painted a rather sad picture, but it’s not that dismal at all,” she shot a guilty smile. “It’s a truly beautiful place. The whole landscape changes completely depending on who inhabits this part of the island, and... It’s as if the whole world fits on this floating stone. True, there might not be many animals on whose carrion you could feast...”

     “I haven’t eaten carrion for over a year now.”

     Right. He hasn’t. Damn it. It ruined her track of thought.

     “In that case... There is a lot of fruit, especially in the jungle. Very strange ones. I didn’t like most of them, so you’ll adore them. Lizards too — of that I’m sure. And there is fish both outside and inside. You can go fishing. Not to mention, you’ll get to know the Dark Fae before anyone else on the Moors does...”

     “Right,” he chuckled. “I bet they’re waiting for me there with open arms.”

     Again, this absurd uncertainty. As if not everyone who met him loved him. As if...

     “You are already in Shrike’s good books. I’m sure Udo will like you. You two... If you get to know each other, I will hardly stand your company, but at least it’s not Borra.” Diaval raised his eyebrows. “And if the latter has any questions, I have convincing and not very convincing arguments in support of your indispensability on the island to achieve our common goal.”

     “Indispensability? I doubt they suddenly started needing me more than they did before.”

     “We did not start needing you. We needed you all along. I did, anyway.” A small fragile repentance left her lips. There it is! she caught the moment — just a tiny one — when his eyebrows moved just a little, his eyes widened just a little, when he tilted his head just a bit — the moment her words got through. No retreating now, then. “But really...” Maleficent narrowed her eyes. “I think it can benefit everyone. The Fae are still wary of humans, and they know little about the Moors. And you...” she smiled. “You have a bit of a human in you, and a bit of moor folk, and a lot of Dark Fae’s and Phoenix’s magic in particular, and a little something else.”

     “Yes, that’s called ‘a raven’.”

     She humoured him. His voice grumbled, but his eyes did not deceive her — she knew he was ready to laugh too. A warm look — the candle flame made it even warmer. And he looked so piercingly, as if he wanted that warmth to settle in red on her cheeks. Asking for it, he was asking for it... he seemed to be asking her to convince him.

     “Yes, but that’s not even the point,” she nodded, trying to turn the surge of tenderness into words, wondering, quite out of their usual way, if she could touch him the way he touched her. Since he was almost holding her in his arms. “More importantly, you are very... assertively kind. Reasonably optimistic.”

     “And what is that supposed to mean?”

     She did hold out her hand, but held it and brushed back the hair that fell to his face instead. Where this simultaneous timidity and passion came from, she had no idea.

     “I may be speaking for myself, but... I think it’s very easy for people like me to see kindness as weakness or stupidity — or both,” she said softly. “But you are annoyingly, annoyingly stubborn, which takes strength. And as much as I’d hate to praise your birdbrains and inflate your ego, it often pays off because you have good intentions. What I’m trying to say is that you can be aggressively encouraging. Just like you said,” the fairy shrugged her shoulders. “And that is just what we need now.”

     “Aggressive encouragement?” Diaval cocked an eyebrow.

     “Exactly. Think about it: no council of elders would bother with that. Even when I find and appoint those who will make plans for the future, those who will take steps to carry them out... And even those who can make quick decisive choices in dangerous situations...” she droned in an even voice, trying to remember what he’d said that night. “You see, we can’t do without someone to inspire others with an idea, to support and encourage them...”

     “And you’re saying that’s me?”

     “I am.” She continued to smooth his hair, and he even had the grace to tilt his head for her comfort. She’d never done that before — not when he was a man. Except for the morning of her death. Even then, she noticed how silky soft his feathers and hair were, how his face was different up close — but that moment was sad, ruined by the eternal cold approaching her. It wasn’t cold now. In fact, she felt unusually hot. “You may sit, say, on the Phoenix Rock above all, look down on everyone and shout out inspiring chants.”

     “The details, the elaboration! Now I see what you’ve been thinking about all year.”

     “You can’t say it doesn’t sound good.”

     “Fair enough.” He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to tower over her a little. A mischievous one-sided smirk played on his face. He chose himself a name well. Handsome devil. “I could train on you if you like. I have long dreamed of yelling at you for some reason.”

     She grinned back. “Go ahead.”

     Diaval inched closer. His arms folded for support rested right next to her shoulder, barely touching it.

     “I won’t quite be yelling, of course. Only up close and personal,” he drawled. “You!” he started right above her face, at her ear, without looking away. “Yes, you. I believe in you. You are capable of terrific, magnificent things,” he warbled in his low, dark, velvety voice, like tart sweet wine, and everything around Maleficent turned into separate moments, separate sensations. “You can do anything. You can do this! You can do that! And that other thing too!” His words like a spell. “You can do it! You can — what can you do, again? Oh right! It!” The gleam of his eyes in the twilight surrounding them — eyes so wide and dark. “You can do it.” His face, so close — the scent of snow and firs — the warmth, “You can, you can.” His breath on her cheek — breath in. “You can, you can, you can—”

     “Can I kiss you?”

     He froze.

     But just for a moment.

     “You can.”

     She slowly leaned him down.

     He had a warm face, warm lips. And his hands were warm too — warmth enveloped her with softness, sweetness, heaviness — hugging her, holding her back where her nightshirt opened so as not get in the way of her wings, right on the skin. She was seized by some kind of smooth compliance, thick, viscous pleasure, like a heavy aroma of musk and honey — she herself was melting like a candle — and then, at the very last moment — a lightning — spice on the tongue, ripe fruit, a sudden impulse, magic itself, sparkling and fleeting and disappearing—

     “Dearest friend, huh?” Diaval suddenly whispered — and burst into laughter. And she did too, and then he laughed really loud, dropping back onto his side as if falling off of her. “Dearest friend!” he mumbled between her messy short kisses. She found it hard to let him go — she was chasing that last feeling — she was swallowed up by such an unattainable deep amazement at the mere thought that she could kiss him again and again, and that he would want it, and that he would expect it. “You and I are such good friends, Maleficent. Friendly little friendship...”

     She finally pulled away from him to swallow her laughter. She did feel like she could do anything. His eyes shone as brightly as the night stars, as if he, too, had comprehended something of overwhelming cosmic magnitude.

     “Fine,” she whispered. “Not just my friend. I love you, Diaval.”

     Diaval blossomed into the wildest smile that she had ever seen on him — and then finally kissed her himself — slowly, cupping her face, still grinning — she felt it on her lips. And if the first time nothing worked, and the second time her soul was too far away to feel the full force of this oncoming wave, then the third time she knew that this was the True Love’s Kiss. Her heart, it didn’t seem to beat, and then it beat at double speed, that wing-beating bird.

     “And I love you very much...”

     Bird, her heart was a bird — it sang, it soared.

     Gradually all these refracted rays, all hazy sensations crossed at one point, took shape. It wasn’t just warmth — it was his hands moving up her back to her shoulders, to her neck. It wasn’t just tanginess — it was his lips, and his tongue, and the scent of leather and feathers, and the smoking candles around them. Thoughts returned to her. One thought.

     “Come with me to the island,” she said against Diaval’s lips. He tilted his head away. “I mean it. Fly to me. Stay with me.” She brushed her lips against his cheek, behind his ear. “Would that work on you?”

     “Not funny.”

     “I’m not kidding.” Despair made her bite into his lips so as not to look into his eyes. “You don’t have to sit on the Rock.” And again. “You can fish all day and fly with me all evening.” And again. “Be a bear and munch on berries from morning to night.”

     And aga—

     “You won’t let me answer.”

     “Ah.”

     “Yes. I will come with you. Of course I will.”

     She had no more words for him — she just grabbed his hands before he could lift them to her and pushed forward, rolling him onto his back, pressing against his mouth. She was afraid that she would get used to it, but it was still just as sweet — she nearly said “delicious”, but then Diaval would certainly spend ten minutes laughing — and there was no time for jokes. She was on a mission. And she was in a hurry. He relaxed completely under her, entrusting himself to her — almost lazily, very recklessly — because, only given the opportunity, she suddenly realized she had always wanted to trace the marks on his chest and back. Maybe somewhere else. The piece of fabric was in her way.

     Maleficent pulled him up into a sitting position. It seemed Diaval only realized what she was going to do when his shirt was gone. He broke the kiss.

     “Slow down, sweetheart,” he sang in her ear.

     “Haven’t we delayed long enough?”

     “Maybe. But we can’t swallow a wave in one go,” said the raven, and pecked her on the nose with a chastity that was not at all in line with what she had already come up with... “You need to get some sleep.”

     She waited a second, just in case, but his almost sorrowful face was the nail in the coffin. She laughed, so as not to get angry.

     “You bastard!” she slapped his shoulder, resting her head on the other one. She was just starting to get a taste for it, and he... he... “You stopped in the middle!”

     With her luck, he’s about to say that he will only bed her during mating season, once a year! And she will have to agree to this absurdity in the name of True Love!

     “That’s not true,” Diaval clicked his tongue. His hands were still gentle, his touch apologetic. “You should sleep, you hardly slept tonight. And we have things to do. You have things to do.” She frowned. “Surely you want the Dark Fae to know in advance that you’re not lost somewhere? And all the rest.”

     She really wanted to slap him harder. For being right about the Fae, and about her exhaustion. Only she wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t made her stop and take a breath — he, a silly creature who would rather let her rest than engage in business that she surely would not be the only one enjoying.

     Worst of all, she found it unbearably touching. As attractive as anything they’ve just done. He didn’t need to know that, of course.

     “Ugh,” she muttered aloud, never leaving his shoulder. “Wet blanket, you. Big old prude. You killed all the mood.”

     “I didn’t kill a damn thing,” he murmured back, and then... “The things I would do to you...” he squeezed her thigh, and his lips that had not left her face before brushed up her shoulder and neck, and she shuddered. Judging by his smug face, he knew damn well what he was doing. How the tables have turned! Since when he wields such power over her? “But it doesn’t have to be tonight,” he whispered, deliberately blind to her anguish, her anticipation, and her desire — to kill him. “It’s not the end of the world, we have a whole life ahead of us.”

     Leave it to him to have a wise word or two to say at a moment like this — when she hadn’t even suspected she wanted to hear them before she did. She really could not yet unravel them from each other — her ignited passion and the feeling far more bitter, that her time was running out and therefore she had to hurry.

     But she did have... her whole life ahead of her. She’ll wake up tomorrow and still be here. And he will be here. And she will kiss him tomorrow night too, and this time he will have no excuses.

     What a blast of a sensation.

     “Ugh, all right,” she huffed with much noise, or else he’ll think she’s so easy to manipulate. “Lie down,” she pushed him forward, dropped the blanket and motioned him to cover himself. She shut the passage back again. But that didn’t seem to be enough — lying close, facing him, she draped her wing over his body. Diaval beamed. “I am not letting you freeze your back.”

     Curse them all — the second she sank down in the nest and covered herself, she felt heavier than all the ships in the world, so bloody drowsy. Her entire body was sore. You’d think she has just been born! It was all his fault.

     “I’ll have to leave for a bit in the morning, so if you wake up around that time, I’ll be right back, all right?” she nodded. Warmth crept up to her again — Diaval kissed her on the top of her head, on the lips. “Good night, love.”

     “Good night.”

     Diaval tilted his head to the side, and Maleficent let the air cool her from her interrupted sparkling determination, looking at his nape and shoulders until sleep, that subtle, inevitable stubborn thing, caught up with her too.

     ...She woke up to soft noise. Gloomy twilight still reigned in the cave, as it was closed from all the light by the curtain over the entrance, but outside, Maleficent knew, the sky was already brightening. If she had any dreams, she remembered none. It was colder than when she fell asleep, and she did not want to leave the bed at all.

     In contrast, it seemed, from Diaval, who was rustling with something away from her, perched on the edge. She called out to him.

     “It’s still early for you,” the raven glanced over his back. “You can sleep a little longer.”

     “This is the third time you’re saying that,” she snorted, and he chuckled. “Are you leaving or have you just returned?”

     “I’m just getting ready.” Now she could see him fastening the doublet. She wondered where he was headed, but she suspected it was a gastronomic impulse. He had breakfast early. He probably didn’t expect her to be awake — well, for better or for the worse, over the past year her sleep patterns had gone through so many chaotic involuntary transformations that these days she, too, woke up at the crack of dawn.

     She tucked the part of the blanket that had covered him around herself. “Could you bring me something to eat?”

     “Of course. But don’t get used to it, I’m not your servant anymore. I’m kidding.” She stopped his attempt at a kiss because she hadn’t brushed her teeth or even rinsed her mouth today yet, and he rolled his eyes and pecked her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. “Are you sure you’re not going back to sleep? All right, then.” And with these words, he opened the curtain.

     A wide beam of light made its way to her feet, illuminating everything inside, blinding her, shattering her sleep into pieces. Blinking her watery eyes, Maleficent barely caught a glance at Diaval turning into black smoke — and in a moment, there was not a trace of him.

     She was left alone in her bed, surrounded by her belongings that she had looked at for years, and his scent that lingered somewhere nearby, in a pleasant coolness and the promise of morning.

     But something roused her from her place — she donned an undershirt, her velvet kirtle and a warm cape, abandoned here for months. She made the bed and figured it made sense to warm up a little drink from dried herbs before Diaval brings food. Fortunately, there was always snow at such heights, and it was always clean, especially after a good spell. Alas, there was no lemon balm in her pantry, but, unlike Diaval, Maleficent loved nettle. Shamefully forgetting where her own things in her own home were, she barely found something to drink from. Involuntarily, she still had to hurry — the moment she had been waiting for was rather brief.

     Good thing she woke up early.

     She remembered why she liked this precipice, why she had made it her home after years of living in the trees. And why she loved late autumn.

     Off the entrance to her cave, a tree sprawled towards the cliff — why it decided to lie and grow so unlike its fellows, one could only guess, but it also meant that one could use it as a bench.

     There were hundreds of feet beneath her — and before her was the most beautiful view that Maleficent had ever seen.

     Far below lay a huge sleeping beast. His fur was white and smooth and translucent in places, and it slowly inhaled and exhaled, but remained in place. From this height, it could easily be mistaken for snow, but it wasn’t — it was fog. Just like the one that gathered at her face with each exhalation, but bigger, denser, deeper. It covered the water like a blanket, a fallen cloud, making it a bluish jelly, dissolving at the foot of the tall stones the Moors were so famous for. They shot up like immense columns with no attic, or rather, like giants frozen in stone, knee-deep in this viscous liquid air. The crevices were their wrinkled faces, the evergreen moss — their long beards, the snow-capped peaks — their gray crowns. Among them stood Aurora’s castle, a green island untouched by snow — although only the very tip of the spire peeped out from under the fog, like the end of a beanstalk.

     The farther from the castle, the more often individual stones gave way to long, large ridges — their lines of slopes and plains, uneven like druse of a precious mineral, gave life to powdered plateaus, hilly slopes and patches of forests. Some of the trees were already bare grey, others stubbornly showed off their autumn colours, orange fading to burgundy and brown. But they were to change colour again, at the whim not of the seasons but of the course of the day. It was dawning.

     Less than a couple of minutes passed by — and the hills flushed with joy. That side of them that was illuminated by the sun turned purple, lilac, peach; the slopes that remained in the shade turned indigo, like ink. She knew that the Perceforest castle behind her back was mired in predawn darkness, waiting in the wings. But she did not turn around, she only looked ahead: far away, beyond the hills, beyond the river on which Diaval fished, the countless blue spires of the Ulstead Palace faced the sun. It must have been much brighter there, if only because the rising star was reflected in the sea.

     One could see it from here — the sea. Her failed murderer, now it shimmered almost friendly in all shades of plum and purple, like sparkling amethyst, like underwater mother-of-pearl. It seemed to apologize for everything it’d tried to do to her with its brilliance — and she forgave it, as it forgave her. She no longer wanted to think about death.

     Further away, by the horizon, a bronze path stretched along the water surface — a carpet laid out by the rising sun. The sky around it turned lavender, golden, it lit up in steady, endless watercolour. The stars disappeared, giving way to their older brother. It was rising, the sun. It was rising, to descend again, and to rise again the next morning. It was rising — the fiery face of Time itself.

     And for the first time in days, it did not tell her about death. For the first time, it did not tell her about sadness, about regret, about the long and lost time.

     It told her she had all the time in the world. That it was not the end of her life, only the beginning — and now it can be filled with so much love that there will be no place for hurt or fear. So much love that it becomes her driving force. And then she won’t have to hide from anything or leave anything behind. She won’t eat her tail like Ouroboros, won’t choke on her mistakes — she will burn them and from their ashes she will rise.

     So she looked back at the Sun — it was rising right over the sea. Fire was rising over water, life was rising over death.

     Like the Phoenix.