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Chapter Text

He looked deep into the reflection of his magic mirror shard. The lion had not been entirely honest with you. He had told his Monarch that the magic mirror was his way to survey his part of the valley, to watch the Sunlit Plateau from the comfort of his own home. This was not true.

That mirror did not show the present, nor the past, nor the future. It showed what could have been.

At first, it had been a funny little thing to laugh at. He’d watch the Scar in the mirror and mock his weakness. Why, there was no world where he would have let Mufasa lived, and any universe where he did not reign as king would have made him be miserable. Surely, this was a joke. A trick from that blathering buffoon with his pointed hat.

But Scar found himself drawn to the scene, over and over again, for reasons he could not fathom. In this other life, he had never seized the throne. Mufasa was alive and well, waiting for the right moment to cede his place to the rightful heir, Simba. Scar should have been miserable. Instead…

Simba had been nothing more than an inconvenience in the past. In this version of reality, however, Scar… seemed fond of him. He’d watch him when his parents were gone, he’d let him play with his mane and tail. Softly, with his tiny paws and his harmless fangs. The assaults were met with some witty remarks, but not harsh enough to be considered snark. The Scar from the mirror was not without his irony, but his words cut less deeply. Had less fight in them. Pathetic.

He’d still hate Mufasa, even in this made up world. He could see it in his own eyes, the disdain, the envy, whenever the monarch would linger in his proximity. But all those dark thoughts seemed to shy away when it came to his nephew. The tiny cub was so lively, so happy. It looked like his light would transfer to his uncle, slowly, inches after inches. He’d catch himself smiling, oh so softly, and for some reason, it made the real Scar feel warm inside his stomach.

The lion should have left well enough alone, make sure that those fleeting scenes remain but memories. Still, he kept coming back to the treacherous waters of the reflection. He’d spend hours watching his other life, his head laying on his paws, holding his breath every time he looked happy in the mirror. Every smile was like a paper cut. And boy, did the other Scar smile…

The longing grew stronger every day. He did not know what he wished for. To have done things differently ? To change the past ? He feared the answer to this question. Why, oh why was he so obsessed with his other life ? How deep did the fantasy go inside his bones ? Did it become part of his flesh ? Would the grass turn dark once his body would feed the earth ?

He finally understood, after many months spent in anguish. This was it. His punishment. Life in the valley was too good to be true, especially for someone who had done so many wrongs, he had always known that. He wondered if the other villains felt the same pain he was feeling. If they had their own demons, their own remorse. He dared not to ask, not even to Ursula, who he believed to be close with. His pain was not their own, and they would not care. Just as he wouldn’t care if they told him of their woes.

Perhaps that was why the other villains would seek out the Monarch’s presence. The pain tended to rescind when Scar was in her presence, because it felt like the hole in his heart finally got filled. If he was correct, the malediction that plagued his soul was attuned to the magic of this place – magic the Monarch was the catalyst.

It was his way of rationalizing the fact that he loved her. Like his own. Like he had sired her. Just like he loved Simba, now.

This was the hardest part of the punishment. As reality and dreams blended together, the love the other Scar felt for his nephew became his own. It felt good, in a way. To love.

But it hurt so much when he’d remember that this love was anything but shared.

He had deserved it. He deserved the cold looks, the growls, the anger that Simba showed him. Alas, now, he loved his nephew, even when his nephew hated him. So he did what he did best. He’d stick to the shadows, unseen, forgotten. Never to be met, never to be bothered.

Never to be loved by the one he loved most.

Chapter Text

It was in every corner of the water. The ocean was known for its harsh truth, but she had never been one to care for any power other than her own. So, at first, she ignored the signs. Concentrating on her brews, her cauldron, her magic. She should have known this would not be enough to escape the visions.

She hated all magic that did not depend on contracts. It was unpredictable, wild, very much self-sufficient and self-serving. The caster was a mere afterthought. Ursula needed the magic to depend on her, exclusively, to know exactly what would happen and how. Contracts allowed her to control magic, and potions relied on specific measurements she was privy to.

The magic of the valley, especially, had a mind of its own. She hated how it made her feel small and powerless. The only one who could get anything out of it was their Monarch, for an unknown reason. She’d shape light out of nothing and yield it to help others. This was so… backwards. How come this magic needed nothing in exchange for its services ? Magic always had a price.

Apparently, being evil did too.

This had to be a punishment. Maybe from Merlin, that dried up piece of seaweed. Still, it wasn’t really his style. Plus, the Monarch would get really mad if he’d pulled something like this.

Uh. Maybe she should tattle on him anyway, see how it went. That would be funny.

The visions were blurry. Muddy even. Hardly visible to anyone who did not come from the sea, who was not used to the undulations of waves and the whims of the water. She wasn’t scared someone would take notice of them. Maybe Ariel could. Maybe the girl Vaiana, who, for some reason, seemed quite loved by the ocean. But in her heart, she knew the images were meant for her only.

They were infuriating. Some kind of “what would have happened if” universe, put right in her face. Every time she opened her eyes, it was there. Every time she closed them, the after-image lingered on her eyelids. She saw her future, had she not been exiled. It wasn’t that different from her current existence. She owned a little shop in Atlantis. She’d sell potions and spells through slightly overpriced contracts. She had her two dear eels with her, and her garden – although this one was made of normal seaweeds and flowers. And it sucked. It sucked to bear witness to such a travesty.

It wasn’t that she aspired to a better life, where she could have been… urgh… nicer. She did not care about that. What was really infuriating to her was that she could have had that life, that cushy, comfortable life, if only she’d been smarter. If she’d been more restrained. Morality, for people like her, boiled down to how in control they were of their own urges. She had lost control, and it had cost her her standing, her social credit and ultimately, her life.

But she was wiser now. Never picking a fight she could not win, never entertaining her darkest thoughts. The Monarch helped her, in a way. Her sweet little sea angel. So gullible, so prompt to help. It was easier to focus when she was around. Her voice provided a welcome background noise and her example set a precedent to follow when Ursula was unsure of the next step she should have taken. Don’t charge too much, don’t act too out of line. And the most important : always be prepared.

There was something both women had in common. They were hard workers. And Ursula wasn’t done yet. She still had plans in the making, always.

This time, she wouldn’t screw this up.

Chapter Text

She’d wake up during the night and feel an actual hole in her chest. The missing flesh seemed to move around in her body, alive, never to wander in its rightful place. It was like something supposed to grow inwards suddenly rippled under the surface, threatening to break the skin after leaving her heart. It took her a few minutes to feel normal again. Painless. Ageless. Like her joints had to remember that she did not grow old overnight. Despite what the dreams showed.

On nights like these, she’d go straight to her mirror. She’d touch her cheeks, finding them harsher, her lips, swollen, her eyes, sunk. Her worst nightmare stared at her straight in the face, quite literally, and the woman would just feel like crying because she missed the dreams. How pathetic.

She missed them, dearly, every morning when she woke up. Those ghosts of a future that never existed, and never would. It wasn’t like she had definitely lost them, per say : Rapunzel and Flynn were very much alive, so there was hope. But she doubted her relationship with them would allow her dreams to come true.

Gothel saw herself giving up on everything that mattered to her. Things she could not live without. Control, power, rightfulness. Eternity. For something she had longed deemed ordinary : the smile of her daughter. The change wasn’t all that visible, really. She’d still try to steer Rapunzel in the right direction, prevent her from experiencing all the heartache and the bad that existed out of their tower. But she’d let her leave, sometimes. She’d be more lenient, more present. And most importantly : she’d grow old. Stopping herself from using the power of the flower, for an unknown reason that tormented her.

In this life, Rapunzel and the Monarch had managed to give her a substitute. But this was not the case in her dreams. She had to have voluntarily forsaken eternal youth. How ? Why ? She could know. Nothing, in the dreams she was subjected to, seemed worthy of such a commitment.

But then… They came. Those two bundle of joy that she had never known she needed. The fruit of her own daughter. It was a little boy, and a little girl. Twins. None of them had their mother’s hair, but the boy had her eyes. The girl, strangely, looked a little like Mother Gothel, even though she knew that was probably just wishful thinking.

She had always associated old age with pain, fear, death. This was she had known before finding the flower. She’d never imagined the joys that could come with age. The evenings spent on a rocking chair, reading a borrowed book she could talk about with daughter afterwards. The quick wits exchanged with her son-in-law, who was always praising her never-fading beauty. A liar, of course, but a charming one. Still, she thought there was some truth in that statement : she’d lose in beauty, but gain in maturity, in regality. Gray hairs shone bright on her, giving her a silver mane that was not without its charm. Fully embracing her old hours, she had stopped dying her hair black, which made all the more beautiful.

And she did not even cared, nor tried. She’d just spend her evenings watching her grandchildren, singing them songs, brushing their hairs, cooking for them. With a smile on her wrinkled face.

In her life, the real one, she started fearing sleep. Laying awake hours on end with her eyes opened, staring at the ceiling. Those pleasant dreams made her days nightmarish. Lingering affections that stayed with her during waking hours. Memories that had no roots nor stems, only flowers. Floating images of children that did not exist. Heartache and misery. It hurt so much, caring for people that’d never exist outside of her dreams.

Damn grandchildren. Robbing her of her beauty sleep.

She had thought, for some time, that maybe she could still salvage her life. Have it all, beauty and a family. But her hopes were let down. For one, good, simple reason she understood way too late : she was the antagonist in her daughter’s life. There was no going back from that.

She was the wall Rapunzel had to climb. The one who her daughter had to defy and vanquish, in order to settle within herself. Without those cathartic experiences, where Rapunzel triumphed of every hurdle by her own means, she knew the girl would end up a recluse, a fearful little girl, a scared child. Just like she had always intended to make her.

So she played the role of the villain, knowing full well, this time, that she was one.

Because she loved her daughter. And she wanted to see her grandchildren exist, one day.

Chapter Text

Redemption wasn’t as gentle as Jafar thought it would be. He must have been pretty irredeemable to start with : his salvation came as a forceful intrusion into his very being, flooded with feelings that were not his own. Happiness tasted like salt under his tongue, compassion grew over his heart like moss. To be forgiven, he had to be changed, whether he liked it or not. He felt more humid, more mellow, like he was melting under the light of a very soft sun. It was irritating. He’d rather have his skin peeled away layer after layer.

And then there was the fumes. Alchemy had become his life, but sometimes, it consumed him quite literally. He’d breathe in the smoke from an experiment and be projected elsewhere, locked inside his own mind, as a simple spectator of events that never happened. He’d blink, finally, and hours would have passed. His work reduced to a smothering, over-cooked mess. It was frustrating, eerie.

It never happened when the Monarch was around. That was part of the reason why he’d have her participate so often in his experiments. To make sure he wouldn’t loose himself again.

The visions… confused him. They showed him as less than a vizier. In those visions, he became a mere alchemist, a mathematician, a scientist, a scholar, with no political power. How dreadful, how boring. Granted, he did like to study such subjects, the stars, the runes and the likes. But those did nothing to quench his absolute thirst for power. Knowledge just did not suffice. As boundless as it was, it just didn’t tickle him in the right way. He loved knowledge ; he needed power.

At first, he thought those were the manifestations of his fears. The Monarch, while understanding and eager to listen, plainly did not need his help to reign. He missed the sultan, an incompetent ruler who needed someone to make every decision for him. So he threw himself in his studies, unable to entertain any other endeavour. People did not trust him enough, and the Monarch had proven too sly to be tricked. But he bid his time.

However, the visions troubled him. Not only did they show him content with pitiful duties, it also made him out to be unable to take care of said duties on his own.

The princess, out of everyone, was his assistant in the illusions. She’d help him out with gathering ingredients or conducting experiments. It was odd – in real life, his idea of her was always somewhat tainted by hatred, contempt or desire. Those emotions seemed forbidden in the dreams : he was looking at her with a newfound perspective, a clarity he much welcomed actually – knowledge was power. And did he learn about her…

She enjoyed alchemy. Reading books until her eyes closed out of tiredness. Measuring with a keen eye all powders and spells. Shaping gold and fire with her bare hands.

He enjoyed teaching her. Covering her body with a blanket when her reading proved too tiresome. Sampling the results of her calculations. Helping her avoid the woes and death that could come with such a dangerous art.

She was even better than the Monarch at what she did. A sharp pupil, and a sharper tongue still. He always liked pets with character. That’s why he took such good care of Iago.

The images made him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. He hated that. What an odd, convoluted and harmless punishment. It seeped into his very being, every time he didn’t pay attention.

He approached Jasmine, once. Without even thinking. Like she was an old friend.

“You should buy it.”

His voice was warm, sultry as always but without the hidden teeth usually embedded into the meaning of the words. Those words came from the throat rather than the tongue. He had seen how she was looking at this alchemy set, in Scrooge’s store. The invitation came out before he could help himself.

Jasmine turned around. Her affable face suddenly dropped as she realised who was talking to her. Oh, how her eyes glowed when she was angry. Hatred, contempt and desire still were a part of him after all – an increasingly small one.

Without breaking eye contact, she slowly pushed the alchemy set off the counter. It broke.

“Oops.”

Her defiance made him smile, which only escalated the situation. Until that talking duck with a top hat came and saw the damage done. The next part wasn’t as fun. He got blamed, for some reason. Even though he had done nothing but watch.

Once Scrooge was satisfied with the payment of the set, they parted ways with a smile on his part, a disgusted grimace on hers.

Somehow, he still had the ability to not care. To a certain extent.