Chapter Text
Mal- Growing up.
It always seems cold in the fortress. Even in the depths of the sweltering and humid summers, the blackened and cold walls that keep Malicent in are cold. Maybe it was the fae in her. The stone feeling unnatural against her small hands, the sharp white rock in her hand unsteady as she draws. She’s been getting pretty good for the limited materials she has. The materials being chalky rocks she finds in the courtyard and occasionally, when the deliveries come once a month across the bridge, actual colored chalk. It was usually water damaged and always broken.
Hands scoop her up from under her arms, a smile across the high cheek bones of her mother, Maleficent, her wings cradling her close. Finally, warmth. Her voice is soft, maternal and loving, like she’s had practice keeping a small child entertained and happy.
“What are you drawing, little one?” It’s soft, mischievous and kind with that loving smile. Maleficent looks along the black walls of her fortress, little scrapes and chalky rock residue in little circular patterns, some looking like trees, some like Regina’s castle, where Mal’s little friend Evie lived.
“It’s where Evie lives!” Mal giggles, smiling up at her mother. Her little canines are growing in, having just fallen out due to a spill down in the courtyard when she was chasing Madam Mim.
Maleficent’s eye crease is adoration, so alike Aurora, but so much like herself too. Back in the forest when she was young, flying around and chasing other, smaller fairies in jest and play.
… How much simpler life had been at that time.
Mal, so perceptive, even so young, tugs at her shawl, bringing Maleficent back to the moment at hand, smiling down at her young daughter. “Yes, little one? What is it?” It’s amused and sweet. Her smile soon fades when she sees Mal pointing to the glassless window. The monthly supplies are here, with horse drawn carriages and soldiers, almost right at her door step. She carries Mal down to Madam Mim’s quarters, tasking the insane witch to keep her little one busy while she handles business.
It’s cold again, without her mothers wings around her. But Mim, as magic warped as her brain may be, is always up for a playful catch and release.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Mal sits in her study room, Rasputin drawling on and on about magic theory and how that ties with history. She’s not really paying attention. Yes, she’s taking notes and nodding along, but she’s doodling in the margins of the loose paper she takes notes on.
Her hair is in her face, she needs to convince Gothel to cut her hair again, once she comes back from her business meetings in town. She’d ask Mim, but… the last time she asked the mad madam she left the room with a ridiculous bowl cut that was somehow more knots than not. She’d had to beg (and bribe) Yzma to whip up a potion to make her hair grow back.
Her attention is caught by horse hooves outside the fortress. The monthly delivery is here again, and she’s not missing it this time. Mal stands, closes her book and unceremoniously hops out of the window before Rasputin can catch her by the scruff again. She lands on the wall and runs wildly to the tower near the gates, meeting Maleficent there, calling from above.
“I’m going with!” She calls down, “don’t leave without me again!” She hurries down the rickety steps of the tower and huffs with a manic grin as she reaches her mother.
Maleficent smiles affectionate and rolls her eyes playfully. “Oh alright, but you stay close, little one, and tell me immediately if any of the soldiers speak to you.”
Mal nods and stands up straight, chin held high as she and her mother leave the fortress together and approach the bridge.
Ruffians and underlings scurry around, practically diving out of their way. Not of fear, but of awe and respect. She waves at the kids her age, secretly winking to promise something fun for later on, and something good from the delivery. From what they can spare at least.
The soldiers don’t come into the barrier, usually. They just slide in the crates of food and some scraps through it. Mal doesn’t really know what the barrier does, she knows that it’s keeping everyone in, and well, once something goes in, it never comes out. But how does it exactly work? Is it runic? Enchanted? It’s not like anyone can see it, it’s invisible until it’s touched, when there's a soft blue and gold glow from it.
Mal helps, cracking open the crates, calling back to her mother whats inside for her to catalog it, sometimes palming something shiny or a small broken toy for one of the younger tots in the territory. She sees a small gem, its purple with streaks of green and she knows its for her mother. There’s always something small and valuable in the crate with the rose and brambles painted on it.
She thinks it's from her mom’s first kid, the one she will only speak about late at night, after Maleficent and Gothel have had a few potions too many. They share stories of their first daughters, smiling wistfully, just barely visible from the crack in the doorway Mal watches from. She palms it, quickly going over to her mother and presenting it to her.
Maleficent’s usual easy going and intimidating nature during these pick ups melts for a moment as she picks up the stone and pockets it, ruffling Mal’s hair, then going back to the intimidating nature she presents in front of the soldiers doing the deliveries.
Speaking of the soldiers, one of them is looking at Mal as he pushes the crate through to her. He younger, seems like he’s new to deliveries, but he could just have a baby face and incompetent at pushing crates.
“Hey,” he softly calls from the barrier as Mal is about to crack open the next crate. “You one of them workin’ girls?” He sounds like he’s telling a joke, and smiling a too white smile. How did the people on the other side of the barrier get their teeth so white? And why was it so gross when he smiled at her, his eyes roaming her teenage frame.
Mal turns back and calls to her mother, pointing at the guard and he pulls back, eye going wide as he hears the girl he was frankly, being disgusting to, call the woman who’s dubbed the mistress of evil, the woman who runs the deliveries with an iron heart, choosing who gets what and how much they can get, the one who scares him to his very core just by looking at her, she calls her mom.
“Mother! A soldier’s talking to me!” Mal calls as she points before she goes back to cracking open the crate, humming to herself to keep her distracted as her mother goes over to the barrier to give the soldier a stern talking to. Probably to threaten him and his bloodline, promising him that if he gets even a pinky in the barrier, she will pull him in and make sure he will never leave the Isle, unless it's to give his bones back to his family to bury.
She knows that violence isn’t normal outside of the Isle, she’s heard stories from outside the barrier, of gardens of flowers, of something soft.
But Mal knows how the Isle of the Lost works. Everyone is gentle to each other, is kind to each other, until pushed too far. A rose bush full of brambles she muses to herself. Like the ones she often tends to in the fortress, getting pricked and knowing that it’s her fault. Like its the fault of the soldier for daring to try to leer at her. Next time it won't be a warning, and his meat will be used for trading if he dares to try again.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Evie- Growing Up
It’s warm in Evelyn’s crafting nook. The wind drifts through the glassless windows, warm and smells of the pine forest nearby, sometimes picking up the salt of the ocean she can see from the windows. She humming happily, she just got the shipment of buttons she asked Maleficent for and she’s using the glue that Cruella made for her to make a headband. Cruella even said that if she spends enough time on it, she’ll even get one of her models to wear it! Just the thought of it fills her with warmth and joy.
“Darling?” It’s her mother, knocking on her crafting room door before coming in. She’s tall, in reds and purples, her hair tied up as she smiles down at her daughter. “It’s time for your lessons dear.”
Evie smiles, grinning up at her mom as she sets down the buttons and glue, hurrying over, her dress picked up in her small hands, like a proper princess. She reaches up and entertains her fingers with her mothers, letting her lead her away.
As Regina, her mother, leads her, she tells her the story of true love, of the stable boy Regina fell for, and, like always, no matter how many times Evie’s heard the story, she smiles, asking questions. What was his name? How many horses did you have? And the one she’s never asked before, what happened to him?
Regina goes quiet, softly squeezing Evie’s hand, trying to steady herself. “He had to leave, darling, and I let him go…” she trails off slightly then stops and kneels down to Evie’s level, holding both of her hands soft but firmly.
“True love,” She starts, “is the most important thing in someone's life, Evie… make sure when you find it, you hold onto it with all your little heart.” Regina finishes her decree with a soft, loving smile. Evie nods, taking on the mission from her mother.
“What about you mama? What about your true love?” Evie innocently asks, holding her mother's hands back, as tight as her hands can muster.
Regina laughs and picks up her daughter, settling her onto her hip. “I have my true love right here, my little heart.” She playfully pokes Evelyn’s nose, smiling as she goes back to walking to her lesson room with Lady Tremaine, going on and telling stories of love and not loss to her true love, her daughter.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Evie’s craft room has expanded, majorly, now spilling into her own room. She stands in her candle-lit room, staying up late as she pins and drapes the fabrics that Governor Ratcliff had smuggled her for a new outfit. Even on the Isle he’s still as vain as ever, she thinks to herself, smiling and rolling her eyes. He wants a new cape and who is she to turn down the extra fabric that he provided?
She continues to pin down the fabric on the rather large mannequin she made for his requests specifically, humming a tune she heard from "King” John’s gramophone when he threw his annual birthday bash in the territories square. She knew that her mother’s territory has more than others, with ground fit for farming the few seeds they get from the deliveries and other means, the forests for foraging, the water to fish in and being so close to Maleficent’s territory.
There’s a sound from the glassless window, quiet. If she were asleep, she wouldn’t have heard, but now that she has, well… information is always useful as her mother says. She snuffs the candle and creeps silently to the hole in the structure she calls a window, and peaks out. It’s her mother, dagger drawn and pressed against someone’s neck, Judge Frollo to the side, solemn as the old coot can be as he says something to her mother.
Damn, she should’ve taken Carlos up on learning how to read lips. But she gets the gist of what’s happening, having seen the ruffian before. He had tried to steal from one of the farmers. He had the ability to trade for wares, like everyone in the territory, but he tried to steal something else. Something priceless and intangible from the poor farmer. That man, down there with her mother’s blade against his neck, had tried to steal his child.
Evie knew what was going to happen, she knew that her mother would kill him for the offense of one of the most valued members of their territory. She leaves the window, slowly shutting the wooden slats so she wouldn’t have to hear the gurgling coming from the dead man. Laying down, she easily forgets the man's face. This is not the first time she’s seen a midnight execution, and she knows that it won’t be the last, not even close to it. But, the thieving man did deserve it. All the farmer had was his daughter, so that must be his true love, his most valued. No one should take anyone else’s true love, like her mother’s step daughter did to her.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Carlos: Growing Up
When Carlos first wakes in the cold mountainous territory he lives in, he can see his outfit laid out for him, ready for him to wear. Every morning, him and his mother, Cruella DeVille, pick out his outfit for the next day. This time he picked out everything and she smiled and ruffled his bicolored hair, telling him it was a good choice.
He dresses, slow and steady to not fall over, he’s far too tall for his own good, Gaston calls him as graceful as a baby giraffe, whatever that is. He’s tall, and skinny, since, well, there’s not much to hunt or grow so far up, and the swamps aren’t fit for growing either. Not to mention muddy, so he doesn’t go down there much, Cruella does care about appearances after all.
Standing tall, Carlos leaves his room and goes to his mother’s studio, grinning as he does. He stops just shy of the door and before he can knock, he’s swept up from behind with a loud laugh. It’s his mother, grinning mischievously, as she sashays and twirls into her studio with him on her him, setting him down on the step stool. She picks up her sketchbook and sits next to the stool, crossing her legs.
“So, darling, what should we make today?” Cruella grins. Her mischievous nature is infectious, bumping Carlos’ little shoulder with hers as he grins back.
He hums, tapping his chin in thought, then goes into his newest idea. A device to make long distance communication easier, mainly so he can talk to his friends more than twice a year at the solstices. As he rants and explains everything, how it would work, how to power it, everything, Cruella sketches it out, putting his words into the margins, grinning and nodding along.
They work in tandem, Carlos the brains and the imagination, the way only a young and brilliant mind can be, and Cruella, the maker and executer, the one with the materials. Jesper, his father and Cruella’s husband, joins occasionally through out the day with food, with drinks, taking care of them when he knows that they’re too focused to do so themselves.
The day is soft and warm, despite the cold outside the walls. Carlos asks a question, a soft one during a lull of creativity when they’re eating. “Ma, did you ma ever do this with you?”
Cruella stills, the way only someone experiencing a while life in a moment can do.
“No darling, my… mother” - she grits out the word like it can infect her taste bud with foul sensations- “was a very unpleasant woman.” The finality in her tone and Jesper's hand on her shoulder makes it obvious, whatever his mother’s mother did was bad, and he won’t hurt his mother like she already was.
Carlos goes over to her, crawling into her lap and hugging her, smiling up at her. “I’m glad you’re my ma then.”
She smiles softly back to him and squeezes him close. “Oh, my darling, genius little boy, you’re far too sweet.”
He nods, snuggling into her lap, going back to imagining, to creating, and being his mother’s genius little boy.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Loud, pumping music comes through the handheld gramophone, earphones covering Carlos’ ears, bicolored hair pulled back has he sketches out electronics and circuitry in his recycled and cream colored paper, charcoal stick staining his finger tips back. Nodding his head to the music, he leans back in his chair stretching and looking up at the ceiling with a grin.
He goes to the cold water bucket in the corner of his room and cleans his hands, leaving his room to get some air and stretch his legs. Walking through the colder manor, the windows shut by the shutters, fabric hanging to further keep the snow out, he’s still nodding along to the music. Carlos goes to the main hall, waving at the hunting party coming in, lead by Gaston and Shan Yu in fur lined coats.
Stepping out into the snow Carlos takes a deep breath, wet cold air filling his lungs. He feels alive. Like stepping out into the world after waking up from a coma. The energy fills him, sending tingles down into his fingertips. He has his mother's mischievous smile, walking to the gates, to the forge that Cruella had paid someone to make for him.
The forge is blistering, a stark contrast of the outside cold of the mountains. Not one to be idle for long, he takes off his fur lined coat and sweater, leaving him in a black sleeveless turtle neck, and gets to work, hammering out the energy that fills him.
It’s hours later when the handheld gramophone dies. Damn, he forgot the crank in his room. Grabbing his coat and sweater, Carlos leaves the forge, making his way back into the manor.
It’s hard not to hear the loud arguing happening in the den. The idiot, Carlos dubs in his head, is demanding more land, more farmers, more herders. As if. He waits and leans against the wall next to the closed door, listening in.
“And what, pray tell, would you even do with the more land, hm? With more livestock?” Cruella asks, sardonically, “It’s not like you can produce dear, you can barely provide for those on your land already.”
Carlos silently snickers, grinning to himself at his mother’s comment. It wasn’t like she was wrong about the idiot. From his voice he knows that he’s under Hans’ sub-territory to the south. Going over his sub-territories leader is a big faux paw, and disgusting etiquette. Maybe his mother will punish him by sending him to Oogie Boogie, it’s been awhile since he got to see the gambler play his twisted game. Disgusting game, but one that’s necessary.
His father, Jesper, finds him outside as he’s bringing in tea to his mother in the den, shaking his head affectionately, ruffling Carlos’ hair and playfully shooing him back to his room. Carlos laughs quietly and leaves, gently patting his father’s arm in affection.
Grabbing the crank for his handheld gramophone, he turns it and lets the sound music drown out the idiot downstairs. He knows for sure that he’ll go down to Boogie’s soon enough, fix up his machines for the next for soul that has the misfortune of being rude to his mother.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Jay: Growing Up
It’s hot and humid in the desert that Jahir calls home, the wind carries salt from the waves, and the fresh water is what the whole city is based around. An oasis in the middle of a barren place, surrounded by humanoid animals and people alike.
Jay is playing in the water in the palace he lives, stomping around in knee high water with glee, laughing and playing with little birds that stop by to cool down. Iago, the loyal bird of his father, Jafar, is watching over him, making mischievous comments, encouraging Jay to splash more, splash bigger.
Jafar walks out of the palace soon, wondering where his friend and son have gone, and smiling softly as he sees Jay. He looks so much like his mother. Soft and willful, and yet, so strong. Jafar goes and sits nearby, reading over the reports from his advisors. This is, of course, before he’s splashed with water.
“Baba! Come splash!” Jay calls, giggling as Iago flits around.
“Yeah, Jafar!” Iago adds, goading him into join, to let loose and have fun.
Jafar hesitates. He knows what is proper, what’s not, and playing in the water with his son, as tempting as it is, is improper. The he thinks of his love, Jay’s mother. She was always ready to bring joy to others, regardless of propriety. How would she raise him? How would she play with their little boy?
Sandals are quickly discarded as Jafar goes and wades through the water to join his boy, splashing and laughing with him, Iago flittering around. It’s hot, humid and damn fun. Jay, as tough as he pretends to be outside these walls, he knows that here, with his father and Iago, he’s safe to be soft, kind and happy.
——————————————————————————————————————————
It’s dry, Jay’s lips are chapped as he does his hair. There’s been a drought for a few weeks now. If there was magic in the Isle his father could simply wave his serpentine staff and make the clouds come in, heavy with rain. But, with the barrier, the stupid invisible thing, his father is reduced to just a man with a cane and a sad life.
He shakes his head, breathing through his nose, calming himself like Scar taught him to. He may be a talking lion, but he does have good advice for anger management. His anger is what did the cat in after all. He takes space to know what he has to do today, and what free time he can have to go to the fighting pits to get everything out of his system.
First, the lessons, then he has to get fitted for his crowning outfit, his mid afternoon workout, lessons again, then… Jay’s free to fight the street kids to his hearts content. A sigh came out of his lips, already exhausted at the idea of doing so much before he can get his hands dirty.
The day goes by at a tortoise’s pace. It’s quiet, the uncanny quiet that get under his skin. Fuck. He need to get one of those music players that Carlos has to drown out the silence. It’s so quiet that it pisses him off. Everyone’s always so quiet around him. Everyone but the street kids outside these walls of adobe. They don’t treat him like glass, like something that needs to be protected, because he doesn’t. He can take care of himself.
Through his workout, he can play music. The weights carved from sandstone hitting the floor, the hits against the burlap punching back full of dust, the heavy guitar and drums from one of the agrabani bands from the city. It’s a welcome reprieve from the silence of the palace.
Jafar, Jay’s father, has been… quiet. It’s not like him, but Jay understands why. It’s going on almost 18 years of his mother passing and him being born prematurely before being banished to the Isle while he was in a magic incubator. He knows the silence is because the anniversary of the Isle being created is coming up. That means that those prissy assholes across that stupid bridge are gonna send letters. Those fucking letters of amends and forgiveness, yet they wont put down the fucking barrier. Hypocrites. All of them.
Jay takes another deep breath, leaning his forehead against the burlap punching bag, calming, resting his mind. He has to leave this place, the peace that settles in his musculature after a good punch, he has to leave that behind to go back to the silence. To the acute anger that builds until he feels the need to get everything out of his system. He feels heat at the back of his neck at the idea, then goes back to punching.
Lessons are boring. Shere Khan is a compelling teacher, but it’s boring. He has to sit still, shut up and take notes. His knee bounces the longer that barely working clock ticks by. Twenty… fifteen… ten… five minutes… go time. He stands and jumps out the window, rolling to soften the blow as he runs out the gates. He only slows when he gets near his destination.
It’s a hole in the wall joint, literally underground in a giant abandoned scorpion den. It’s loud, chaotic and feels more like home than the palace does these days. The agrabani band he likes is playing, loud and forceful. He can feel the bass and drums in his sternum. He feels alive again. It’s only a matter of time before the ring opens and he can get the unreasonable energy and rage out.
But, until then, he dances, he drinks, he smokes the hookah, and he happily indulges other people’s desires as well. It’s free, it’s light, and it’s divine. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to the gods that never look upon those on the Isle of the Lost.