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Vil let out a rather undignified noise, though one could excuse him for that, considering he just got slammed into the pavement. At least he wouldn’t be recognized by any fans or paparazzi, considering he wasn’t in his human form at the moment.
His fairy form was much smaller, but much more durable as well, though it didn’t mean this did not hurt. Stray bits of concrete dug into his back through his feathers, and the world spun when he opened his eyes. His body felt heavy, cold, nearly frozen, spreading from where the villain had laid his hand on him.
The aforementioned villain landed softly on the ground, the sharp points of their heels clacking on the cratered pavement. They moved elegantly, a dancer across a ballroom floor, the dark reds and purples of his outfit highlighting the delicate white of his skin and the pitch black of his hair.
Familiar, this was so familiar–
Vil threw himself up in the air, tail feathers fluttering as he floated up and away from a sudden strike. The villain hummed disappointedly as he missed, jagged spikes of ice shooting up from where his heel had slammed down. The ice smashed into a nearby stationary storefront, shattering glass and sending screams up in the air. A giggle, pure and so familiar, left the villain's lips as he spared just a glance to his own destruction. He daintily lifted his hand to cover his mouth, as if playing at a parody of perfect manners, his other hand staying behind his back.
Anger and disgust burned in Vil’s gut.
What a vile person. How dare he! Vil thought, a pure rage that he rarely feels burning inside him. To hurt so many, so carelessly, and yet act as if they were some hapless and dainty maiden!
A scream, young and horrified, shot up from behind him, Vil instinctively turning to look at the sound of despair.
“Meemaw! Meemaw—” A young purple-haired teen clutched at a frozen old woman with similar features clear to Vil’s eye, even while distorted by the ice. Tears beaded at their eyes as they looked around, calling for help, only to see all others having either fled or been frozen in a similar state.
“Don’t get so distracted now,” A lilting voice cooed, far too close for Vil’s comfort, shocking him backwards as a cold mist breezed past his face, a hint of frost nipping at his nose. Vil pushed himself backwards, watching as his unnamed assailant launched himself up with an elegant jump. He shot more ice, each one more rapid than before, icicles blasting from his heels. Vil dodged the best he could, expression as stoic as he could muster even as one tore at his side and another ripped out a swath of feathers. The rest crash into the street, sending car alarms blaring and coming dangerously close to the kid and the frozen victims in the stationary shop. The villain continued to press, taking advantage of Vil's brief lapse of focus.
Two icicles shot out at once, each piercing a side of his tail and pinning him to a street sign. Vil seethed, pain and anger bubbling up as he tried to yank himself free, ignoring the way it tore at his precious feathers. The villain stepped closer to him, brown eyes cold and taunting. A smile spread on bloodred lips.
“You may call me Bedivere.” He bowed, mockingly polite, and one hand behind his back, like it was frozen there itself.
He didn’t even need to use both hands to defeat me, Vil thought, the feeling poisonous and bitter.
The newly named Bedivere (and how pretentious a name it was; Vil ignored the hypocritical nature of that statement) stepped even closer, the coldness of his breath frosting the air as he leaned in.
His voice was colder than the ice impaling him as he spoke.
“Where is the Golden Moon Quill?”
What?
Golden Moon Quill? That old fairy tale? Why does he think I would know a thing about it?! And…
Why does he want it?
Bedivere leaned even closer, eyes flat and dead.
“Each time I have to ask you is another icicle in these pretty feathers of yours–”
A chunk of ice slammed into Bedivere's head, sending the villain stumbling back, though his thin smile didn’t crack.
“GET AWAY FROM THAT LITTLE…THING!”
The small teenager from the store stood a ways away, chest heaving as he hauled another slab of the villain's own ice to throw. Vil didn’t love being referred to as a thing, but the help was appreciated.
Or it would’ve been, not coming from a vulnerable civilian child.
“Get away!” Vil yelled, and the kid stumbled back.
“You can talk?!”
“Of course I can talk!”
“Why would I know that?! You’re a talking glittery bird critter!”
“Have you never seen a peacock before?” Vil critiqued. He was not a critter. Well, he wasn’t quite a peacock either, being a fairy in actuality, but the boy could be forgiven for not knowing that, considering the lengths they went to hide themselves.
A giggle broke the air, splintering the thin ice the two had found in the bickering exchange.
“How brave! It’s quite charming that you’d come to the defense of a creature only slightly more pitiful than you.” He mocked. “But I’ll only warn you once: this isn’t your fight. Run away, and I won’t pierce through you in the same way.”
The teenager swallowed, thick with tension, but didn’t step back and certainly didn’t turn and run. Instead he raised the chunk of ice in his hands once again.
“I don’t know what the heck you are, or what you want, but you–” His face flashed with rage. “You froze my Meemaw! You hurt all these people! I ain’t letting that slide!”
Vil felt his chest warm at the bold (and crude) declaration. Something bubbled up inside him, a heat strong enough to melt the ice around them.
Wait–
Was this…
Resonance!
Vil and the boy (the name Epel flashed in his mind, a brief share as their feelings aligned) gasped in unison, and the chunk of ice in Epel’s hands started to glow.
An apple-shaped bag, small enough to fit into the palms of his hands, landed there, as if the ice had never existed. It shined so brightly with magic it took Vil’s breath away.
“What…what the heck is this?!” Epel yelled, holding the purse as if it might detonate. Bedivere scowled, the first real sign of displeasure on his face.
“Drop that, if you don’t wish to be frozen where you stand–”
“Epel!” Vil cut him off, the boy's head shooting up at the sound of his name. “Hold it and wish! Transform with me, into a Cure!”
“A Cure…?” He muttered dazedly, but clutched the bag to his chest all the same. “You got it! I won’t cower away from any fight!”
Out of an instinct he didn’t know, he unclasped the bag in a smooth movement, just as Vil called out:
“Come on, Precure!”
A glow emanated from inside the open clutch. Words flowed from Epel’s mouth, directly off his tongue without his brain's input.
“Change! Poison Cure Pouch!”
His hand reached into the bag, deeper than it should be, barely noticing how the world around him had changed to a shimmering lavender color. He grasped something, a soft cloth, and tossed it into the air.
“Precure Stand-Up! Start!”
A flutter of cloth rained down from above, somehow draping perfectly and elegantly over his body, fitting against his skin like it was fated to be there. Thigh-high tights trailed up his leg, distracting from the sway of the thick skirt he’d found himself in, and long, even puffier sleeves. He twisted, throwing his head back out of instinct.
His hair glowed, flowing out longer than he’d ever had it, down his back and beyond, tickling the tops of a large bow that had just popped out from the back of the dress.
He moved, following some choreography that had found its way into his veins, as natural as breathing, stomping as heeled boots formed on his feet and hands going up to brush down his hair as an accessory pinned itself into place.
A bow tied itself over his chest, the ribbon a pleasant purple, swaying as he floated down.
The final piece, a sheath around his waist, materialized, and a sword appeared in his hand. The weight was comforting, the handle intricate and beautiful, with an apple on the hilt and a long thin blade extending outward.
He raised his sword to the sky and shouted,
“The flower blooming into the fruit of retribution, Cure d'Api!”
The glow faded, and the world was quiet for a moment, everything taking a breath as if in awe of the transformation they had just witnessed.
“What the heck was that?! What frilly nonsense am I wearing now?!”
…Or awe for everyone but the newly dubbed Cure d’Api.
“You’re a Cure! You’ve been granted the power to fight villains, and you should be grateful for the outfit! I designed it myself, you know!” Vil felt his feathers puff up, pride at his work clashing with the resonating emotions still fluttering in his chest.
“‘Course you did…” Epel muttered, pretty face twisted in a scowl as he spun around trying to get the full scope of his outfit. “Did you hafta put me in heels?”
“Be glad I gave you heeled boots and not stilettos.” Vil huffed.
“As charming as this is,” the villain they’d somehow forgotten chimed in, head tilted and voice flat, “I’m going to have to go.” And he pushed away, moving quickly on an ice-slick path that generated as he moved.
Epel let out a feral-sounding growl at odds with his outfit and launched towards him, sword in hand, and nearly stumbled from the increase in power.
“Get back here, you damn coward! Unfreeze my Meemaw, or I’ll beat you into the ground!” He stumbled as he swung his sword, heels sliding on the ice trail as he was moved by the strength of his own flourish.
“Hm, I must decline!” Bedivere tittered, ducking from the wild swing.
“Fuck off with your declining! I’m gonna carve you like an apple if you don’t come back here!”
Vil was nearly in awe of how utterly vulgar this boy was. He was besmirching the nature of a Cure! Vil would have to guide him to the proper path and manners (even if it was a bit entertaining to imagine the villain who’d tormented him being beaten down in such a way.)
Epel’s sword darted forward, the movement untrained but strong, and he grazed Bedivere’s cheek.
A thin trail of blood down his fair face, though he didn’t outwardly react to the pain. His hand came up, an icy fog emanating from it and encircling the area. Epel coughed and swiped the air with his free hand, but by the time it cleared, the villain had vanished entirely.
Epel cursed and kicked at a block of ice on the ground, sending it scattering into a dozen pieces across the torn-up road.
Vil didn’t scold him, the sight of that pale skin stained with blood sending him back into a memory.
Vil tutted, wiping at a soft cheek with a cloth, the sticky fake blood persistently staining the white skin beneath.
“You were supposed to avoid the splatter on your face at least.” He scolded. Really, he shouldn’t have been the one cleaning the younger actor's face, but the makeup artist assigned to them was too busy dealing with the actress of the younger version of the heroine to pay them any mind at the moment.
Neige LeBlanche's eyes, wide and warm and utterly guileless, blinked up at him, his cheeks stained a charming pink even where they hadn’t been wiped (not too roughly, of course; Vil wasn’t a fool)
“Sorry, Vii-kun!” He giggled, distorted slightly by the hand holding his face still. “I must’ve missed my marking!”
Vil sighed. Really, why did he want people to think he was so careless? It wasn’t like Vil hadn’t noticed the heroine actress had been half a foot in the wrong direction, displacing Neige. But the boy would never admit it had been her fault.
“Don’t make a habit of it.”
Always so selfless, this foolish boy was.
Selfless? Foolish?
He must’ve been a better actor than even Vil knew.
Because it was surely Neige Leblanche who had just tried to kill him.