notes: because i am obsessed with the notion that mal would have a much harder time adapting to such a world. this will probably be around five parts, give or take, and will get progressively darker as it goes on. this story is my absolute baby - i've been slaving over this first chapter for weeks on end and although it's nothing close to perfection, i am actually fairly satisfied with it, which so rarely happens. i apologize for how dreadfully long it is - i really wanted to end it at a specific part, but doing so required getting a ton of muck out of the way first.
important stuff: this takes place two years after the events of the first film, meaning a good portion of the characters are eighteen-nineteen years of age excluding carlos, who is sixteen. the portrayal of maleficent and, turn in, mal in this story is highly skewed towards the angelina jolie film version of the character in terms of the moors as well as her powers and relationship with nature. everything else, i believe, should align with the film, or as much something dark as this can align with a dcom feature. though i lean very heavily towards mal/evie, ben/mal will be very, very prominent throughout the entirety of the fic, with a healthy serving of ben/carlos and a dash of (mostly unrequited) jay/carlos for good measure.
warnings (not all for this chapter, but for the story as a whole): violence, blood, gore, body horror, emotional/psychological/physical abuse, torture, manipulation, warfare, weaponry, dark magic, sexual content (all of it will be consensual in technicality, but since carlos is only sixteen here, i feel i must warn you of such things as technically minors cannot give consent), depression and anxiety in several major characters, imprisonment, generally very dark themes & death. i think that's it - ha! - but if there is anything i may have glanced over and missed, please let me know.
❛ MY KINGDOM COME ❜
part one.
I was as pure as a river (but now I think I'm possessed)
"I am the sea, and nobody owns me."
The news of King Ben's proposal spread quickly, as such news tends to do. Reactions were understandably mixed - the proposal was, admittedly, almost indecently premature, though nothing out of the ordinary for someone so young and strongly in love, so in tune with his emotions that most just assume his heart and brain work together as one organ instead of two.
On the other hand, it had indeed been a while since the kingdom had been host to such a momentous occasion - a wedding to end all weddings, indeed! It was unanimously decided that the bridesmaids would wear lavender, and Mal would wear traditional white; beautiful as it was, Evie, in all of her fashion-forward glory, insisted that Ben's mother's golden dress of taffeta and silk clashed terribly with Mal's mauve-stained hair, so white it would be.
The guest list is ten miles long, nearly, and the number of attendees far surpasses those who attended the wedding of Belle to her beast; these numbers hit five digits with ease, and by the day the list grows and grows, more and more names tacked onto the end of it. It's no surprise, really - the citizens of Auradon are a curious bunch if nothing else, and the idea of attending a wedding between a king and the daughter of the kingdom's most renowned sorceresses appeals to every aspect of them. They crave dramatics like they crave goodness.
Their pettiness irks Mal and makes her skin crawl, but she gets it - if nothing else, they'll be able to say that they were there, watching with wide eyes in third-row pews when the bride shed her dress and took on wings and scales black as night. What a sight for sore eyes that would be!
(Because if all else fails, it will still be a wedding for the books, and for them, that is good enough.)
It is late March, the time of year where winter tips quietly into spring, and icy sunshine is replaced with melted snow and tufts of grass, spots of color dotting the thawing landscape. The entire kingdom of Auradon is aflutter with a sort of enthusiasm, the likes of which Mal has never experienced before. The castle is moving, shifting, buzzing with laughter and chatter drifting down hallways that were once desolate and empty, seamstresses and chefs, architects and florists buzzing about like worker bees, their eyes always flitting to her and Mal knows that soon she will be a queen. Their queen, and they will bow and smile, drop into hasty, flustered curtsies and bows while she blows kisses from her window.
The servants have been polishing the ballroom floor where the bride and groom will share their first dance for days, perched atop painfully tall ladders as they wash windows and dust the chandeliers that shake and jingle like wind chimes, casting their crystal light over their faces. Turning away from the windows and instead focusing on the wet grass beneath her feet as she digs her fingers into the soil of the castle garden, Mal breathes in the cold air, eyes wide with a sort of growing disenchantment and thinks soon this will be my home. The sky is the kind of full-on grey that looks as if the blue has been iced over instead of merely covered by clouds. Still, the birds sing their morning songs as they dip their tiny heads into the fountain, catching droplets of water between their beaks.
A flutter of wings to her left, a flash of color settling in the grass beside her. A butterfly. Mal flinches. She hates butterflies - she's always found them a little creepy, much more intimidating than spiders or nightcrawlers. Something about their eyes, she thinks. It's unnerving, the way that bore into you the same way her mother's green eyes still pierce her soul late at night, when she'll wake up drenched in cold sweat, fingers curling into the pale sheets, scream caught in her throat.
At last the butterfly lifts off and flutters away, almost menacing in its grace as it disappears over the treeline and heads north. In the distance, the hazy outline of the Isle of the Lost remains, glowing a sickly yellow color. Warning signs. Danger. Caution tape. Home.
A drop of rain splatters against her thigh, and then another, but Mal's eyes are glued to the Isle. When a hand rests on her shoulder she jumps, only to come face to face with Ben, though his own eyes stare out at the abandoned island that sits in the midst of the sea, now crumbling and in ruin. One day the churning black seas will reclaim it and all that will be left of the Isle of the Lost is the stories harbored in the minds of those who called it home for so many years.
"Do you still think about it, sometimes?" he asks, face soft. Open. Always so curious. Wondering. Wanting to probe her brain, poke around and take her thoughts for himself.
"Sometimes," Mal echoes. She cocks her head.
Ben's fingers are on her face, then, caressing her cheeks and cupping her jaw. "You know you never have to go back there, right?" Mal almost laughs. Of course she knows, but she supposes it's sweet that he cares enough to reassure her, so she links their fingers together and presses close, her own hand lingering on his chest. His heartbeat is strong, steady. He is like a tree - anchored to the ground by thick roots, perfectly content where he is, and Mal can't move with leaving him in the dust and sometimes it makes her skin feel too tight but she tries not to think about that, because she loves him. God, she loves him.
"I know," she murmurs, replacing her hand with the side of her head. Thump, thump, thump. His heartbeat in her ear. Blood pulsing. Two hearts as one. His ring is on her finger and her clothes are in his dressers and tomorrow she will sit in her throne beside him and the entire kingdom will call her queen. "I just...it's hard not to think about it sometimes, you know? It was my home for sixteen years."
Ben flinches, and guilt seizes Mal's gut. It's not something she means to do, but sometimes the words slip out and she knows Ben hates them. His own guilt and shame due to his parents' decisions still grip him tightly and it pains him to think about. Mal knows this.
"But I'm here now," she adds quickly, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm here now, and I'm safe, and so is everyone else. I am not my mother, and your parents' mistakes are not your own. You know that, don't you?"
The corners of his mouth quirk upwards before he plants a kiss on her hairline, narrowly missing her forehead. She laughs, and so does he, their laughter the only sound that occupies the still air aside from the soft lull of ballroom music that slips through even the tiniest cracks and gaps in the castle windows. "You're my favorite girl," he laughs. "You know that, too, right?"
Mal swats at his arm playfully. "I'd better be. This is your ring on my finger, after all - I'd better be your only girl." Feeling coy, she stands on tiptoe again, breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. "If I really am your favorite girl, you're gonna have to prove it to me, Your Majesty." And before he can ask what she means by that, brow crinkling in confusion, Mal is off, darting into a grove of trees, laughter spilling from her rosebud lips, arms spread wide as she darts and jumps over rosebushes and Ben is laughing, too, clomping down the path after her. There is rain on their skin and love in their hearts and Mal thinks again, more fondly this time, soon this will be my home.
It goes in waves, this sort of thing. This doubt. It passes, and will continue to do so. This Mal is certain of, because the alternative is too terrifying to even consider.
Ben catches her and pins her against a tree and kisses her breathless, hands settling low on her hips while the bark of the tree rubs uncomfortably against the back of her neck. Shifting her head, her gaze tilts to the right and there it is again. The Isle, in all of its grey-yellow glory, nearly lost to the rainy backdrop. Her eyes flutter halfway shut when Ben's lips press against the hollow of her throat, a soft groan. "We're going to get caught," Mal starts to say, but the words die on her lips, head lolling back as he grips her thighs.
He always touches her so gently, like she's a china doll instead of a girl. She hates it, and she's told him so on more than one occasion - I fucking hate when you touch me like that. I kind of want you to, like, ruin me. But Ben was born and bred here in Auradon with a silver spoon caught between his teeth and softness is all he's ever known. Mal thinks, sometimes, that he might be more opposed to change than he lets on.
They sneak away to his bedroom for some alone time - she'd begged him to fuck her there in the garden but Ben is a king and hoping he'd do something so rash is like wishing for rain in a drought - and by the time the door is shut behind them Mal feels like she's going to explode. He eats her out as she wiggles and moans and watches the grey skies roll. Mal asks him, with her fingers twisted in her hair and his head between her thighs, "What do I taste like?"
Ben peers up at her, hair glued to his forehead, his eyes bleary and cheeks damp. He looks like a puppy dog, which Mal recognizes is probably not an awesome thought to be having about someone who's got their mouth on you, but it's the first thing that comes to mind nonetheless. "Like the love of my life," he says.
Mal laughs, head thrown back, on the verge of coming but she presses her bare heels into his sides and forces herself to hold on for a moment longer. "Seriously? That was so fucking corny."
Ben pauses his actions - again, Mal thinks with disdain - to shoot her a half-glare. "Language, Mal." His tone is disapproving and heart sinks, gut twisting.
"Says the boy with his head between my legs." In response, he flicks his tongue inside of her and she nearly screams.
When all is said and done and they're both half-dressed again, Ben's arms around her waist, Mal turns her back to him to gaze out the window, her cheek pressed against his comforter. It smells familiar. It smells like him. Like them, but all she can think about is how the familiarity of The Isle feels even further away than it did a minute ago and it is too hard to watch, so she turns away.
Mal is called down to the castle's enormous kitchen later that afternoon. They don't tell her what for, only that it is an urgent matter. Upon entering, her senses are overwhelmed by the sweetness that hangs in the air - confectioners sugar, icing, strawberries, chocolate. Chefs and bakers mill about with a sense of urgency, starch-white flour caught in the creases of their cracked palms.
"What is this urgent matter that so desperately needs my attention?" she asks to no one in particular, but they all whirl on their heels anyway, welcoming her with animated grins and open arms.
"Mal!" they chorus. Someone takes her by the shoulders and guides her between stainless steel tables covered with dough, utensils and a plethora of fruits and vegetables of every color. It will be not only a wedding for the books, but a feast for them as well.
Her jaw drops when she sees it, and she cannot for the life of her remember how to close it.
It must be six feet high, at least, covered in fluffy white frosting and laced with golden fondant. Strawberries line each tier, round and round like the spires of a staircase. Her mouth waters, a tickle itching at the back of her throat.
"Big cake," she whispers to herself, chewing on her thumbnail. Big cake is right - it's large enough to feed everyone back on the Isle for a week, and though her own belly never rumbles the way it used to late at night when there had been nothing to eat for days, but thinking about it now has her insides twisting painfully, unmistakable anger pooling in her gut like cold tap water. It is pointless and even petty, Mal knows, to remain angry, but there are times when sixteen years spent rotting alive come rushing back like floodwater and she simply cannot help it.
Letting go. Everyone talks about it like it's easy.
"No kidding." Mal spins on her heel so quick she's not surprised when her hair hits her intruder in the face - it's just Ben, of course, but he's still a little too close for comfort when he comes sneaking up on her like this, which lately seems to be all the fucking time. She can't stay angry at him for long, though; her record is sixteen hours or so before she had cracked, slipped through his bedroom window and tangled her fingers in his hair. She'd bit down on his earlobe and hard to rouse him fully from his slumber and sank down onto his cock, muttering I swear to god if you ever do that again I will kill you.
Thinking about it now, Mal cannot recall for the life of her what the argument was even about. She definitely doesn't think about how he's made her soft, or how disappointed her mother would be, how disappointed her mother is. She's gone soft, wafer thin, a blurred watercolor painting. Perhaps it's because she played the tough girl game for so long, but she knows in her gut that it's mostly Ben's fault and she wraps her hands around that notion like a razor blade.
"Are you excited?" Ben asks as the crowd of kitchen staff disperses, tilting his head like he's a puppy. He's asking if she's excited, like he's expecting her to get cold feet, like he knows the panic that sits just below her skin that detonates any time she thinks about this wedding and his hands are around her waist and she loves him. Mal sinks happily into his embrace, and still he loves him - this, she is certain of. Ben is everything she has ever needed, soft touches and patience and gentle words, hands that smooth down her hair when she feels like her skin is too small for her body, everything itching like there are bugs wriggling their way into her bloodstream. He's so good for her, and so good to her. He helped her scrape the frost from her skin back when she was certain that she was half-frozen and stuck that way.
He's so good for her - really, impossibly good. This Mal knows for certain, and the knowledge makes it a little easier to push back the way her heart ticks, sluggish and slow like a windup toy when she thinks about him for too long or how sometimes his fingers linked with hers feel like chains, like locked doors and impossibly tall walls.
"So excited," Mal answers. It is almost the truth. She's curling into him, nose bumping against his collarbone. He smells like home - apples and citrus and expensive cologne.
"Nervous?"
"So nervous," she whispers. It is the truth.
His fingers come up to cup her jaw and tilt her head towards him. On one hand, the kiss he plants on her mouth calms her, has her feeling like she's shrinking small enough to fit back inside her skin. On the other, it sends another rush of anxiety flooding through her, one that touches her fingertips and toes. Mal smiles.
"And what about you, Your Majesty?" she teases, fussing idly with the collar of his shirt while he smiles on fondly. "Don't tell me the king himself is," she pauses, eyes widening, a cartoonish gasp escaping her mouth, "nervous. Or even...having doubts, if you will."
"Never," Ben swears. "At least about the doubts part. Nobody ever said I wasn't prone to bouts of anxiety, though." A toothy grin, one that makes her gut twist.
"There you two are!" a familiar voice breaks the comfortable silence. In the doorway stands Belle herself, all golden cuffs and twinkling eyes. Ben is truly her spitting image. Mal pushes away from him to drop into an uneasy curtsy, but Belle merely laughs, waving her hand. "Mal, enough. Soon enough it will be me bowing to you." The truth of her words builds another lump inside Mal's throat, but she straightens up anyway, blush creeping to her cheeks. "Ben, may I have a moment alone with Mal? There's something I'd like to show her."
Ben squeezes her fingers and plants a kiss on her cheek before leaving them to it, and Belle leads her out of the kitchen and down a winding staircase while Mal's heart pounds in her chest. There is something almost unnerving about being alone in the company of people like Ben's parents, their effortless way of walking with dignity and poise separating them from people like Mal, who has had eighteen years' worth of manners and customs stuffed into two years.
Belle pauses before a set familiar of double doors that reach higher than three of Mal and whose hands gleam silver even in the dim lighting. When she pushes them open, Mal is overwhelmed once again by the sheer scale of the castle's library, shelves and shelves of books piled to the ceiling and lining every inch of every wall.
Belle's fingers brush across the spines of the books that line one of the many hulking shelves, lingering on several but always moving on. Searching for something specific. "I know it's a day early, but I figured it would be best to give you my personal wedding gift now, before you're too consumed with postnuptial bliss to enjoy life's simple pleasures." Her fingers dance in the air between them before coming to rest on the weathered blue spine of a book, plucking it from its spot on the shelf. "Ah! Here we are."
"This was my favorite book when I was your age," she explains, fingers curling around the edges of the cover and holding it tightly to her chest, no doubt reliving the wonderful memories she associates with it. "You may find it a bit...over-the-top, and perhaps a bit cheesy, but it's something I would like you to have. After all, I think we could all use a reminder of how beautiful life can be from time to time."
"Oh," Mal whispers, eyes welling with tears as she brushes her fingers across the cover, smooth against her skin. Mal knows, of course, that her future mother-in-law's intentions are pure and good but the book is so heavy with her own memories and it just makes her want to cry harder. "Your Majesty. I - you shouldn't have."
"Nonsense! It is something I've thought long and hard about, and I want you to have it. See?" Belle murmurs, fingerstips brushing along the painted illustrations, faded slightly but still startling in their vibrancy. "Here's where she meets Prince Charming, but - and you didn't hear this from me - she won't know that until chapter three." The woman gives Mal a quick wink and a grin, one that drips with love in a way that Maleficent's never quite did, her smiles always tainted with some ulterior motive that made even her brightest grins look venomous. Mal giggles, leaning her head on her future mother-in-law's shoulder, though inside her chest her heart begins to ache.
Belle leaves her alone and Mal studies the book in her shaking hands carefully, its yellowing pages and cursive letters and curling drawings created by careful hands. Beauty. Magic. A prince in disguise. An enchanted castle. Happily ever after. It's every story book she's ever been presented, but something about this hits so close to home that bile crawls up her throat, settling on her tongue.
Her fingers curl angrily around the spine of the book. She wants to tear it down the middle, throw it across the room into the hearth and let the flames lick up every last bit of it. She wants to shred it to pieces and feed them to the birds, wants to get this goddamned book that feels like it's burning through her skin the longer she holds it as far away from her as possible.
Instead, though, she purses her lips and closes it very carefully before setting it down on a table, breath ragged and heart clanging like an alarm.
Mal should be asleep, but thoughts inside her head keep her wide awake, the pictures from Belle's book burned into her brain, thoughts of happily ever afters and princes and magic that lead her out the door of her bedroom and down hallways, flights of stairs that seem to lead nowhere (this castle still vibrates with magic, something almost sinister in its mysteries and enchantment) and through doors big and small. Then it's down to the cellar where Maleficent resides, no longer a reptile but a raven instead - Mal had insisted that her mother, no matter how cruel, deserved more dignity in her fate than a simple lizard. The bird flaps its wings, thrashes violently, beak cracking against the glass as she squawks her despair, and it's always like this but it never fails to catch Mal off guard, fresh tears springing to her eyes.
They used to have guards escort her down for her visits with her mother, their eyes shifting uneasily as they cleared their throats and waited impatiently in the doorway until Mal was ready to leave. That was long ago, though, back when they still could not curl their fingers around the notion that she had no desire to try to set her mother free. Eventually, Ben convinced them to give her some alone time with her own mother...bird...thing, and though their eyes narrowed at the idea, they were certainly in no position to deny the king, so Mal was granted thirty minutes each day to visit with her mother alone.
Sometimes, she still wishes they had stayed. Their sighs of agitation and anxiety made her neck hairs prickle, but it was harder back then. Harder for her mother to worm her way back into her brain. Harder for Mal to fall apart like this, the realization hitting her each and every day that she will never feel her mother's arms around her, will never hear her voice. A fresh wave of pain and disbelief.
(It's all bullshit, Mal thinks. Learning to be good. She got lucky, but her mother is the Mistress of All Evil and she will burn herself alive before she lets them change her.)
"Hi, mom," she whispers, fingers pressed against the glass.
Maleficent blinks her beady black eyes, like two drops of oil. Those eyes. They say more than words are capable of and hit Mal twice as hard. She blinks again. Traitor. Failure. Spineless, cowardly little girl.
They stare at each other, exchanged gazes the only things to fill up the silence. One of Maleficent's feathers flutters to the ground, inky black. If Mal could reach her hand in without the fear of her mother trying to tear her fingers off, she would snatch it up and keep it in one of her pockets.
"I love him," she whispers finally, voice breaking as she presses her forehead against the glass, eyes fluttering shut in a last-ditch effort to stop the tears that threaten to spill over and coat her cheeks in salt. Her mother lets out a broken, choked sort of sound. She's laughing, Mal realizes, but she can't blame her. She hasn't even convinced herself of her words. Not anymore. "I do love him. We're getting married tomorrow. I love him and I'm going to marry him and tomorrow I will be his wife and I will be a queen." Her voice is still quiet, but the wavering has ceased as her heart works at reconstructing its steely walls, the kind that allow for only logic and no truths. No feelings.
Maleficent clucks her tongue and cocks her head. She's not falling for it. She never has.
You have no room for love in your life, her mother had told her at Ben's coronation. What she never mentioned was that Mal has no room for it in her heart, either, its cavernous walls unaccustomed and unwilling to harbor any sort of romantic affection.
"I love him, mother," Mal repeats, pressing her trembling fingers harder against the glass. "And I will not let you convince me again that you are allowed to tell me what I feel. I care for him, and he cares for me, and tomorrow I will officially be the Queen of Auradon and there is nothing you can do about it. I will rule over the people you despise so much with the man I love at my side, and you will be left down here to rot."
She knows it's a mistake before the words have touched her lips, but they slip through her teeth regardless and she claps a hand over her mouth.
Another bird-blink from her mother. Slower, this time, like the cogs in her brain are still turning. Mal is ready for her mother to explode, an eruption of feathers and flames and gore that will shatter the glass and cover her in the evidence. They'll find her down here soaked with her mother's blood and tiny bird guts and assume she killed her. Mal isn't sure what they'd do to her - is killing an inherently evil woman considered a crime here? Auradon's morals are certainly questionable, but it's doubtful they'd be willing to look the other way.
But Maleficent does nothing, only waits, staring at her daughter with eyes that, for the first time, say I understand. I care. I know.
Lies. It's all lies, but lies have never kept her from breaking before and they don't stop her now as Mal slams her palms flat against the glass, startling her mother so badly that she drops several more feathers.
"I don't love him," Mal croaks. She's shaking. Her throat feels like it's jammed with cotton. "I don't love him. You were right. I loved him, I swear I did, but I don't love him. You were right again. Of course you were right." She rubs at her wet eyes and her hands come away stained with streaks of mascara and salty tears. That just makes her cry harder, angry tears spilling down her cheeks because before she came to Auradon - before he brought her here - her mother never saw her cry. Never saw her weak, but now Mal is soft and pink inside like everyone else here and she hates it, shame infiltrating her heart and threatening to crush her lungs.
Maleficent merely nods knowingly. Her eyes seem to say, Oh, my sweet girl. You know what you must do now, don't you, darling?
Perhaps she's imagining it. Perhaps she's exaggerating, but Mal whips her head back and forth anyway. "No," she snarls, getting to her feet. "No. I won't do it. You may be right about some things, mother, but you don't control me. And you never will ever again."
All the pent up rage that has been boiling inside of her mother's veins comes spilling out, then. Her beak slams against the glass hard enough that the whole room seems to shake, screeches loud enough to penetrate the thick cement walls and metal doors. The noise is deafening, a combination of clanging cymbals and nails on a chalkboard and the worst kind of yelling, the kind when you're so mad it feels like your head is going to rupture. They're going to hear. They're going to hear, and they're going to find her down here crying and crying and Ben is going to kiss her tears and feel even sorrier for her, and the thought makes her skin crawl so badly that it shakes all of her nerves away.
"I have to go." She says it firmly, though her voice shakes, fists clenched at her sides as she turns and stalks away, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks. Her mother screams her anger into the glass that encases her to the beat of the words traitor, traitor, traitor that rattle around in Mal's skull like a distant drum beat.
She slams the door shut and hard, the sound of it echoing in the room around her. Then it is silent, nothing but the faint sound of water dripping against the cobblestone floors that are freezing beneath her bare feet, but her mother's cries of anguish remain embedded in her brain, looping over and over like a broken cassette tape.
Caring for someone so much was so very nice, but she'd be a fool to claim she didn't see this change in mood coming.
Mal has never been good at routines, is the thing, and the tingle beneath her skin turns into a full-blown itch.
It is just shy of seven in the morning on the day of Mal's wedding, and her thighs are trembling.
"Mal," Ben laughs. His hands are on her hips. The sound catches in her own mouth and gets stuck between her teeth, head lolling back as she rolls her hips against his again. That shuts him up. It's not even seven in the morning and their skin shouldn't be slick with sweat like this, moans muffled against each other's mouths as the sun peeks its wary head over the horizon, sending slats of light across Mal's bare skin. Her skin does not tingle from the exposure to the air, nor does her heart pound with the same kind of erratic furor it used to (she can remember with knife-point sharpness the first time he fucked her - it had started with a moonlit picnic by the Enchanted Lake and ended with her crying his name into the nighttime air, cobblestones scratching against her bare bottom as she screamed for the fireflies and nocturnal creatures to hear, I love you I love you I love you.) Still, it feels good. Of course it does; Ben knows the ins and outs of pleasure, its sore spots and sensitive points.
The pads of his fingertips dig into her thighs and the curve of her ass as she arches her back, face tipped towards the ceiling. If her eyes were open, she would be able to admire the glittering crystal chandelier that hangs above them, the exquisite paintings that cover the dome. Personally, she likes her own room more - the walls are dark as midnight and canopies of gossamer shield her bed from prying eyes.
But it doesn't really matter what room she likes more because then Ben's hands are running down the length of her torso before he pinches her clit and then she's coming for the second time today, nails digging painfully into Ben's arms. Somewhere from within the walls of the castle, a cacophony of clocks ring a ding ding, announcing the arrival of the seventh hour of the day.
The only sound that fills the air is their breathing, harsh and ragged. He's still inside of her, and Mal is too tired to move, feeling boneless. Feather-light, but her heart weighs heavier than a tombstone. "We're getting married today," she says, moreso to the morning air than to Ben himself.
"You don't sound so happy about it." And he's kidding and Mal knows he's kidding but her gut twists sharply anyway. She glares at him, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
"And who on earth are you to tell me how I'm feeling, Your Highness? I wasn't aware that you read minds now, too."
"I know you." His eyes burn, and Mal has to look away.
"You don't know me at all," she teases, pressing a kiss to his nose, their chests flush against each other.
When she finally rests her head against his chest, his heartbeat thudding noisily in her ear, a voice in her head chimes in, and he never will.
The voice is right, as per usual and it's sounding more and more like her mother by the day.
"Your mother was angry last night," Ben says. His voice is low, cautious, and it's clear that he's been putting off mentioning it.
"Oh, was she?" Mal asks, resting her chin in her hands. "I hadn't noticed."
"There was- there was a lot of blood." Mal's heart shoots up to her throat, and Ben notices, quickly adding, "She's okay, don't worry. Just a little banged up." He chews his lip. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
"Talk about what?" Mal cocks her head, bats her eyelashes - it's half an effort to present herself as the picture of reformed innocence, half a way to blink back the tears that threaten to spill over.
"Mal," Ben says sternly, fingers pressing slightly against the pulse points on her wrists. "You can tell me anything." There it is - that itch under her skin again, blooming and tickling all of her nerves and she wants to tear her hair out.
"Nothing happened," Mal snaps. "She's probably just pissed about the wedding. In fact, I'm sure of it. Can you blame her, Ben? I mean, I'm marrying you." Ben looks wounded, and her face softens. "I didn't mean it like that."
Ben's fists are clenched at his sides, though, and Mal knows his blossoming anger is not directed at her but rather her mother. Her mother is the real villain here. Ben has never looked at her that way, and part of Mal wishes he had. Just once. Something to be feared and hated rather than pitied. "You have to be...you have to be honest with me. Please. If she ever so much as touches you, or does anything to you, Mal -"
"You will not lay a finger on my mother," she says quickly, cutting him off, a wave of horror washing over her at the prospect of Ben making some stupid, foolish decision to have her mother banished again - or worse, killed - in his anger. Ben's intentions are good, they always are, but he tends to be impulsive and she will not lose her mother any more than she already has just to satisfy his need to make things perfect.
"Okay," Ben whispers, an arm coming to wrap around her waist, his nose buried in her hair. "I'm sorry. I just... I want to know that you're okay, because sometimes I feel like you're not." Mal dislikes several things about this statement. She dislikes being pitied. She dislikes his prying, probing ways, and most of all she dislikes the way all of his sentences start with I.
"I am," Mal says, tipping her face up to look him dead in the eyes. "Promise." She needn't cross her fingers beneath the sheets - lying is no longer second nature to her but the words still slip easily off her tongue. It scares her, how quickly she can fall back into old habits if she's not careful. "I'm better than okay." Wrapping her arms around his bare torso, she shimmies up his body and leans her head on his shoulder, lips pressed gently against his neck. "We're getting married today," she whispers, mouth curling into a little smile, because despite her uncertainty and longing for something greater (what is greater than being queen? her mind questions - Mal does not know the exact answer to this, but it's something like being free), the prospect of being Ben's wife is undeniably exciting.
"We're getting married today," Ben echoes, cupping her jaw and kissing her full on the mouth. "I love you," he murmurs after he's pulled away, nose brushing against her cheek. "My queen."
"I guess I love you, too," Mal sighs dramatically, giggling as Ben huffs a little sigh of frustration against her skin. She tries in vain to ignore the way her stomach tightens when he calls her his queen.
(Because she's always wanted to be a queen, but the idea of being his queen, like she somehow belongs to him makes her whole body feel like it's on fire.)
In an effort to escape the silence that follows, Mal rips the sheets from where they're crumpled at the foot of the bed, wrapping them around herself like a toga. She sucks in her cheeks and piles her messy hair atop her head, twisting and turning before the mirror. From the corner of her eye, she can sense him watching her. She can't bring herself to think on this very much, though, her head suddenly spinning as dread coils back up in her gut like a rattlesnake, its tail trembling angrily.
Because the girl in the mirror looking back at her does not look like a bride, and Mal doesn't think any amount of makeup or silk is going to change that.
She looks like a traitor, and the worst part is she doesn't see her mother staring back at her, either.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to outshine the bride at her own wedding, E?"
Evie flushes, and god, she's so fucking beautiful - ruddy cheeks and long lashes framed by ringlets of inky blue hair held in place by glittering golden combs, the blue satin and white lace of her tight-fitted gown standing in stark contrast to her olive skin. She is ethereal, even as her small hands work at fastening the clasps on Mal's dress, every bow laced to perfection, not a hair out of place. Evie is all she'll ever need, she thinks, other offers of help to prepare the bride for her special day dismissed quickly because all she wants is Evie here with her as they giggle like children, mouths moving with silly chatter as Evie pins her hair into place and smooths blush onto the apples of her cheeks while the cathedral swells with guests.
"You look...magnificent," Evie says finally, breathlessly, eyes glassy. Her hands rest comfortably just above Mal's waist, thumbs brushing softly against the lace bodice. "Hey," she murmurs, catching a glimpse of her eyes, glassy in a different way; not tears, though, because Mal never cries. Instead, she is hazy and distant, eyes fixed on the trees outside the window and how the sunlight catches on the leaves, mind somewhere else entirely. "No crying," Evie insists firmly, though her voice fumbles. "You'll smudge your makeup, and then I'll start crying and smudge mine, and you know I won't have any of that."
Now Mal really does want to cry, but then Evie is pulling her close, wishbone arms wrapped gently around her own frame, lashes brushing against her cheek. They're pressed so close that Mal can feel Evie's own heart beating in her chest. Two hearts. Remove five layers of clothing, silk and glitter and jewels and lace, two layers of skin, pull back coatings of fat and muscle and they are bones rattling against bones.
"I'm so happy for you," Evie whispers, squeezing Mal's shoulders. "I'm so, so happy." Her voice is trembling. "It's so exciting, isn't it? Certainly, if you were to tell me when we were thirteen that in five years I would be prepping you to marry the King of Auradon I'd have truly questioned whether all those toxins in the air were rotting your brain." She chews her lip, as if she's contemplating whether this was the right thing to say. "But here you are. You're going to bea queen, Mal." And Evie sounds happy - she looks happy, but there is something nagging about her tone, about the way her eyes shift to the window that provides the perfect view of caterers and guests mingling about, flitting around each other like wasps. There is something sad, almost wistful about the way Evie says it, and Mal understands; this was never her own dream, never her predicted future, but it has always been Evie's. Crowds of adoring royals clinking glasses with her and closets full of one-of-a-kind dresses, hanging off the arm of a prince, flashbulbs sparkling.
Mal has inadvertently hijacked everything Evie has ever wished for, and she does not want it. Something Evie would kill for, something her mother has planted in her head like a seed that has grown into something nearing an obsession, a craving that she knows lingers in the back of Evie's mind. Mal has it all in the palm of her hand like a glittering gemstone and all she wants to do is toss it to the waves. It strikes her more often than not now, how truly selfish she is, how deeply woven her mother's morals are. Every time she thinks she's rid herself of them she finds more fibers clinging to her bones and wrapped around her windpipe and burrowed into her brain. Her gut sinks, guilt so heavy she sags towards the ground just the tiniest bit.
Evie's lips brush her cheek, and time freezes. The grandfather clock stops ticking and the curtains cease their rustling and there it is again, Evie's own heartbeat against her own and their chests aren't even touching now. Evie's fingers quickly replace her mouth to wipe away any stray remnants of lipstick that her peck may have left as the clock resumes its normal tick, tock, tick, tock.
"Promise me you won't forget about me, okay?" And, Jesus, it's like they're twelve years old again, ragged friendship bracelets and rumbling stomachs and cuts on their knees. Destruction in their hearts. She closes her eyes and sees the kingdom of Auradon going up in flames while they howl at the moon and scream their delight at the fading stars. The vision sticks itself to her brain, playing over and over again long after she's opened her eyes again.
"E, I'm getting married, not moving across the globe." She smiles.
"Oh, but a Queen's work is never done, Mal. You seem to forget that my mother once ruled over an entire kingdom." And, well. She's right about that. "Not well, but she did rule, and with an iron fist, might I add."
"A queen," Mal hums thoughtfully, her own fingers trailing over the lace bodice of her dress. "A queen with her best friend at her side." Evie's eyes widen, face splitting into a watery grin.
"You promise?" She holds out her pinky, like a child offering something to its mother. Shy, unsure. Mal's heart weeps loudly, but it's hidden inside of her chest under layers of bone and muscle and fat and lace so nobody hears it but her.
Mal hooks their pinkies together and kisses them for extra luck. "Promise."
(It's a promise she prays that for once, she can keep.)
The first note of the wedding march sounds, and cold sweat springs to the surface of her skin.
Push it back, Mal Bertha, she chastises herself. Push it back. You can do this. One foot in front of the other.
She's heard wedding stories of brides blushing ridiculously and trying in vain not to trip on their dress. They always end with passionate kisses and champagne laughter. Mal wishes her story was so simple, that the biggest thing on her mind at the moment was trying to keep the hem of her gown from slipping beneath the toes of her heels.
The cathedral looks even more spectacular than Mal could have ever imagined, wreaths of purple flowers and pure white gossamer dripping from the balconies. The chandeliers positively sparkle, every speck of gold in the room polished to perfection. The pews are overflowing with guests, men and women and children in sparkling gowns and their finest suits, eyes all turned on her, mouths open in perfect little o's as if they can't quite believe evil could be so beautiful. Mal tries her best to return the favors with genuine smiles, but it comes out as more of a grimace than anything, nerves twisting her lips.
The crowd sucks in a collective breath as Ben lifts her veil. She is radiant. A devil disguised beneath white gossamer and a glittering halo. All Mal can focus on is his smile, the happiest she's ever seen him - and Ben is always happy. Well, not always, but even his rotten moods are permeated by a sense of hope for a brighter future.
When the preacher finally begins to speak, Mal nearly jumps out of her own skin. This is happening. This is really happening.
Vaguely, she is aware of Ben's hands holding her own, his own warmth doing nothing to permeate the cold of her skin. An idea, a realization begins to dawn on her, claws tapping at her skull like tree limbs against a windowpane and begging for entrance, another chance to infect her mind. In the distance, somewhere far above the domed ceiling, birds chirp and sing their songs to the sun. The preacher's words are fading out and the voices inside her head are buzzing, louder and louder, as if an entire hive of bees has made a home inside of her skull. They are so different; Mal has always considered Ben her other half, a piece of her that was snatched away from her when she was young because they are both burning with warmth but it hits her now like a shaft of white-hot lightning that the kind of warmth that they hold inside of them is so different. Ben is warm, warm, warm, like the sun has found refuge inside of his ribcage, snuggled in next to his heart but Mal has always burned hot like a forest fire, angry and wild and untamed. She swallows the trees whole and spits charred wood out through her clenched teeth.
Minus the hair, in itself the only thread of her old self that remains, she is the picture of a fairytale beauty - flushed cheeks and long lashes, milky skin, white lace and sparkles wrapped around her like gossamer, spiders spinning theirsnow-white webs around her motionless form. The blushing bride. A princess. A queen.
She feels like the ugliest person in the room.
Thought before feeling. That's how it was, back home - back on the Isle, though since residing in Auradon such survival tactics aren't necessary, and slowly her emotions have crept up on her like unfamiliar ghosts and now all she can do is feel. Her embarrassment is bright pink, uncertainty pulsing a startling, ugly yellow. Above all, though, is a slowly settling black understanding, a color that creeps up on everything else like waves upon the shoreline, wiping her clean and filling her with wickedness.
"I do," Ben says, voice slow and sweet like molasses, melted butter and honey and fuck, is it really that time already? The smile on his face is woven into his tone and the crinkles around his eyes and the way he looks at her like she is something larger than life.
It's her turn. The words crawl halfway up her throat before plunging back down.
Her freshly lacquered nails dig sharply into the flesh of her palms, leaving tiny indentations in the shape of crescent moons, light that's fading as its source wanes. It's quite fitting, she thinks, that on a day like today she should be marked with the symbol of loss and growing darkness. It used to just be a gentle fading of her colors, a dim light she could still muster with enough effort. But now, even as she is drowning in sunlight that floods in through the glass in the domed ceiling, all that remains inside of her is pitch black night. No moon or stars or fairy lights, any chance of light banished without question. Her mother was right - she was never meant to be good. She was born to be a monster, a storm from the moment she entered the world.
That is the way she will die.
"I -" she sputters, and god, why her? She squeezes her eyes shut tight because she doesn't want to look at Ben's face. Especially not when she can feel him squeezing her hands tighter, a gesture that she assumes is meant to comfort but only serves to make her skin feel tighter than ever. "I...I-I'm." And fuck, what was she supposed to say, again?
All that proceeds her fumbled words is silence, the kind that isn't quite silence but is the closest thing besides. No direct noise, but the white noise of people shuffling, their clothes brushing against wooden seats, murmured words of confusion and discomfort. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her mother's voice whispers, Do you really want these people to bow to you for the rest of your life?
And at first, the answer is yes. Yes, of course I do. And she does want that. Mal wants that very much, but it's becoming more and more apparent as the seconds pass like boulders over her spine that she wants them bowing to her with fear in their eyes, weathered faces and torn clothes and jutting ribs, hands brushing the dirt with their bloody knees against the earth. She does not want them to bow to her like a queen.
Mal wants them to bow to her like she is a god.
(She is getting everything her mother ever wanted for her, but it's coated in sparkles and magicks instead of blood and sacrifice and Mal does not want it.)
On their first date, Mal told him that she didn't know what love felt like. The statement wasn't entirely a lie - there was some truth to be found in it, as romantic love on the Isle was practically unheard of, making love a phrase only spoken in mocking tongues, procreation only a means of immortalizing oneself through their offspring. But Mal knew love - she still does. She knows it like the back of her hand.
Love is how Evie told her she was happy for her, even as she watched Mal snatch all of her hopes and dreams away for herself. Love is the way she looked at her mother with soft eyes and a full heart back on the Isle, when the woman sat before the window, face bathed in dying light, horns stark against the backdrop. A fearless woman who struck that emotion into the hearts of hundreds, thousands of men who dared to test the queen of the Moors. Love is the way Carlos still curls his fingers around hers when he's sad or scared, the way Jay wraps around all three of them like a slow, lazy vine to keep them safe on nights when their chattering teeth and skittish minds won't let them sleep.
She loved her mother. She loves her mother.
Mal lived sixteen years without any sort of romantic love. The realization hits her straight in the chest like a perfectly-aimed silver bullet or a poisoned arrow between her shoulder blades. When she opens her mouth, all that comes out is a strangled, sort of choking noise. Ben's mouth turns downwards, brow furrowing. The preacher's head perks up. A hand - someone's hand, though she can't place whose - reaches to clasp her shoulder. A gesture of comfort. Of stability. A gesture that says, We're here for you.
These are the same people who left her to rot for sixteen years.
She runs.
At first her footfalls are slow, uneasy, as if any moment now she's going turn back to the altar with tears in her eyes and laughter bubbling on her lips. She'll kiss Ben full on the mouth in front of this crowd of people and they'll be married and she'll be a queen and tonight he'll fuck her into the mattress until all she can see is stars.
Behind her, something crashes, and there is shattered glass on the floor of the cathedral.
Mal does not want it. Her pace quickens, and the crowd is flustered, mumbling, shouting, cries of confusion flurrying up around her. Nobody tries to touch her, to pull her back. It hits her in this moment that they've never really stopped being afraid of her. After all, you can cover an evil thing in lace and glitter and roses but the thorns and barbed wire still remain beneath the façade.
"Mal!" Ben's voice, saturated with desperation, is too close for comfort, as if he's only an arm's length away. Of course he would be the one to catch up with her. None of the guards, or even Evie or Carlos or Jay can outrun true love. Of course it's him.
Don't look at him, her mind whispers. If you look at him, he'll break you. And it's true. Mal does not want to turn around, does not want to see the look of grief and shock painted on his features. If she looks, she runs the risk of being trapped beneath his spell once again, of falling into his arms like a damsel and soaking his skin with her tears, and she will never have another opportunity like this again.
Ben is fast, but Mal is faster. He's spent his life chasing after a stupid ball and boys in jerseys. She's spent hers running from men with hungry eyes and chapped lips. Of course she's faster than he is. In the distance, three distinct voices call for her, Mal, Mal, Mal! And so badly does she wish to turn and run to them, because her love for them will never change. It is unconditional, unwavering.
It's the way Ben feels about her. Maybe even deeper than that, something rooted to her very core and every time she tries to pull away she bleeds.
She wants to go home, wants to dive into the ocean and let the weight of the water try to drag her down before she pulls herself up onto the muddy shore. She wants to get on her hands and knees and see if her drawings from childhood are still piled in the crawlspace, if Evie's lipstick stain remains on her old pillowcase like a bloody crescent. But she can't go there. She can't, though the more she thinks about it the more her heart aches for the familiarity of home, because it is the first place they will look for her. They will find her curled up in her old, yellowing sheets, fabric stained with blood and tears and she will be dragged back to Auradon in chains disguised as gentle touches and reassuring words.
Instead, she heads for the trees and in her wake sprouts a plethora of gnarled shoots covered in thorns, burgeoning in the places her feet were moments ago, their sharpness nipping at her heels. As she runs, losing her shoes in the process, Mal can hear the pained, startled cries of those who dared to follow the runaway bride as they get caught on the edges of her magic.
She turns one last time, and it is every bit of a mistake as she'd expected. Between the quickly multiplying forest of thorns and contorted branches, she can see Ben's face, twisted into confusion and grief and pain. A look of betrayal. A look of love. Pure, unadulterated love that's quickly being poisoned by the blackness that has resided within Mal's heart all these years finally presenting itself to him.
(He never believed she was a monster. She's going to show him one.)
She is a vision in white, refusing to fulfill the prophecy that wedding dresses preach and instead fleeing the scene. She is better off alone. She is meant to be alone. It has been spelled out in every lecture her mother has ever given her, in every book she'd ever read back on the Isle before she knew of fairytales and happily ever afters. That monogamous relationships have no true scientific purpose, no true hold on nature. She is fully to blame for ever believing any differently, for thinking it could work out. Monsters are not meant for gilded pages and happily ever afters, but with Ben's lips on hers she was stupid enough to believe it possible. Of course it failed. Of course.
Mal needs to get out of this dress, because the fabric feels like it's closing in on her, squeezing her ribcage tight like a boa constrictor. She trips over a tree root, and the hem of the dress tears away like gossamer. Half of the skirt is already covered in muck, as if the earth is trying in vain to reclaim her. Mal throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing deep inside of her chest as buries her fingers deep into the soil and smears it across her face like war paint. She is not their pretty princess, their blushing bride. She never was. Nimble fingers tug at her dress, frantically trying to rip the material away even as her wall of thorns continues to close in on her.
Their unforgiving thorns and sharp branches pierce her flesh, steady streams of blood dripping down the milk-white skin of her back, her arms, a gash on her cheek. Mal chooses to ignore this, instead focusing on the fabric, on prying herself loose from the confines of this goddamned dress. Then, it's gone. She is free, molting like a swan, but this time the crisp white feathers she sheds reveal something rotten lurking beneath. Darkness that encompasses her pale skin, blood staining the white carcass of a dress that lies like a blood-soaked corpse at her feet. Crimson hits the forest floor. Scarlet, an indicator of peril as it slides off her skin. Pomegranate, like the fruit whose seeds Persephone consumed eagerly during her time living in the underworld, treating the approaching blackness not as a stranger, but instead as a familiar face, an old friend that she welcomed with open arms.
And she sheds white, the fragile, carefully constructed image of perfection crumbling to the ground with the fabric. She is stark and bare among the trees, a brilliant red rose - finally, finally, finally, her mind chants - revealing herself to the world, her thorns built high and mighty both literally and figuratively, winding around her like an amalgamation of ropes and barbed wire designed solely to protect her. Her own battle armor, shielding her from storms and feelings and kings who worship at her feet (though something in the back of her mind whispers that she needn't fear any storms because the only storm here is Mal herself.)
Her skin is milk-white against the inky backdrop, ribs straining against it like even her bones want to suck in the sweet evening air. Her hair is still piled atop her head in the style Evie worked hours on hours to perfect, though now it's more of a mess of purple locks, pins and glittering jewels.
(These are the Moors, and while Mal has never stepped a foot inside of them before today, her mother's own roots reside here and Mal already feels like she knows them like the back of her hand. And judging by the way the trees shake and the creatures skitter, voices whisper-soft and scratchy as they hiss, it's her, it's her, it's her, the daughter of our Queen! they have been waiting for her, too.)
As if on cue, the spiky branches twist and roots curl around each other like slithering snakes beneath the dirt. From the chaos, a throne of bones and shattered glass and prickly briers emerges, twisted and jagged and constructed by the earth just for her. It's branches on branches interwoven with blackened roots that have soil still clinging to them, and as it sits before her, tree limbs almost beckoning her forward, it feels as if the world has gone silent. The crickets have ceased their incessant chatter, tiny forest creatures with twisted faces and scaly skin (they're the stuff straight of out nightmares and the stories her mother told her as a child about her time as queen of the Moors) lingering still in the shadows.
Mal takes a step forward. Then another. Her footfalls are soft, but the loudest thing on earth. Crunch. Crackle. Twigs snap beneath her feet, or maybe bones.
She sinks into the throne, and it's like the branches and thorns and roots and bones move with her, settling her into place, adjusting and readjusting. A Mal-sized throne. It breathes as she breathes - in, out, in, out. Mal closes her eyes. The thorns cut into her back, wounds on wounds, fresh blood coating her skin and as midnight wind whips across her face, the Moors whisper welcome home.
reviews & con-crit are always appreciated. i apologize if the second half contains a plethora of errors - i really hate rereading my own writing, unfortunately, but i hope there's nothing too jarring. long as that was, i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! the next chapter will hopefully be a bit shorter and have a different sort of pace to it. the story as a whole will be very all-encompassing, so even though this chapter focuses specifically on mal and the story itself is very mal-centric, all of the other characters will be fleshed out and focused on more in the future. regardless of all of this silly rambling that no one is likely to read, thank you for reading, angels.
ps i love mal