I own nothing. This adaption belongs to Disney.

Story can be read with a slight Diaval/Maleficent vibe to it if you want as I do support the idea of the couple myself.

The giant web of knotted strings falls from overhead and my feathers flutter helplessly against the pull downwards.

That's when I notice my captor is now towering over me, standing tall on his wide two feet clad in odd skins. I don't like these creatures, these naked mortals that have no hide or fur to call their own, these farmers who tend to disturb the trees and the burrows and hunt us down ignorantly. Honestly! If they don't want the corn to be eaten here, then why plant it all out in open in the first place?

Irrational, spiteful lot they are really.

"Master, stranger! Stranger! Stranger! Black bird!" I hear the hounds drawing nearer as well, crying out their battle song as they begin to circle around me, their paws padding back and forth in their excitement and longing to tear me apart. "Master, black bird! Bad bird! Bad bird!"

Their Master, the farmer, growls at me through his own short squared fangs before he hauls the net tighter around me. "Wicked bird!"

"Wicked man!" I shout back in anger, and in vain, because I know farmers never listen to what a raven has to say. "I did nothing but feed on kernels! Release me! Let go! Let go!"

The hounds are just as useless for my benefit yet. "Master, bad bird! Kill bird! Eat bird!"

Then, when I think I will not get to see the following dawn after this, something happens. I feel a jolt of an unseen force, a kind of power in which I've only felt once before up in the ruins of the black castle. There are colors swaying behind my eyes, and I am growing, expanding, the net is giving way, and I too end up as tall as the farmer, standing on two feet.

"It's a demon!"

I possess the same shape the farmer does now, no longer a raven's, and regardless of that, my presence cannot ever please him. Before I can gather my wits and solve the mystery that put me here or even try to ask for his opinion, he's already running off in fright with the hounds following closely in his tracks.

Glancing down at myself again—or what I assume still has to be myself—I feel a wave of disgust wash over me as I notice the lack of tail feathers, that my talons are gone, and I have the long limbs of a pale man in place of my wi—

Soon, a third walking being halts everything. She comes smoothly around the bend, emerging from the veil of corn leaves, appearing almost mortal herself but...not quite, for I notice the horns that crown her head and her lips are as red as blood. She carries a long staff in one hand as she stops right in front of me. The rest of her is dressed in shades of earth and yellowing grass to complement the season.

She must be a nature spirit of some sort, born to those Fair Folk my mother used to proudly squawk about when I was hatchling, but even so, she doesn't give me a decent reason to immediately trust her.

Therefore, I start by demanding her for an explanation as to why my glorious shape was suddenly bewitched to change into this. "...What have you done to my beautiful self?"

There's a fleeting spark of amusement within her Fair eyes as she responds to me. "Would you rather I let them beat you to death?"

I reconsider the situation and look down at my Human feet again, still very pale and cold, and very soaked with mud. "I'm not certain," I tell her, not caring for the sight at all so far.

But like the passing wind, the she-spirit seems to lose her light humor in the matter entirely and her features harden when it's her turn to speak up again. "Stop complaining...," she warns me in lower tone, sounding much different than moments before. "I saved your life."

A raven naturally does not fear Death. We are, in fact, chosen to be Death's massagers half the time, acting as an omen, cautioning those who are quickly coming to meet their grave end to make their final moments count for something worth while. And so, by having that task, ravens have learned a similar lesson throughout the years. We teach our young to cherish youth and to appreciate the life we see around us, especially if it is short and delicate.

"Forgive me," I plea softly with a bow of my head, realizing that I'm not taking those teachings so much to heart like I should be.

She says nothing else about it other than, "What do I call you?"

I state the name that best translates from my main language to hers, "Diaval. And, in return for saving my life indeed, I am your servant," and then I conclude this pledge to her by promising, "Whatever you need."

And surprisingly, I really meant it.

"Wings." This is her first request, and I catch a trace of desperation in her voice before she turns away from me continuing on her way. "I need you to be my wings."

...My life's never going to be same, is it?