Diaval soared. His wings beat strongly, and the wind streamed through his midnight feathers. To be free was priceless, and his Mistress was not far, but she didn't require his wings on this gorgeous evening, the sky a purple and blue twilight wonder. Diaval dove and swooped, and then he faltered.
He faltered and then he fell as an iron tipped arrow splintered through his outstretched wing. He sighed as he tumbled downward, the pain yet to grab him with its fiery claw.
Maleficent. He whispered to himself; the words locked in his beak. Maleficent, Maleficent, his wonderful Mistress. She wasn't coming, he thought as he fell. He was lost and she wouldn't be there to catch him, but he was always there to catch her. Who would catch her now? Who would be her wings?
The wind whistled past him, and his wound began to burn. It crawled over his skin, spreading and making his head spin. Maleficent. She depended on him, and yet she wouldn't be there for him when he needed her most. He closed his eyes and pulled his wings in, blocking out the world. He was alone. Again. He could feel the ground coming closer. He cringed against the pain in his wing, and the fear of the solid earth below him. He wondered if she would miss him, her faithful servant.
Diaval squawked quietly as he felt delicate hands catch him. They held him close, but he kept his eyes shut because if he opened them, and the hands holding him did not belong to his Mistress, it might kill him.
"My precious bird," came a soft voice from above him. Diaval's eyes blinked open, and he stared up into Maleficent's pale face. "Oh my pet," she whispered as she stroked his broken wing, her fingers gentle and caring. Diaval closed his eyes again, pleased with his mistake.
He may be her wings, but she would always be there to catch him.