The Mistress of All Evil, formerly Maleficent of the Forbidden Mountain, now evidently Maleficent of a Pile of Rubble, was appalled.
Not by her unusual set of circumstances, which, all things considered, she had adjusted to fairly well after a brief period of existential consternation — was she dead? Alive? Trapped in some kind of purgatorial in-between? With no way of determining a satisfactory answer, she accepted that her situation was not about to change any time soon and diverted her focus to testing the limits of this new state of not-quite-being.
Maleficent was pleased to discover that although incorporeal and bound to the castle ruins, she still possessed all of her mental faculties and extensive knowledge of magic, the two parts of herself she valued above all else and had spent the most time cultivating in her former life. So what if she no longer had a body? It meant she was invulnerable to heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and especially ever being stabbed again by Swords of Pompous Righteousness.
(Some things she did miss. Her books. The ability to pace and walk about the countryside, for Maleficent was never one to remain sedentary for long. And of course Diablo, clever, loyal Diablo, undeservedly transformed into stone by those hypocritical Good Fairies, for whom she seethed with a desire to hex into the next century.)
No, what appalled her was the utter lack of education her young namesake had received thus far in her life.
This was, she supposed, the unfortunate result of being orphaned at birth and raised in a… a commune of magical creatures living in an enchanted forest. No wonder she was so naive and gullible; the more Maleficent thought about it, the more she felt quite frankly amazed the younger fairy hadn't gotten herself killed by now.
But perhaps that was too harsh of an assessment. Despite not having the least bit of formal training in battle magic, she did manage to physically overpower a human king and his army in combat, albeit with help. And that was another thing — the concept of working together with others toward a common cause was a foreign one to Maleficent, who had always created minions to do her bidding.
Strong allies and wings of her own, two things Maleficent never had, and therefore never depended on.
Maleficent did not think it a coincidence that she had been drawn here, of all places, to be stumbled upon by one who shared her name — the magic surrounding True Names was as ancient as time itself, and just as ineffable. While she found distasteful the notion of her actions being guided by anything as capricious as fate or destiny, it was nonetheless an easy decision to take on her new protégé. For one thing, she had nothing better to do. For another, she could not pass up the opportunity to create trouble in the realm of humans, even vicariously.
The only problem now was how underdeveloped said protégé's magical skills were; so much squandered potential for one gifted with a considerable amount of raw power, but had only ever been taught to use it on healing spells and trivial charms.
Well, no matter. They would start from the basics if they must. It was not as though either of them lacked the time.
It would be a nice change of pace, to do something new, after sixteen years of obsessing over something as stupid as a missing princess and not even a day to revel in the fruition of the curse for all her troubles. Her plan for revenge had been cut short in her own world, so why not vent her frustrations in this one? The thought of it cheered her up immensely.
Maleficent, errant Protector of the Moors, formerly most powerful of all the fairies, now simply trying to survive, was irritated.
She stalked through tall grasses, staff in hand, the bright sun high in the sky giving her a headache. Everything hurt, and felt off-kilter, and wrong.
Growing up, there was very little she did not excel at: she flew the fastest and farthest, restored wounded trees back to health with ease, and in later years, led legions of forest guardians to victory against would-be intruders again and again. She prided herself in being able to accomplish absolutely anything she bent her will towards.
Which was why her inability to shapeshift was so perturbing.
It was true she hadn't ever tried it before these past several days. The need for such an ability had never arisen; why skulk around under an assumed form when she'd liked her own — and the way it struck fear into the hearts of men — just fine?
But that was then, and everything was different now.
The magic seemed straightforward enough from how the voice in the ruins explained it to her. She knew she was capable of it. Yet a part of her also knew, as loathe as she was to admit it, why every attempt to transform herself thus far had ended in failure. It was the same reason she could only stand upright through sheer determination to not show weakness, though her nerves screamed and muscles cramped each day and night, and phantom pains shot through her with any sudden movement.
Shapeshifting had two requisites: a concentrated and sustained burst of magic for the length of the transformation, and utmost clarity of mind where the beginning and end results were concerned. The theft of her wings had stolen not just the option of flight, but an integral part of her identity, her sense of self. The incantation was doomed to fail before it ever started.
A loud commotion up ahead attracted Maleficent's attention. Head tilted, she followed the mingled sounds of shouting, barking and cawing to the edge of a clearing. Her eyes narrowed at the scene in front of her: it was the raven from her first night at the ruins, struggling beneath a net, trapped between a gloating farmer and his dog.
"I've got ya!" spat the farmer, voice laced with malice. He turned, ran to his cart, and came back armed with a cudgel.
Maleficent's fingers twitched; she could rip that human from limb to limb and feed him to the dog. He deserved it. Let him serve as an example to the others…
But advice remembered from a few nights prior gave her pause. "The living and frightened spread panic far better than the dead."
After another moment's consideration, Maleficent lifted a hand, made the practiced gesture, and concentrated on the raven instead. She wondered if this would work.
"Into a man."