Chapter 2

"Take that off," Maleficent ordered. Diaval blinked at her. He glanced from her to his shirt, having followed her glance. "Yes, that, birdbrain," she huffed impatiently. He eyed her with uncertainty, then did as he was told.

He had helped her remove the remains of iron and rope from her hands. She had sent him out immediately after again, this time in his preferred raven body, but there had not been much to report. The way he stood now however reminded her of his wounds, his arm's almost unnoticeably odd angle rekindling the urge to heal. He was tired enough after that ordeal of finding her across the river; he did not need to be hurt as well.

"Just what have you done to yourself…?" she muttered, more to herself. He raised his brows, lips pursing as if indecisive.

"Not much," he said while she inspected a crust below his ribs. It was her turn to arch a brow, and boy was it more effective than when he did it. The usual I-can-plainly-see-otherwise-you-idiot look. He let out a breath, obediently shifting his arm. It revealed a long scratch from below his arm all the way down his flank – not too deep but covered in dried blood nonetheless. "This was me. I failed to dodge a branch while avoiding arrows."

"Arrows?"

"I get the feeling the humans know—at least some of them. They know I'm not just a bird taking a rest," he illuminated.

"Or perhaps you're just being as insolent to them as you were to that farmer who was about to split your skull in half," she remarked. With magic swirling from her hand to his skin, she sealed the cut. She told herself she did not have to, but her subconscious apparently thought otherwise—she wanted to remind him of his dept lest he get ideas to bring up hers. He must have guessed by now, but said nothing.

"He had an entire field of seeds; he could've spared more than what I ate to stay alive." Was all Diaval scoffed in his defence. It made her chuckle.

She moved on to make a rather nasty bruise on his shoulder disappear. He poorly suppressed a groan at first, clenching his jaw at the initial pain her magic caused. Anything that was not superficial tingled, the more severe injuries stinging or burning momentarily. Soon enough, the only things escaping him were sighs of relief. She pretended not to notice, but from the corner of her eye, she saw how he watched the twitching of the corners of her mouth; her inability of concealing the satisfaction she felt at the way her powers were received.

"Also I distinctly remember a certain dark creature stealing the man's clothing off a scarecrow to dress her indentured servant," Diaval nonchalantly accused, the hint of a smile apparently encouraging him. This time, she laughed.

"Would you rather I'd have made you walk around naked?" She twinkled up at him. He avoided the teasing gaze, looking elsewhere as if the closest tree sparked any particular interest. Her palm wandered to seal the small wounds around his neck, most definitely an homage to the chapel's tower. "We could try something other than a crow."

"No, please," he immediately said. "The last time you 'tried' something, I nearly starved to death because you didn't turn me back."

"Oh?"

"Don't oh me, mistress," he added the honorific quickly as not to sound too rude, training his eyes to the ground when she flashed him a glance from the side. "When I had arrived at the site, you just came to see for yourself and then didn't see it necessary to turn me back—I hunted all day and night but that stupid fox tail gave me away each time," he nagged.

"Poor Diaval," Maleficent pretended a pouty voice. "You do know that actual wild animals can go days without eating," she mocked. He narrowed his eyes, growling at the insult. Inwardly, he was hissing something back; correcting her that he was an actual wild animal, thank you very much—she could read it off his forehead.

"I already had gone without food for days." Was what he settled with. She straightened, her brow now raised with amusement in the place of reproach.

"And what do you want me to do about it? Whip up breakfast each morning to make sure you don't fall out of the sky?" She let her tone drip with sarcasm. For a second, Diaval did picture her stirring in one of those big kettles, wearing a linen apron like the women did in town. He frowned to himself, shaking his head to get rid of the image. The action made Maleficent frown in turn.

"Would be a start," he dared and she laughed.

When he would still refuse to look at her, she followed his gaze. The sun was setting across from them, bathing the Moors in scarlet hues. She let it blind her for a moment, enjoying its natural warmth. Hardly two hours ago, it had been fire in the place of the sun. It felt like days in the past, while at the same time the thought alone raised goosebumps under her dress.

She stepped out to the very rim of her drey-shaped tree fortress. It was high enough of the ground not to be spotted from below, but not high enough to catch sight of the castle. No pointed tips of castle towers dwarfed her thorn wall; nothing did.

Allowing herself a sigh, she sat down instead of standing. The throbbing at the back of her head was still there, as was the chill under the soles of her feet. Her eyes searched the trees, the thorns, until landing where they always did—the smoke of the cottage. She could never let Aurora know what had happened that day. She could not be weak, not at any cost. She had to protect her.

"Sixteen…" she muttered. Soon, the time would come and her little Beastie would be cursed to sleep forever. It pained her to picture that day, but whenever she did, she was not alone. She had not been for so long. "Seventeen," she recounted, surprising herself when unable to imagine how it was to truly be alone. Alone, she would be at times, but never lonely.

Diaval said nothing, and she knew exactly why.

"Stop scratching your ears," she snapped. He did stop, looking up where he had stayed further behind. She did not have to turn around to know what he was doing. "You never listen."

"It's not that I don't listen, I just can't hear anything but scratching," he explained himself. He kept from demonstrating, but could not help rubbing his ear to his shoulder once more.

"It's fairly annoying."

"I'm sorry, mistress, I'm simply not fond of these… shells," he flapped one for emphasis. She did not look nor speak when he repeated her title quizzically. Bare feet quietly padded her way, his head undoubtedly tilted in question. "Was there something you needed?" He asked. And he waited patiently when she did not answer for another minute.

"We've been together for seventeen years now," she softly said. He frowned, stepping closer. It was unusual for her to sit, making her seem that much smaller. Vulnerable almost, but she did not know his thoughts—if she had, she would have stood at once.

"Mistress?" His face came into view, trying to gain a peek at her face from the side. She purposefully blanked it out.

"Well, I would have expected you to bring me good news at least once in all this time," she finally tutted. His shoulders sank. Seventeen years and he had not yet learned that such a thing as thank you was not going to pass her lips? She found herself rather curious as to what he had expected her to say.

He gave a snort, shaking his head. He disappeared from her field of view, easing some tension off her muscles. It told her just how much she depended on him being there—no one made her uncomfortable staring at her, no one but those she cared about.

"If only you'd asked," Diaval said after a moment of thought. "I do, in fact, have some splendid news," he beamed. At the same time, she heard him retreat nearly inaudibly.

"And what might those be?" She turned to him, curious. A smile was playing on her lips as well as on his, but she kept her brows raised to hold up the illusion of indifference. He had retreated. Now he halted, feeling caught, hoping she hadn't noticed.

"I'm actually rather proud of this," he said, puffing his chest out for effect. The flashing of his eyes to hers and away again made her arch her brow higher. "During the time I was waiting for important news to be shared, down by the marketplace," he retold, hands on his hips, "I managed to repair all the damage you've caused to my plumage." He nodded to himself, honestly proud. A frown of amusement furrowed her brows.

"This is the first time I hear of damage," she challenged, but he did not back down.

"Whenever you're brooding," he kicked a clump of moss away as a replacement action, "and stroke my feathers—it's not good for them," he stated. "It removes the raincoat I create when grooming my— no!" His words ended in a hectic caw when she turned him.

He flapped his wings, trying to escape but her magic was faster. Within a second, she had snatched him out of the air by his feet, forcing him into her lap. She ran her entire palm along his back, his wildly squawking protests luring out a gleeful cackle.

"Does it ruffle your feathers?" she mocked, again stroking the entirely of his so-called raincoat off his back. Very funny, his next caw seemed to say, only making her grin broaden. He kept scrambling in her grasp around his legs, but she held on fast and kept his wings tugged away with lavish strokes. "Scratch me again and I'll clip them off," she squeezed his legs once, and he ceased moving his feet, not daring to use his beak either.

Moments passed, turning into minute. Nearing an hour. The sun was gone, the sky losing its blazing colours for a deep ocean blue, fading into total blackness. Diaval had long resigned to his fate. Her taunting had turned into continuous caresses down his back as she mused, at some point about how he could just doze off like that. He was exhausted, yes, but not even than was guaranteed to let her sleep when she needed it.

The day replayed in her head, at least the second half of it. She became restless with the thought of what might have been had she stayed; that once freed, if she could have beaten him—if that coward of a king had shown at all. The possibility of him having come churned through her head, the image of him arriving that same night at the site of destruction burning into her mind's eye.

She nudged Diaval. He hardly woke, his only response being that he adjusted his legs to the side, then champed, snuggling back in. Damn lucky bird, sleep finding him easily. Maleficent pursed her lips, shoving him off onto the branchy floor next to her. "Get up, lazy bird," she commanded.

He did, shaking himself, confused but fully awake.

"Go and tell me what's happening," she said. His chest heaved with a small sigh, but he complied without further complaint. He knew what she meant, of course.

She watched him carefully to see if she had missed any injuries. Had he limped? Or had it only been the way he had gone easy on stretching harmed skin that had hindered unbothered movement? He was not the fastest, that she noted immediately, even though his black body was hard to distinguish against the dark night sky.

If Stefan was truly there, would Diaval he quick enough to report back? And bring her there, she realised. Perhaps his nagging was another subtle hint—he could have been weak and slow with hunger, she speculated.

It hit her like that branch must have whipped across his side – in all those seventeen years, she could count the occasions when she had seen him eat on one hand. Not even five times, and each in bird form apart from once. In the very beginning, she recalled distinctly how she had made fun of him for digging up and chewing—quite disappointedly—dirty roots, not yet knowing how to help himself otherwise in his human form.

She made a mental note to be more observant when it came to him, starting with food.