Probably a Man

As protector of the Moors and a keeper of nature, Maleficent believed it her duty to appreciate and revel in all that nature had to offer. On this particular day, however, she did not appreciate it. At. All. The sun blazed relentlessly on the land, and if the humidity were any higher, it would be raining. Maleficent could only wish for rain. She knew once it did, steam would rise from the slabs of dark granite and the earth would cool, returning to its normal temperature. Right now, Mother Nature seemed intent on frying her in a bath of her own sweat.

Earlier, she cooled off with a swim in a secluded pool, and as blissful as it felt, she could not stay there forever. Besides, though she had a brief respite from the heat, the suns rays still beat on her milky skin; she could feel herself beginning to redden in the harsh rays. She remembered once as a child she'd fallen asleep in the sun, awaking hours later to find her face and limbs cherry red and blistered. It was all very funny to the other pixies, until she'd become ill and dizzy, having to lay in the shade for the rest of the week. They apologized by helping her rub a cooling salve over the burned skin. Years later and still bone pale, she never forgot that awful week and refused to repeat the experience. So it was back on land and back in her clothes again. After all, she should be making rounds about the land, fixing things, solving problems, keeping the peace, and doing whatever else stewards do. But it was just so hot.

The weather seemed to inspire a sort of lethargy in not just the horned fairy, but also her constituents. The fat bumblebees, once as frantic as young men to pollinate every blooming flower, now lazily ambled from blossom to blossom. The flowers they nuzzled drooped in the heat as well, especially the tulips and narcissi; their petals landed delicately below them like multicolored teardrops. They never could tolerate the heat well, poor dears. The bees seemed fewer in number as well. Perhaps they sought shade elsewhere. It didn't seem like a bad idea, if she thought so herself.

Around midday, Balthazar found Maleficent lounging amongst the shaded branches of her favorite tree, the one she lived in as a child that clung precariously to the edge of a cliff. Despite this, she'd never been afraid of falling before, not with the assurance of her wings to catch her. That is, until she lost her wings. The world became a much scarier place for her after that. She was forced to abandon the tree, her tree, and with it her sense of childish adventure and innocence, leaving it to rot with her blackened heart as she became literally grounded. The day Maleficent returned to the tree marked the dawning of a new age in the Moors, one where her cold heart broke open like a geode to reveal the sparkling love within.

So today, as she lay like some avant-garde ragdoll thrown over the various branches of her tree, she reminded her tree guard of her younger days. Balthazar smiled internally at the picture, for trees have no lips, and are therefore far less expressive, but no less emotional. As he neared her form, he noticed that she'd hiked her dress up past her knees and messily tied back her thick brown hair with a length of cord to keep it off her neck as it beaded sweat. Such an uncharacteristically casual appearance made the tree guard uncomfortable, and he averted his large, bark eyes.

"Yes, Balthazar?" droned Maleficent, keeping her eyes closed and her body still. She'd just found a comfortable position where the occasional breeze would sweep up and hit every inch of overheated skin; Heaven help the soul that made her move.

The tree guard told her of an intruder in the Moors. A girl; young, black hair, pale skin, and incredibly distraught. She ran in from the north, through the dark forest. Clearly being chased.

"Probably by a man," Maleficent muttered with some salt, unsurprised. She tightened her eyebrows. "The dark forest you say? That's quite a feat."

She should have questioned it further; the dark forest was treacherous for magic folk and humans alike, doubly so for the later. Vents in the ground released a misty hallucinogenic gas that made the claw-like branches of gnarled oaks seem to reach out and rip at ones hair and clothes. Slimy moss grew thick, making walking, or more often, running, difficult. Maleficent should have asked Balthazar how she made it through the forest safely, but she just didn't have the energy for it. It was just so hot that she really could not bring herself to care.

Balthazar nodded stiffly in agreement at her conclusion. He continued by saying that his troops had actually found a man roaming the boarder earlier, a mile or so west of the girl, searching as if he had lost something very important. An odd looking fellow, lean but strong, with a shock of blond hair in a weird bowl shape over his head. He left in a fit of anger, only to return the next day with a group of men.

"He must be her pursuant. Poor girl," thought the overheated fairy out loud. She mulled over her choices for a moment while the animated tree stood patiently for her orders. If he hadn't just been communicating with her, Maleficent would have mistaken him for just another oak.

"Give her refuge. And if you happen to see the man whose looking for her again," Maleficent smirked dangerously, "Give him Hell."

Stefan could sense Ravenna's absence in the air of the castle. Everything felt a few degrees warmer, more relaxed, but not by much. The castle stood gelid by the seaside; gray stone steadily splashed with foam and salt; gulls squawking like a crowd of laughing women overhead; and the constant smell of fish, both fresh and not so fresh. Everything was wet. A cold, clammy, wet. Whether it be the slap of boots through a puddle or the splash of a cart over a pothole, or perhaps just the shh sound of todays rain hitting the rain leftover from yesterday, everywhere Stefan went there was water. And the sound of water, that awful sound that assaulted his ears with a battery of squelching noises made him want to vomit. The thump of todays catch on a damp table, the staccatoed splashes as its innards hit the mud; he gagged just thinking about it.

Not once did he see the sun here. He couldn't even see the reflection of the sun, or little baby suns at night. No, here the sky was constantly overcast with intermittent rain. He wondered if this weather was normal, or if he was just lucky enough to experience record-breaking dreariness. Truly, he couldn't fathom how the kingdom survived. How did they produce crops? What did their livestock eat? Fish? He couldn't wait to return to his own kingdom, where the weather was normal.

Stefan moped over this while strolling about the halls. He didn't dare leave the castle. Besides being completely ignorant of his location, he couldn't bear to see the images that matched the awful sounds he suffered up close. He preferred the click of his shoes on a dry floor to the squelch and sucking of boots in mud. Furthermore, he feared someone would recognize the man whose skin he wore, and he didn't think he'd be able to explain his way out of that encounter.

He passed a pair of maids smiling at some joke muttered out of earshot. They'd only begun smiling when Ravenna and Finn left. The latter departed shortly after breakfast, to search for the prisoner again, or so he heard. The prisoner that escaped to the dark forest. The forest that he knew, or more accurately, that the voice in his head knew.

He heard it more and more now, the little voice. It had grown louder now too, less of a hoarse whisper and more of a soft, deep voice. It never bothered him, just told him little things like, "the beef will treat you nicer than the fish", and "go down that hallway". The voice had never shared a false piece of advice either, making him far more apt to listen. He began to wonder if it really was a voice or if it was just his conscience.

He heard the maids giggle again from behind him, perhaps telling another joke. He thought about what he heard this morning, about Ravenna's letters to the mysterious Edward. He couldn't ask the maids about it, he didn't have enough tact to do it subtly and would cause suspicion. The castle messenger – Nathaniel, they called him – would provide no help, as he was doubtless miles away, delivering another note to Edward.

Stefan grimaced at the name. He heard another giggle, even further down the hallway and it made him wonder, why is Ravenna's correspondence with other men bothering me so much? Its not as if we have any sort of relationship. But thinking this only made him frown harder.

He couldn't put his finger on it, this emotion so unfamiliar to him. It was green and sour like unripened fruit. It knotted in his stomach like a ball of yarn the cat got into. Unconsciously, his fists clenched, then unclenched, stretching. He would find these letters and discover exactly who this Edward was.

Stefan turned an immediate left and trotted down a set of enclosed spiral stairs, trying not to brush his wide shoulders against the dewy walls. It was a wonder no one developed a cough, what with all this damp. He shook his head and continued downward. He imagined she kept the letters in her study, a medium sized room on the first floor. He'd been there a few times and remembered a writing desk in the corner.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned left into Ravenna's throne room. It looked smaller than his, but only just. At one end, on a raised platform, stood a large mahogany throne, extending several feet in the air. The back stood rigid with ornately chiseled panels of Celtic knots; a circular headrest sat in the middle, bronze spikes like sunbeams, or swords, jutting out from the sides. The square-cut chair arms curved into the sharp beaks of twin ravens at the end, the top of their heads and beaks plated again with bronze. As Stefan drew closer, he noticed a different sort of decoration. The thick, rectangular chair stiles held two masterfully carved scenes, beautiful from an artist's point of view, but eerie to the casual onlooker. Each panel held pictures of skeletons, anatomically correct, trying to claw their way out of the wood from the chair. Each form had twelve tiny sets of ribs, no wider than a toothpick, and skulls smaller than a coin, with teeth like strawberry seeds. One skeleton seemed shorter than the others, childlike even, and a few others wore crowns atop their heads.

He looked down and found the base of the throne covered with these carvings as well. It began to disturb him, how realistic the images were, how tormented. He backed away slowly, then faster, tearing his eyes from the empty sockets of the Lilliputian army of skeletons.

Behind the throne stood another set of stairs leading to a plateaued section of the room, and beyond that a great stained glass window. Stefan rushed up the slick, black marble steps, hearing his footsteps echo in the great emptiness. As far as he could tell, Ravenna never held council with any sort of court, nor did she meet with citizens to address their needs. It seemed better to him that way, no other opinions to muck up the law making process. She held total authority in her kingdom, and he liked that about her. A woman who knew how to handle power. Now that he thought about it, he always did find that an attractive quality.

To the left of the window, inserted discretely into the wall sat a plain wooden door with a lock, painted the exact same color as the rest of the walls to avoid detection. He tested the handle—nothing. He shook the handle harder. It may just need some loosening up, he thought. When that didn't work, he put his body into it, using his heavier frame to shake the entire door. Perhaps the lock was old, or, more likely, rusted from the thick moisture in the air. The door shook, but remained unopened. Frowning, he took a knife from a sheath in his new steel-gray jacket. Slipping it in the crack between the door and the wall, he attempted to raise the latch manually, or cut it if possible.

Success—the latch raised and he managed to get the door open, but not before looking briefly behind him; he felt eyes watching him. A quick scan found only a pair of crows sitting atop a high window. He smirked at them with their dull, staring eyes, and then slipped inside.

The room should have been black as pitch, for no windows decorated its dark green walls. However, a singular blue flame in an open jar seemed to provide just enough light to see—or write. He examined the jar, seeing no wick or wax, no oil or anything really to fuel it. It simply sat there and burned. He picked it up, carefully, for it was a flame and he expected it to be hot, but found it cool to the tough. There was nothing beneath the jar to fuel the flame either.

Its magic, whispered the voice. If she could bring you back from the dead and place you in another man's body, then this must be child's play.

Stefan nodded slowly. Most confusing things could be explained by accepting them as magic. Though the flame still intrigued him, he managed to look away. He kept forgetting how Ravenna dabbled in the mystical arts; though she didn't exactly ooze innocence per se, she also didn't look like a witch, at least not the red-lipped horned kind he was accustomed to. He set it back down, right next to a pile of envelopes, just as it was before. Envelopes, he thought, Edward.

He picked up the top one and read it:

Sir Rowan of the Fifth Brigade

Military. Nothing to worry about. The next:

Lady Constance

He chuckled. Just another woman, probably exchanging gossip or the latest trends. He was beginning to feel reassured when he turned to the next letter:

King Edward

His face went slack. King. She's found another King, one she didn't have to help back to his throne. Had she upgraded to a higher caliber of man, one with less baggage? He scrunched his face angrily. I'll get to the bottom of this.

He lifted the envelope flap, thanking the Heavens she'd already opened it. He used a red wax seal, with what appeared to be a lion as his stamp. How trite, he thought. Pulling out the paper inside, he found a folded square card with a few lines penned in immaculate cursive:

My Dear Ravenna,

Thank you ever so much for your last letter. Your advice and constant support through these trying times is much appreciated, as are your surprise visits. Please come again soon, I had the most splendid evening with you during your last stay, and I just know the ladies of the court will enjoy your coming just as much as I did.

Yours,

Edward

Stefan struggled to not crumple the paper in his fists. Instead he dropped it on the desk, fists shaking with a bitter cocktail of anger and jealousy he'd never felt before.

What did he mean by "splendid evening"? And why was she paying him "surprise visits"? Ravenna never paid him surprise visits, or any visits at all really, besides business ones. Yet she cared enough about him to bring him back from the dead?! These were mixed signals if he ever saw any.

The quill sitting in it's glass inkwell, the stack of books, the simple wooden chair, and that incredible blue flame; all of them were targets for his rage. But he abstained. Can't leave a trace. She couldn't know he'd been here.

Instead he let out a howl. The bellow shook the air, and made the two crows sitting outside fly from their perch.