Hi, I'm Nausika - welcome to my Universe.

English isn't my mother tongue, so I'm happy about any corrections and hints (and reviews, of course).

With the fateful day of the curse drawing close, Maleficent finds herself trapped in a bad habit: whenever she can't sleep, she catches herself relying on her trusted servant and - so she realises - dear friend, Diaval to comfort her. Something he never refuses to give.

Chapter 1

Maleficent awoke to a nasty throbbing of her head. Like a headache but pounding, somehow spreading through her body the more she felt her limbs revive. At least to some extent.

It was dark despite the light from above and behind her. So then she was inside a building. Her eyes narrowed. It reeked of humans.

Rows of benches stood before her. The closest ones had been pushed aside against the walls, having left markings across the cold floor. She felt the stone beneath her bare feet, while at the same time the massive chandelier dangling from the ceiling warmed with an uncomfortably, waxy heat. The stench of humans remained, amalgamated with wood, thinned wine and something else. Something that made the hair in the back of her neck stand on end.

Iron.

Not by the stench alone, but by the tingling of her fingers did she know that it was closer than she could see. It was hard to look around, pain waiting in more ways than the pointed tips of the blades, daggers and hatchets all around.

They had littered the floor with them, even hung some from the ceiling or propped them up on chairs and barrels, caging her in.

Then there were her actual restraints—fortunately not made from iron, she deemed. The sole thing fortunate about her current situation that she could not even remember getting herself into.

The thorn wall, it hit her. The possible entranceway for her little, now not-so-little-anymore Beastie. She had been fixing the hole, lost in the noise of thorned branches thickly growing at a speed alarming enough that it should have scared any sane creature—human or animal—away.

Lost in noise and lost in thoughts.

Too taken by the girl's last visit to the Moors, Maleficent had not heard them coming. They usually wore metal plates, clanking armoury or trampled around with their horses. Those men had been hunters; trained to sneak and viciously strike with a merciless lack of hesitation.

She could see them now—sitting there, drinking wine and toasting their victory, an upturned bench serving as a makeshift table. A small chapel, she assumed, the high ceiling and slim balconies to the sides giving it away. And she was right at the front, tied up akin to their messiah, presented in front of the altar like cattle ready for slaughter.

They had knotted ropes around her ankles to lock her into place, stretched her arms from her body and even woven strings around each finger, spreading them apart to keep them from conjuring up a spell. It worked, she found, though not only because of the lack of movement her fingers were able to perform, but because of the metal eyelets connecting everything like a horse's headcollar. Iron eyelets. It was exhausting even more than it was sickening.

More ropes slung around her torso, keeping her upright. She could feel them cut under her ribs, making the balls of her feet ache at how she needed to stand on her toes.

They could not be Stefan's men, she speculated. They celebrated too early.

One of them felt her gaze, getting up. The others followed suit, malicious snickering trickling from one to the other. Their leader approached slowly, menacingly, but even he had to struggle to get through their elaborate labyrinth of the sharpest of objects.

"Awake, are we?" he remained behind the barrier of dangling knives, crossing his arms. She did not respect him enough to reply. "That's a tad impractical now, isn't it?" he tilted his head, eyeing her up and down. "'Suppose we'll have to knock ye out again before bringing you to the castle, witch," he spat. The men in his back laughed dirtily.

A cord snapped when the man grabbed a two-pronged meat fork from beside him. Maleficent felt her guts constrict, summoning her every fibre of will as not to swallow visibly. She corrected the mental image she had created—she felt more like a hide, ready to have each and every hair scraped off her skin.

"Ya kno' what this is, don't ya?" he raised the fork. Her body jolted when he thrust it forward. Maleficent hissed, the fork about to pierce her cheek. The man cackled, as did his men. He had merely tried to spook her, and she cursed herself for having fallen for it. "I heard you had a special relationship with silver," he grinned wickedly. She glared at him. It was all she could do. Her mind was racing.

Silver, he had said. Did they truly believe her one weakness to be silver instead of iron? Not that she was about to correct them, she decided, hissing again whenever he threatened spearing her. It made them all laugh madly. She kept from rolling her eyes. They were obviously not the brightest, but it seemed that ruthlessness made up for it. The pounding pain at the back of her head told her a good story of how brutal their attacks could be.

"Shouldn't we stay here and send a messenger instead?" a boy piped up. He could not yet be fifteen years old, and he was clearly aware what status that entailed within that certain assembly. Still, their leader pondered on the idea while the rest of the hunters provoked the boy, shoving him away.

None of them were close enough for Maleficent to breathe sleep over them, and she would need her hand anyway. The iron all around was making her feel sore and tired.

She hissed when the man feigned stabbing her again, laughing manically. They all did, enjoying the game what was fortunately not yet torture. It would not be, she told herself, not for as long as they did not know her true nemesis. So she would play along for now, buying herself much needed time to think.

It was impossible to look out the high windows. Was she close to the castle? Perhaps just down in the village? How long would it take a messenger to leave and return with Stefan's men? Would he come himself—betray her charade—or would his men? Surely, he must have informed them. Anything to bring her down.

Suppressing a sharp sigh, Maleficent kept staring ahead to sustain some dignity. Filthy humans, the bunch of hunters were. In her current situation however, she had to admit that they were dangerous—the way they had unflinchingly knocked her out was only one indication. The hair on her arms raised with disgust when she spotted the bloody leftovers of their last meal, more hunted animal corpses piling up on the side, yet to be eaten.

Had she still had her wings, she was certain they would have plucked them bare like a chicken's.

The sound of hooves outside brought her back to the present. She had no time to curse the way she had winced, harking. Her ears wanted to extend, toes curling uncertainly. Was it a knight from the castle? The messenger? Stefan?

The men turned to the chapel's gates. They pulled one side open, revealing a figure clad in iron. A knight.

He pushed past the hunters, enticing vulgar remarks from them. They were left unheeded. The hunters stared on, indignant but curious as he marched his way over to their prey. He would recognise her without fail, she knew.

Maleficent jolted when a window burst right behind her. Glass hailed down from above. The men shouted, the knight halting in his tracks, hands above his head to shield himself. Maleficent merely had the split of a second to tilt her head back and catch sight of the shadow. Having leapt, it now hung from the chandelier.

The weight was too much, the entire chandelier crashing down right in front of her. It smashed the stone flooring apart, crushing Stefan's man under metal, wax and fire. The hunters screamed, jumping aside.

Diaval scrambled to his feet amidst the shards. Grabbing a dagger, he cut the ropes restraining her limbs with precise strikes. He then proceeded to swiftly snap her fingers free from one another. "Hello, mistress," he greeted as if happening across her in a clearing in the woods. She did not say much. For a second, she contemplated asking what had taken him so long, but she swallowed it. Firstly, because she had not expected him to come, and secondly, it was rather evident what had kept him. His nimbleness surprised in regard to the overall shaking of his body.

He was wingless as a human, yes, but most notably, he was soaked from head to toe. Had he truly swum all the way there? Actually crossed the racing currents of the river in his condition? He was injured since his last scouting mission, she knew, if not gravely. He never told her and she was never in the mood for pity, so she did not ask. She was aware though; she knew by far more than he thought she did.

It would have been a miracle if he had not been swept away by the waves, having to crawl ashore a good kilometre away and then having to run back up to the village. His clothes certainly looked the part.

Knowing her better in turn than she had expected to, he made sure to free the index and middle finger of her right hand first.

"What sort of an entrance was that?" she tutted once regaining mobility. "Don't tell me you were actually clever enough to use that chandelier on purpose." She arched a brow, rubbing her fingers. The metal eyelet still hung from one of the loosened strings but she tried hard to ignore it.

"I had to get in somehow," Diaval shrugged. Ripping his way through the dangling weapons, making them clatter loudly on the ground, he created swathe for her. "And that thing was mostly of use to catch my balance," he explained, nodding at the heap of wax and glass. He referred to his human form as usual, subliminally voicing his complaints. She could not even remember why she had not changed him back—or why she cared, come to think of it.

"There's a door right over there," she berated. He turned to follow her gaze, blinking at it for a heartbeat. She gave a sigh, shaking her head helplessly. "Stupid bird."

"If only," he wistfully replied. "I don't think I've ever used a door in my life," he said, more to himself. She scoffed, ducking beneath a knife to follow him out of the burning, stinging death trap. He kicked a few axes and hatches aside with his bare feet. He must have lost his boots in the river, she presumed.

What a huge waste of energy it must have been to somehow climb up the back wall of the chapel. It made her realise just how exhausted he must have been, not to mention cold to the bone, bruised, perhaps scratched here and there. None of which she noted out loud.

"Funny, isn't it?" Diaval said over his shoulder as they aimed for the gate-like doors. He eyed the men around them warily, but no one dared to move just yet. "How I'm the one saving—"

"Into a beast," Maleficent murmured, twirling her two freed fingers. His words were cut off by a large beak, fur and feathers sprouting from his skin. A pair of enormous wings grew from his back.

She could not have let him finish; she did not want to hear it. She dreaded the day he was going to tell that her his debt was repaid, setting himself free. Today was not going to be that day, she sternly decided.

Even worse, he might get ideas about their roles reversing.

Confused, Diaval stopped in his tracks. He eyed his new form, lifting giant claws for front paws, whipping his lion's tail once. A griffin, black as the night and big enough to scrape his back along the doorframe of the chapel's high entrance.

"Go," Maleficent said, having climbed up to seat herself on his neck. If that lunatic did not duck, she would have to destroy the wall in order to fit—not that she had not contemplated blowing the place to bits already. He shook himself lightly under her, then marched his way down the aisle. Towards the door this time—she rolled her eyes nonetheless.

Instead of her spell, it was his body that burst the brick wall apart, making room for them to leave. The hunters had started to regain their courage, some already grabbing the weapons from where she had been trapped. Maleficent prodded her heels into her mount's shoulder ever so slightly. He gave a squawk, then spread his wings. Much like a cat, he wiggled his backside, gaining momentum as he pounced, catapulting them into the air.

She grasped his feathered neck, cold wind whipping her face. It felt too good to be true—something inside of her must have already given up the fight, never expecting to be freed from her miserable fate. But she had been—she was free, so she took the freedom to lean over and watch the figures down below.

More and more people swarmed into the plaza, some of them yelling orders; spitting curses. The knight from the chapel was no more, but Maleficent was sure there would be a messenger nearby. King Stefan would send more men, at least scouts if not warriors.

She loosened her grip on his feathers when Diaval gave a low grunt. He must have felt the rage with which she had grasped on, so she forbade any more trembling of her body. She would content herself with the fact that those hunters would be beaten black and blue for letting her escape. Stefan surging with anger was much more satisfying than wasting her own time and energy on boiling over.

Diaval had other plans.

He roared, fetching her attention away from the crowd below. She gasped, then gave an unintentional yelp she would later deny when he dashed head-first into the tower of the chapel. It collapsed, hailing rubble onto the humans, causing them to scream and run. The bell splintered a nearby building's roof, ringing dully.

Another roar for good measure, this time as if triumphant. Maleficent almost found herself laughing, something foreign soothing the ache of helplessness in her heart when witnessing his enthusiasm on her behalf.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Diaval soared over the river he had battled that same day, its updrafts carrying them effortlessly to the Moors. She could see the injuries now, parts of his body lacking feathers or fur, crusts of dried blood showing instead. They were few, but she was certain he had double the bruises as she could count wounds. She would heal them later, all of them.