After

When King Stefan's body gave off warmth to the ground, when the newly acquired wings, dusty and itchy, drooped wearily behind, when the frightened princess suddenly matured and dissuaded the guards from attacking again, when the flame died out and the dust almost settled, Maleficent returned to her dragon. He was laying in the same position as before, toppled by mammocks of the fallen column, surrounded by iron and viscous dark liquid — Maleficent instantly fell to him before she saw that there was breathing, and then she was furious with herself for not having returned sooner. Snap! — and Diaval — breathless, bloody, burnt Diaval the Man — lay in front of her. Eyes, black, but glowing unusually with golden magic, clung to her face as in entrancement; stained lips parted, but did not utter a sound: in attempts to stop the fire the warriors had strangled her dragon, and the air was barely passing through. Fixing that was her first task. She ran her fingers over the formidable scarlet marks on his neck and face, allowing him to respire. He took several noisy, hoarse breaths, still incomplete and heavy, and spoke without taking his eyes off her. "You came back." She set to work on the tear in his side. Whatever was thrust there, currently fell out and left behind a large hole, on which new blood never ceased to appear. Summoning the remnants of her well spent power, the fairy put her palm against the wound. “Of course I came back,” she muttered. She didn't know which tone to resort to: the sight of Diaval was terrifying, and she wanted to be gentle with him, with her only warrior, her bravest dragon, but keeping him safe and sound required firmness. "Surely you didn't think I would..." She paused, not sure of how she was going to end this sentence. "I need to..." he was still gasping, this time probably from pain. "...tell you..." "You can say it later." The maim on the side was patched up, still painfully red but no longer hazardous. There were, however, burns in the shoulder area — most likely from his own fire. “There'll be... no later,” he breathed. She turned to him, looking at the body heretofore. The gaze of his amber eyen rushed up and into the distance, above the broken ceiling; perhaps he didn't even know he was being treated. The sentences were as short as possible, concise as those of birds, and it was scary. He did this when it was difficult to express himself. However, that wasn't even the worst part. “Quit this nonsense.” A slimy fear creeped into her own voice — what if he was right? “You will live,” she shut up them both: her birdie and her demons. Certainly he will. The debt has not yet been paid. Even if... even if the strong jaw of the dragon pulled off the iron chains tonight, even if there were no obligation remained, he would survive. She needed him alive. She needed him, she couldn't do this without him... “At least… I saw you…” He gazed at something above her, and she turned around — and found nothing but a pair of wings. Of course. "Beautiful." She heard admiration and exhaustion, a great relief — yet there was that haste in her voice, as if he was hurrying up to say something before it was too late. But his worst injuries and cuts were healed — alleviated, she realized the worst was over. He will live, he only had to rest. "Thank you, Diaval." There was so much she needed to thank him for, but that was for later. It could wait. "Now rest." "Wait!" grimy black fingers dug into her wrist resting on his chest. The companion rised, tried to get up, but to no avail. He exhaled, throwing back his head. "Maleficent." The whisper carried only the middle of the call to her. Lef. Diaval never called her by her name — always "mistress", always "my lady", but he did joke once, having learned that other inhabitants of the Moors (and someone else, too) used to call her Mal as a child. “Well, that's no good,” he snorted, as if someone seeked his opinion, “as if your name is too short to come up with something better. You mean to tell me they could have called you "Lef" and settled on "Mal"? What kind of friends are these?" "Lef." The leather bandage was lost some time ago — her dark hair, falling down like curtains, hid their faces from anyone who dared to cast a glance. Damn it, she knew what he was going to say. Bending over his ash-covered face, she knew she was truly seeing him for the first time. He would always call her Lef if she allowed. That look he gave her back in the woods, when she stated that love does not exist, the way his face fell and his eyes grew dim at her unwittingly rejection! And then he followed her to the castle, fought with an army and the mad man of a king. And stayed by her side. Heavens, why did he have to be prostrate on the stone floor for her to finally realise? She was scared to hear these words, but she longed for them even more. "Yes?" "I love you." Just like that. He uttered, as though signing a sentence to himself, but her heart settled down and broke into a song. She couldn't answer. Therefore she kept silent, removed the dirty hair from his face as gently as she allowed herself, and proceeded to treat his battered chin. He caught a glimpse of a golden glow in the corner of his eye and writhed. "No, no, no-no-no!" he moaned, dodging his head from her talons. "Don't! Won't help." “Diaval, you are not at death's door,” she sighed, fighting the urge to say something silly. "You shall live, do not worry." Her assurances, if anything, only frightened him further. "But I must die!" the familiar wheezed. "I said I love you because I will die anyway!" he averted his gaze and, as if only now becoming aware of his improving breathing, continued with rising speed and panic, "What will I do if I survive, how could you do this to—" "Don't be an idiot." She rolled her eyes in response. Her powers were thin now, and one could only hope that the rest could safely wait until tomorrow when they returned home. Scars on his chest and arms remained, so probably did the terrible bruises on the back from the collapsed column. She feigned a look of nonchalance, brushing the dirt off his face. No need for magic, she could make do with just her touch. “What will you do… Continue to display your feelings so that I can return them." A moment's silence. Then his eyebrows shot up. "What?" "You heard me." “Oh, oh, no,” he croaked, “don’t you… What did you say?" "That I love you too." She grabbed the servant by the armpits and slowly dragged him to the nearest pilaster left intact. This saved her the trouble of looking at his face. Offhandedly thrown with his back to the marble, gray with dust, he caught his breath, gulping, not taking his burning gaze away from her, dazed and disbelieving. Now she was looking right back at him. They blinked at each other in unison, and he chuckled. "Good to know," he smiled, relieved and delighted. "Damn, now I'm really ready to die." Suddenly the gold flashed brighter, as he raised himself to her seated figure. Voice quieter, lower, “I can kiss you if you'd like." "No way," Maleficent smiled with a strange mixture of mockery, sympathy and bottomless tenderness, gazing at the picture of sadness on the face of her... lover? "Not now. Only when you make it through the night." "Bloody hell!" Diaval leaned back in disappointment — and imprinted his head into the ledge just nicely. "I might actually die tonight, you do realise?" “I do not, and tell me no such thing,” the fairy bent over his cured body, peering into his face. "You shall stay a bird overnight, be a dear and live through it. Live and dream of the True Love's Kiss, you hear me? Let that encourage you," she delivered gravely — only to realise she couldn't help herself no longer and grin. The raven caught her eye, shaking his shoulders in soundless laughter, exhaled in portions, and nodded, licking his lips. "Alright."